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Summary:“CassieSullivanandhercompanionslivedthroughtheOthers’fourwavesofdestruction.Now,withthehumanracenearlyexterminatedandthe5thWaverollingacrossthelandscape,theyfaceachoice:braceforwinterandhopeforEvanWalker’sreturn,orsetoutinsearchofothersurvivorsbeforetheenemyclosesin”—Providedbypublisher.

[1.Extraterrestrialbeings—Fiction.2.Survival—Fiction.3.War—Fiction.4.Sciencefiction.]I.Title.PZ7.Y19197Inf2014[Fic]—dc232014022058

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Contents

TitlePageCopyrightDedicationEpigraph

THEWHEAT

BOOKONE

I:THEPROBLEMOFRATSChapter1Chapter2Chapter3Chapter4Chapter5Chapter6Chapter7Chapter8Chapter9Chapter10

II:THERIPPINGChapter11Chapter12Chapter13Chapter14

III:THELASTSTARChapter15Chapter16Chapter17Chapter18Chapter19Chapter20

Chapter21Chapter22Chapter23Chapter24Chapter25Chapter26Chapter27Chapter28Chapter29

IV:MILLIONSChapter30

V:THEPRICEChapter31Chapter32Chapter33Chapter34Chapter35Chapter36Chapter37Chapter38Chapter39Chapter40Chapter41Chapter42Chapter43Chapter44Chapter45Chapter46Chapter47Chapter48

VI:THETRIGGERChapter49

BOOKTWO

VII:THESUMOFALLTHINGSChapter50Chapter51

Chapter52Chapter53Chapter54Chapter55Chapter56Chapter57Chapter58Chapter59Chapter60Chapter61Chapter62Chapter63Chapter64Chapter65Chapter66Chapter67Chapter68Chapter69Chapter70Chapter71Chapter72Chapter73Chapter74Chapter75Chapter76Chapter77Chapter78Chapter79Chapter80Chapter81Chapter82Chapter83

VIII:DUBUQUEChapter84

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

ForSandy,guardianoftheinfinite

Mybountyisasboundlessasthesea,Myloveasdeep;themoreIgivetothee,ThemoreIhave;forbothareinfinite.

—WilliamShakespeare

THEWHEAT

THEREWOULDBEnoharvest.Thespringrainswokethedormant tillers,andbrightgreenshootssprangfromthemoistearthand

rose like sleepers stretchingafter a longnap.As springgaveway to summer, thebrightgreen stalksdarkened, became tan, turned golden brown. The days grew long and hot. Thick towers of swirlingblackcloudsbroughtrain,andthebrownstemsglistenedintheperpetualtwilightthatdwelledbeneaththe canopy. The wheat rose and the ripening heads bent in the prairie wind, a rippling curtain, anendless,undulatingseathatstretchedtothehorizon.Atharvesttime,therewasnofarmertopluckaheadfromthestalk,rubtheheadbetweenhiscallused

hands,andblowthechafffromthegrain.Therewasnoreapertochewthekernelsorfeelthedelicateskincrackbetweenhisteeth.Thefarmerhaddiedoftheplague,andtheremnantsofhisfamilyhadfledtothenearesttown,wherethey,too,succumbed,addingtheirnumberstothebillionswhoperishedinthe3rdWave.Theoldhousebuiltbythefarmer’sgrandfatherwasnowadesertedislandsurroundedbyaninfiniteseaofbrown.Thedaysgrewshortandthenightsturnedcool,andthewheatcrackledinthedrywind.Thewheathadsurvived thehail and lightningof the summer storms,but luckcouldnotdeliver it

fromthecold.Bythetimetherefugeestookshelterintheoldhouse,thewheatwasdead,killedbythehardfistofadeepfrost.Fivemen and twowomen, strangers to one another on the eve of that final growing season, now

boundbytheunspokenpromisethattheleastofthemwasgreaterthanthesumofallofthem.Themenrotatedwatchesontheporch.Duringthedaythecloudlessskywasapolished,brilliantblue

and the sun riding low on the horizon painted the dull brown of thewheat a shimmering gold. ThenightsdidnotcomegentlybutseemedtoslamdownangrilyupontheEarth,andstarlighttransformedthegoldenbrownofthewheattothecolorofpolishedsilver.Themechanizedworld had died.Earthquakes and tsunamis had obliterated the coasts. Plague had

consumedbillions.Andthemenontheporchwatchedthewheatandwonderedwhatmightcomenext.Early one afternoon, themanonwatch saw thedead sea of grain parting andknew someonewas

coming,crashingthroughthewheattowardtheoldfarmhouse.Hecalledtotheothersinside,andoneofthe women came out and stood with him on the porch, and together they watched the tall stalksdisappearing into the sea of brown as if the Earth itself were sucking them under. Whoever—orwhatever—itwascouldnotbeseenabovethesurfaceofthewheat.Themansteppedofftheporch.Heleveledhis rifleat thewheat.Hewaited in theyardand thewomanwaitedon theporchand therestwaitedinsidethehouse,pressingtheirfacesagainst thewindows,andnoonespoke.Theywaitedforthecurtainofwheattopart.Whenitdid,achildemerged,andthestillnessofthewaitingwasbroken.Thewomanranfromthe

porchandshovedthebarreloftherifledown.He’sjustababy.Wouldyoushootachild?Andtheman’sfacewastwistedwithindecisionandtherageofeverythingevertakenforgrantedbetrayed.Howdoweknow?hedemandedofthewoman.Howcanwebesureofanythinganymore?Thechildstumbledfrom

thewheatandfell.Thewomanrantohimandscoopedhimup,pressingtheboy’sfilthyfaceagainstherbreast,andthemanwiththegunsteppedinfrontofher.He’sfreezing.Wehavetogethiminside.Andthemanfeltagreatpressureinsidehischest.Hewassqueezedbetweenwhattheworldhadbeenandwhattheworldhadbecome,whohewasbeforeandwhohewasnow,andthecostofalltheunspokenpromisesweighingonhisheart.He’s justababy.Wouldyoushootachild?Thewomanwalkedpasthim,upthesteps,ontotheporch,intothehouse,andthemanbowedhisheadasifinprayer,thenliftedhisheadasifinsupplication.Hewaitedafewminutestoseeifanyoneelseemergedfromthewheat,foritseemedincredibletohimthatatoddlermightsurvivethislong,aloneanddefenseless,withnoonetoprotecthim.Howcouldsuchathingbepossible?Whenhesteppedinsidetheparloroftheoldfarmhouse,hesawthewomanholdingthechildinher

lap.Shehadwrappedablanketaroundhimandbroughthimwater,littlefingersslappedredbythecoldwrappedaroundthecup,andtheothershadgatheredintheroomandnoonespoke,buttheystaredatthechildwithdumbstruckwonder.Howcouldsuchathingbe?Thechildwhimpered.Hiseyesskitteredfromfacetoface,searchingforthefamiliar,buttheywerestrangerstohimastheyhadbeenstrangerstooneanotherbeforetheworldended.Hewhinedthathewascoldandsaidthathisthroathurt.Hehadabadowieinhisthroat.Thewomanholdinghimproddedthechildtoopenhismouth.Shesawtheinflamedtissueattheback

ofhismouth,butshedidnotseethehair-thinwireembeddedneartheopeningofhisthroat.Shecouldnotseethewireorthetinycapsuleconnectedtothewire’send.Shecouldnotknow,asshebentoverthe child to peer into hismouth, that the device inside the childwas calibrated to detect the carbondioxideinherbreath.Ourbreaththetrigger.Ourchildtheweapon.Theexplosionvaporizedtheoldfarmhouseinstantly.Thewheattooklonger.Nothingwasleftofthefarmhouseortheoutbuildingsorthesilothatinevery

otheryearhadheldtheabundantharvest.Butthedry,lithestalksconsumedbyfireturnedtoash,andatsunset, a stiff northerly wind swept over the prairie and lifted the ash into the sky and carried ithundredsofmilesbefore theashcamedown,agrayandblacksnow, tosettle indifferentlyonbarrenground.

BOOKONE

1

THEWORLDISaclockwindingdown.Ihearitinthewind’sicyfingersscratchingagainstthewindow.Ismellitinthemildewedcarpeting

andtherottingwallpaperoftheoldhotel.AndIfeelitinTeacup’schestasshesleeps.Thehammeringofherheart,therhythmofherbreath,warminthefreezingair,theclockwindingdown.Acrosstheroom,CassieSullivankeepswatchbythewindow.Moonlightseepsthroughthetinycrack

inthecurtainsbehindher,lightinguptheplumesoffrozenbreathexplodingfromhermouth.Herlittlebrothersleeps in thebedclosest toher,a tiny lumpbeneath themoundedcovers.Window,bed,backagain,herheadturnslikeapendulumswinging.Theturningofherhead,therhythmofherbreath,likeNugget’s,likeTeacup’s,likemine,markingthetimeoftheclockwindingdown.Ieaseoutofbed.Teacupmoansinhersleepandburrowsdeeperunderthecovers.Thecoldclamps

down,squeezingmychest, thoughI’mfullydressedexceptformybootsandtheparka,whichIgrabfromthefootofthebed.SullivanwatchesasIpullontheboots,thenwhenIgototheclosetformyrucksackandrifle.Ijoinherbythewindow.IfeellikeIshouldsaysomethingbeforeIleave.Wemightnotseeeachotheragain.“Sothisisit,”shesays.Herfairskinglowsinthemilkylight.Thesprayoffrecklesseemstofloat

abovehernoseandcheeks.Iadjusttherifleonmyshoulder.“Thisisit.”“Youknow,DumboIget.Thebigears.AndNugget,becauseSamissosmall.Teacup,too.ZombieI

don’tgetsomuch—Benwon’tsay—andI’mguessingPoundcakehassomethingtodowithhisroly-poly-ness.ButwhyRinger?”Isensewherethisisgoing.BesidesZombieandherbrother,sheisn’tsureofanyoneanymore.The

nameRingergivesherparanoiaanudge.“I’mhuman.”“Yeah.”Shelooksthroughthecrackinthecurtainstotheparkinglottwostoriesbelow,shimmering

withice.“Someoneelsetoldmethat,too.And,likeadummy,Ibelievedhim.”“Notsodumb,giventhecircumstances.”“Don’tpretend,Ringer,”shesnaps.“Iknowyoudon’tbelievemeaboutEvan.”“Ibelieveyou.It’shisstorythatdoesn’tmakesense.”I head for the door before she tears intome.Youdon’t pushCassieSullivan on theEvanWalker

question.Idon’tholditagainsther.Evanisthelittlebranchgrowingoutofthecliffthatsheclingsto,andthefactthathe’sgonemakesherhangoneventighter.Teacupdoesn’tmakeasound,butIfeelhereyesonme;Iknowshe’sawake.Igobacktothebed.“Takemewithyou,”shewhispers.Ishakemyhead.We’vebeenthroughthisahundredtimes.“Iwon’tbegonelong.Acoupledays.”“Promise?”Noway, Teacup. Promises are the only currency left. Theymust be spentwisely.Her bottom lip

quivers;hereyesmist.“Hey,”Isaysoftly.“WhatdidItellyouaboutthat,soldier?”Iresisttheimpulsetotouchher.“What’sthefirstpriority?”“Nobadthoughts,”sheanswersdutifully.

“Becausebadthoughtsdowhat?”“Makeussoft.”“Andwhathappensifwegosoft?”“Wedie.”“Anddowewanttodie?”Sheshakesherhead.“Notyet.”Itouchherface.Coldcheek,warmtears.Notyet.Withnotimeleftonthehumanclock,thislittlegirl

hasprobablyreachedmiddleage.Sullivanandme,we’reold.AndZombie?Theancientofdays.He’swaitingformeinthelobby,wearingaskijacketoverabrightyellowhoodie,bothscavenged

from the remains inside thehotel:Zombie escaped fromCampHavenwearingonly a flimsypair ofscrubs.Beneathhisscruffybeard,hisfaceisthetelltalescarletoffever.ThebulletwoundIgavehim,rippedopen inhis escape fromCampHaven andpatchedupbyour twelve-year-oldmedic,must beinfected. He leans against the counter, pressing his hand against his side and trying to look likeeverything’scool.“Iwasstartingtothinkyouchangedyourmind,”Zombiesays,darkeyessparklingasifhe’steasing,

thoughthatcouldbethefever.Ishakemyhead.“Teacup.”“She’ll be okay.”To reassureme, he releases his killer smile from its cage. Zombie doesn’t fully

appreciatethepricelessnessofpromisesorhewouldn’ttossthemoutsocasually.“It’snotTeacupI’mworriedabout.Youlooklikeshit,Zombie.”“It’sthisweather.Wreakshavoconmycomplexion.”Asecondsmileleapsoutatthepunchline.He

leansforward,willingmetoanswerwithmyown.“Oneday,PrivateRinger,you’regoingtosmileatsomethingIsayandtheworldwillbreakinhalf.”“I’mnotpreparedtotakeonthatresponsibility.”HelaughsandmaybeIheararattledeepinhischest.“Here.”Heoffersmeanotherbrochureofthe

caverns.“Ihaveone,”Itellhim.“Takethisone,too,incaseyouloseit.”“Iwon’tloseit,Zombie.”“I’msendingPoundcakewithyou,”hesays.“No,you’renot.”“I’mincharge.SoIam.”“YouneedPoundcakeheremorethanIneedhimoutthere.”Henods.HeknewIwouldsayno,buthecouldn’tresistonelasttry.“Maybeweshouldabort,”he

says.“Imean,itisn’tthatbadhere.Aboutathousandbedbugs,afewhundredrats,andacoupledozendeadbodies,buttheviewisfantastic...”Stilljoking,stilltryingtomakemesmile.He’slookingatthebrochureinhishand.Seventy-fourdegreesyear’round!“Until we get snowed in or the temperature drops again. The situation is unsustainable, Zombie.

We’vestayedtoolongalready.”Idon’tgetit.We’vetalkedthistodeathandnowhewantstokeepbeatingthecorpse.Iwonderabout

Zombiesometimes.“Wehave tochance it,andyouknowwecan’tgo inblind,” Igoon.“Theoddsare there’reother

survivorshidinginthosecavesandtheymaynotbereadytothrowoutthewelcomemat,especiallyifthey’vemetanyofSullivan’sSilencers.”“Orrecruitslikeus,”headds.“SoI’llscopeitoutandbebackinacoupleofdays.”“I’mholdingyoutothatpromise.”

“Itwasn’tapromise.”There’snothingleft tosay.There’reamillionthingsleft tosay.Thismightbethelast timewesee

eachother,andhe’sthinkingit,too,becausehesays,“Thankyouforsavingmylife.”“Iputabulletinyoursideandnowyoumightdie.”Heshakeshishead.Hiseyessparklewithfever.Hislipsaregray.Whydidtheyhavetonamehim

Zombie? It’s like anomen.The first time I sawhim,hewasdoingknucklepush-ups in theexerciseyard, face contortedwith anger andpain, bloodpoolingon the asphalt beneathhis fists.Whois thatguy? Iasked.Hisname isZombie.Hefought theplagueandwon, they toldme,andIdidn’tbelievethem.Nobodybeatstheplague.Theplagueisadeathsentence.AndReznikthedrillsergeantbendingoverhim,screamingat thetopofhis lungs,andZombiein thebaggybluejumpsuit,pushinghimselfpastthepointwhereonemorepushisimpossible.Idon’tknowwhyIwassurprisedwhenheorderedmetoshoothimsohecouldkeephisunkeepablepromisetoNugget.Whenyoulookdeathintheeyeanddeathblinksfirst,nothingseemsimpossible.Evenmindreading.“Iknowwhatyou’rethinking,”hesays.“No.Youdon’t.”“You’rewonderingifyoushouldkissmegood-bye.”“Whydoyoudothat?”Iask.“Flirtwithme.”Heshrugs.Hisgriniscrooked,likehisbodyleaningagainstthecounter.“It’s normal.Don’t youmiss normal?” he asks. Eyes digging deep intomine, always looking for

something,I’mneversurewhat.“Youknow,drive-thrusandmoviesonaSaturdaynightandicecreamsandwichesandcheckingyourTwitterfeed?”Ishakemyhead.“Ididn’tTwitter.”“Facebook?”I’mgettingalittlepissed.Sometimesit’shardformetoimaginehowZombiemadeitthisfar.Pining

forthingswelost is thesameashopingfor thingsthatcanneverbe.Bothroadsdead-endindespair.“It’snotimportant,”Isay.“Noneofthatmatters.”Zombie’slaughcomesfromdeepinhisgut.Itbubblestothesurfacelikethesuperheatedairofahot

spring,andI’mnotpissedanymore.Iknowhe’sputtingonthecharm,andsomehowknowingwhathe’sdoingdoesnothingtoblunttheeffect.AnotherreasonZombie’salittleunnerving.“It’sfunny,”hesays.“Howmuchwethoughtallofitdid.Youknowwhatreallymatters?”Hewaits

formyanswer.IfeelasifI’mbeingsetupforajoke,soIdon’tsayanything.“Thetardybell.”Nowhe’sforcedmeintoacorner.Iknowthere’smanipulationgoingonhere,butIfeelhelplessto

stopit.“Tardybell?”“Mostordinarysoundintheworld.Andwhenallof this isdone, there’llbetardybellsagain.”He

presses thepoint.Maybehe’sworried I don’t get it. “Think about it!Whena tardybell rings again,normalisback.Kidsrushingtoclass,sittingaroundbored,waitingforthefinalbell,andthinkingaboutwhat they’ll do that night, thatweekend, that next fifty years.They’ll be learning likewe did aboutnaturaldisastersanddiseaseandworldwars.Youknow:‘Whenthealienscame,sevenbillionpeopledied,’and then thebellwill ringandeverybodywillgo to lunchandcomplainabout thesoggyTaterTots.Like,‘Whoa,sevenbillionpeople, that’sa lot.That’ssad.Areyougoingtoeatall thoseTots?’That’snormal.That’swhatmatters.”Soitwasn’tajoke.“SoggyTaterTots?”“Okay,fine.Noneofthatmakessense.I’mamoron.”Hesmiles.Histeethseemverywhitesurroundedbythescruffybeard,andnow,becausehesuggested

it,Ithinkaboutkissinghimandifthestubbleonhisupperlipwouldtickle.Ipushthethoughtaway.Promisesarepriceless,andakissisakindofpromise,too.

2

UNDIMMED,THESTARLIGHTsearsthroughtheblack,coatingthehighwayinpearlywhite.Thedrygrassshines; thebare trees shimmer.Except for thewindcuttingacross thedead land, theworld iswinterquiet.I hunker beside a stalled SUV for one last look back at the hotel. A nondescript two-storywhite

rectangleamongaclusterofothernondescriptwhiterectangles.OnlyfourmilesfromthehugeholethatusedtobeCampHaven,wenicknamedittheWalkerHotel,inhonorofthearchitectofthathugehole.SullivantoldusthehotelwasherandEvan’sprearrangedrendezvouspoint.Ithoughtitwastooclosetothe scene of the crime, too difficult to defend, and anyway, EvanWalkerwas dead: It takes two torendezvous,IremindedZombie.Iwasoverruled.IfWalkerreallywasoneofthem,hemayhavefoundawaytosurvive.“How?”Iasked.“Therewereescapepods,”Sullivansaid.“So?”Hereyebrowscametogether.Shetookadeepbreath.“So...hecouldhaveescapedinone.”Ilookedather.Shelookedback.Neitherofussaidanything.ThenZombiesaid,“Well,wehaveto

take shelter somewhere,Ringer.”Hehadn’t found the brochure for the caverns yet. “Andwe shouldgivehimthebenefitofthedoubt.”“Thebenefitofwhatdoubt?”Iasked.“Thatheiswhohesaysheis.”ZombielookedatSullivan,whowasstillglaringatme.“Thathe’ll

keephispromise.”“Hepromisedhe’dfindme,”sheexplained.“Isawthecargoplane,”Isaid.“Ididn’tseeanescapepod.”Beneaththefreckles,Sullivanwasblushing.“Justbecauseyoudidn’tseeone...”I turned toZombie.“Thisdoesn’tmakesense.Abeing thousandsofyearsmoreadvanced thanus

turnsonitsownkind—forwhat?”“Iwasn’tfilledinonthewhypart,”Zombiesaid,halfsmiling.“Hiswhole story is strange,” I said. “Pure consciousness occupying a humanbody—if they don’t

needbodies,theydon’tneedaplanet.”“Maybetheyneedtheplanetforsomethingelse.”Zombiewastryinghard.“Likewhat?Raisinglivestock?Avacationgetaway?”Somethingelsewasbotheringme,anagging

littlevoicethatsaid,Somethingdoesn’taddup.ButIcouldn’tpindownwhatthatsomethingwas.EverytimeIchasedafterit,itskitteredaway.“Therewasn’ttimetogointoall thedetails,”Sullivansnapped.“Iwassortoffocusedonrescuing

mybabybrotherfromadeathcamp.”Iletitgo.Herheadlookedlikeitwasabouttoexplode.Icanmakeoutthatsameheadnowonmylastlookback,silhouettedinthesecond-storywindowof

the hotel, and that’s bad, really bad: She’s an easy target for a sniper. The next Silencer Sullivanencountersmightnotbeaslovestruckasthefirstone.

Iduckintothethinlineoftreesthatborderstheroad.Stiffwithice,theautumnruinscrunchbeneathmyboots.Leavescurleduplikefists, trashandhumanbonesscatteredbyscavengers.Thecoldwindcarriesthefaintodorofsmoke.Theworldwillburnforahundredyears.Firewillconsumethethingswemadefromwoodandplasticandrubberandcloth,thenwaterandwindandtimewillchewthestoneandsteelintodust.HowbafflingitisthatweimaginedcitiesincineratedbyalienbombsanddeathrayswhenalltheyneededwasMotherNatureandtime.Andhumanbodies,accordingtoSullivan,despitethefactthat,alsoaccordingtoSullivan,theydon’t

needbodies.Avirtualexistencedoesn’trequireaphysicalplanet.WhenI’dfirstsaidthat,Sullivanwouldn’tlistenandZombieactedlikeitdidn’tmatter.Forwhatever

reason,hesaid,thebottomlineistheywantallofusdead.Everythingelseisjustnoise.Maybe.ButIdon’tthinkso.Becauseoftherats.IforgottotellZombieabouttherats.

3

BYSUNRISE,IreachthesouthernoutskirtsofUrbana.Halfwaythere,rightonschedule.Cloudshave rolled in from thenorth; the sun risesbeneath the canopyandpaints itsunderbelly a

glisteningmaroon.I’llholeupinthetreesuntilnightfall,thenhittheopenfieldstothewestofthecityandpray thecloudcoverhangsaround forawhile, at leastuntil Ipickup thehighwayagainon theother side.GoingaroundUrbanaaddsa fewmiles,but theonly thing riskier thannavigatinga townduringthedayistryingitatnight.Andit’sallaboutrisk.Mistrisesfromthefrozenground.Thecoldisintense.Itsqueezesmycheeks,makesmychestache

witheachbreath.Ifeeltheancientyearningforfireembeddeddeepinmygenes.Thetamingoffirewasourfirstgreatleap:Fireprotectedus,keptuswarm,transformedourbrainsbychangingourdietsfromnuts and berries to protein-richmeat. Now fire is another weapon in our enemy’s arsenal. As deepwintersetsin,we’recrushedbetweentwounacceptablerisks:freezingtodeathoralertingtheenemytoourlocation.Sittingwithmybackagainstatree,Ipulloutthebrochure.Ohio’sMostColorfulCaverns!Zombie’s

right.Wewon’tsurvivetillspringwithoutshelter,andthecavesareourbest—maybeonly—bet.Maybethey’vebeen takenordestroyedby the enemy.Maybe they’reoccupiedby survivorswhowill shootstrangersonsight.Buteverydaywestayatthathotel,theriskgrowstenfold.Wedon’thaveanalternative if thecavesdon’tpanout.Nowhere to run,nowhere tohide,and the

ideaoffightingisludicrous.Theclockwindsdown.WhenIpointedthisouttohim,ZombietoldmeIthinktoomuch.Hewassmiling.Thenhestopped

smilingandsaid,“Don’tlet’emgetinsideyourhead.”AsifthiswereafootballgameandIneededahalftimepeptalk.Ignorethefifty-sixtonothingscore.Playforpride!It’smomentslikethosethatmakemewanttoslaphim,notthatslappinghimwoulddoanygood,butitwouldmakemefeelbetter.Thebreezedies.There’sanexpectanthushintheair,thestillnessbeforeastorm.Ifitsnows,we’llbe

trapped.Meinthesewoods.Zombieinthehotel.I’mstilltwentyorsomilesfromthecaverns—shouldIrisktheopenfieldsbydayorriskthesnowholdingoffatleasttillnightfall?BacktotheRword. It’sallabout risk.Not justours.Theirs, too:embedding themselves inhuman

bodies,establishingdeathcamps,trainingkidstofinishthegenocide,allofitcrazyrisky,stupidrisky.LikeEvanWalker,discordant,illogical,andjustdamnstrange.Theopeningattackswerebrutalintheirefficiency,wipingout98percentofus,andeventhe4thWavemadesomesense:It’shardtomusterameaningful resistance if you can’t trust one another. But after that, their brilliant strategy starts tounravel.TenthousandyearstoplantheeradicationofhumansfromEarthandthisisthebesttheycancomeupwith?That’sthequestionIcan’tstopturningoverandoverinmyhead,andhaven’tbeenableto,sinceTeacupandthenightoftherats.Deeperinthewoods,behindmeandtomyleft,asoftmoanslicesthroughthesilence.Irecognizethe

sound immediately; I’ve heard it a thousand times since they came. In the early days, itwas nearlyomnipresent,aconstantbackgroundnoise, like thehumof trafficonabusyhighway: thesoundofahumanbeinginpain.

I pull the eyepiece frommy rucksack and adjust the lens carefully overmy left eye.Deliberately.Withoutpanic.Panicshutsdownneurons.Istandup,checktheboltcatchontherifle,andeasethroughthetreestowardthesound,scanningtheterrainforthetelltalegreenglowofan“infested.”Mistshroudsthetrees;theworldisdrapedinwhite.Myfootstepsthunderonthefrozenground.Mybreathsaresonicbooms.Thedelicatewhitecurtainparts,andtwentyyardsawayIseeafigureslumpedagainsta tree,head

back,handspressedintoitslap.Theheaddoesn’tglowinmyeyepiece,whichmeanshe’snocivilian;he’spartofthe5thWave.Iaimtherifleathishead.“Hands!Letmeseeyourhands!”Hismouthhangsopen.Hisvacanteyesregardthegrayskythroughbarebranchesglisteningwithice.

Istepcloser.Arifleidenticaltomineliesonthegroundbesidehim.Hedoesn’treachforit.“Where’stherestofyoursquad?”Iask.Hedoesn’tanswer.Ilowermyweapon.I’manidiot.Inthisweather,Iwouldseehisbreathandthereisnone.ThemoanI

heardmusthavebeenhislast.Idoaslow360,holdingmybreath,butseenothingbuttreesandmist,hearnothingbutmyownbloodroaringinmyears.ThenIstepovertothebody,forcingmyselfnottorush,tonoticeeverything.Nopanic.Panickills.Samegun asmine.Same fatigues.And there’s his eyepieceon thegroundbesidehim.He’s a 5th

Waverallright.I studyhis face.He looksvaguely familiar. I’mguessinghe’s twelveor thirteen, aroundDumbo’s

age.Ikneelbesidehimandpressmyfingertipsagainsthisneck.Nopulse.Iopenthejacketandpulluphisblood-soakedshirttolookforthewound.Hewashitinthegutbyasingle,high-caliberround.AroundIdidn’thear.Eitherhe’sbeenlyinghereforawhileortheshooterisusingasilencer.Silencer.

•••

According to Sullivan, Evan Walker took out an entire squad by himself, at night, injured andoutnumbered,sortofawarm-uptohissingle-handedblowingupofanentiremilitary installation.Atthetime,IfoundCassie’sstoryhardtobelieve.Nowthere’sadeadsoldieratmyfeet.HissquadMIA.Andmealonewiththesilenceofthewoodsandthemilkywhitescreenoffog.Doesn’tseemthatfar-fetchednow.Thinkfast.Don’tpanic.Likechess.Weightheodds.Measuretherisk.Ihavetwooptions.Stayputuntilsomethingdevelopsornightfalls.Orgetoutofthesewoods,fast.

Whoeverkilledhimcouldbemilesawayorhunkereddownbehindatree,waitingforaclearshot.Thepossibilitiesmultiply.Where’shissquad?Dead?Huntingdownthepersonwhoshothim?What

if thepersonwhoshothimwasa fellowrecruitwhowentDorothy?Forgethissquad.Whathappenswhenreinforcementsarrive?Ipulloutmyknife.It’sbeenfiveminutessinceIfoundhim.I’dbedeadbynowifsomeoneknewI

washere.I’llwaittilldark,butIhavetopreparefortheprobabilitythatanotherbreakerofthe5thWaveisrollingtowardme.Ipressagainst thebackofhisneckuntil I find the tinybulgebeneath thescar.Staycalm. It’s like

chess.Moveandcountermove.Isliceslowlyalongthescaranddigoutthepelletwiththetipoftheknife,whereitsitssuspendedon

adropletofblood.Sowe’llalwaysknowwhereyouare.Sowecankeepyousafe.Risk.Theriskoflightingupinaneyepiece.Theopposingriskoftheenemyfryingmybrainwiththe

touchofabutton.

Thepelletinitsbedofblood.Theawfulstillnessofthetreesandtheclinchingcoldandthefogthatcurlsbetweenbrancheslikefingersinterlacing.AndZombie’svoiceinmyhead:Youthinktoomuch.Ituckthepelletbetweenmycheekandgums.Stupid.Ishouldhavewipeditofffirst.Icantastethe

kid’sblood.

4

IAMNOTALONE.Ican’tseehimorhearhim,butIfeelhim.Everyinchofmybodytingleswiththesensationofbeing

watched.Anuncomfortablyfamiliarfeelingnow,presentsincetheverybeginning.Justthemothershipsilentlyhoveringinorbitforthefirsttendayscausedcracksinthehumanedifice.Adifferentkindofviralplague:uncertainty, fear,panic.Cloggedhighways,desertedairports,overrunemergencyrooms,governments in lockdown, foodandgasshortages,martial law insomeplaces, lawlessness inothers.Thelioncrouchesinthetallgrass.Thegazellesniffstheair.Theawfulstillnessbeforethestrike.Forthefirsttimeintenmillennia,weknewwhatitfeltliketobepreyagain.The trees are crowdedwith crows.Shinyblackheads, blankblack eyes, their hunched-shouldered

silhouettesremindingmeoflittleoldmenonparkbenches.Therearehundredsofthemperchedinthetreesandhoppingabouttheground.Iglanceatthebodybesideme,itseyesblankandbottomlessasthecrows’.Iknowwhythebirdshavecome.They’rehungry.Iam,too,soIdigoutmybaggieofbeefjerkyandonly-slightly-expiredgummybears.Eatingisa

risk,too,becauseI’llhavetoremovethetrackerfrommymouth,butIneedtostayalert,andtostayalert, I need fuel. The crowswatchme, cocking their heads as if straining to hear the sound ofmychewing.Youfatasses.Howhungrycouldyoube?Theattacksyieldedmillionsoftonsofmeat.Attheheight of the plague, huge flocks blotted out the sky, their shadows racing across the smolderinglandscape.The crows andother carrionbirds closed the loopof the3rdWave.They fedon infectedbodies,thenspreadthevirustonewfeedinggrounds.Icouldbewrong.Maybewe’realone,meandthisdeadkid.Themoresecondsthatslipby,thesaferI

feel.Ifsomeoneiswatching,Icanthinkofonlyonereasonwhyhe’dholdtheshot:He’swaitingtoseeifanymoreidiotickidsplayingsoldiershowup.I finishmybreakfastandslip thepelletback intomymouth.Theminutescrawl.Oneof themost

disorienting things about the invasion—after watching everyone you know and love die in horribleways—was how time slowed down as events sped up. Ten thousand years to build civilization, tenmonthstotearitdown,andeachdaylastedtentimeslongerthantheonebefore,andthenightslastedtentimesaslongasthedays.Theonlythingmoreexcruciatingthantheboredomofthosehourswastheterrorofknowingthatanyminutetheycouldend.Midmorning:Themistliftsandthesnowbeginstofallinflakessmallerthancrows’eyes.There’snot

abreathofwind.Thewoodsaredrapedinadreamlike,glossywhiteglow.Aslongasthesnowstaysthislight,I’mgoodtilldark.If I don’t fall asleep. I haven’t slept in over twenty hours, and I feel warm and comfortable and

slightlyspacy.In thegossamerstillness,myparanoia ratchetsup.Myhead isperfectlycentered inhiscrosshairs.

He’shighinthetrees;he’slyingmotionlesslikealioninthebrush.I’mapuzzletohim.Ishouldbepanicking. So he holds his fire, allowing the situation to develop. There must be some reason I’mhangingoutherewithacorpse.ButIdon’tpanic.Idon’tboltlikeafrightenedgazelle.Iammorethanthesumofmyfear.

Itisn’tfearthatwilldefeatthem.Notfearorfaithorhopeorevenlove,butrage.Fuckyou,SullivansaidtoVosch.It’stheonlypartofherstorythatimpressedme.Shedidn’tcry.She

didn’tpray.Shedidn’tbeg.Shethoughtitwasover,andwhenit’sover,whentheclockhaswoundtothefinalsecond,thetime

forcrying,praying,andbeggingisover.“Fuckyou,”Iwhisper.Saying thewordsmakesmefeelbetter. Isay themagain, louder.Myvoice

carriesfarinthewinterair.A flutter of blackwings deep in the trees tomy right, the petulant squawking of the crows, and

throughmyeyepiece,atinygreendotsparklingamongthebrownandwhite.Foundyou.Theshotwillbetough.Tough,notimpossible.I’dneverhandledafirearminmylifeuntiltheenemy

foundmehidinginthereststopoutsideCincinnati,broughtmetotheircamp,andplacedarifleinmyhand,atwhichpointthedrillsergeantwonderedaloudifcommandhadslippedaringerintotheunit.Sixmonthslater,Iputabulletintothatman’sheart.Ihaveagift.Thefierygreenlightiscomingcloser.MaybeheknowsI’vespottedhim.Itdoesn’tmatter.Icaress

the smoothmetal of the trigger andwatch the blob of light expand through the eyepiece.Maybe hethinkshe’soutofrangeorispositioninghimselfforabettershot.Doesn’tmatter.ItmightnotbeoneofSullivan’ssilentassassins.Itmightbejustsomepoorlostsurvivorhopingfor

rescue.Doesn’tmatter.Onlyonethingmattersanymore.Therisk.

5

ATTHEHOTEL,Sullivantoldmeastoryaboutshootingasoldierbehindsomebeercoolersandhowbadshefeltafterward.“Itwasn’tagun,”shetriedtoexplain.“Itwasacrucifix.”“Whyisthatimportant?”Iasked.“ItcouldhavebeenaRaggedyAnndollorabagofM&Ms.What

choicedidyouhave?”“Ididn’t.That’smypoint.”I shookmy head. “Sometimes you’re in thewrong place at thewrong time andwhat happens is

nobody’sfault.Youjustwanttofeelbadsoyou’llfeelbetter.”“Bad so I feel better?”With a deep blush of anger spreading beneath her freckles. “That makes

absolutelynofriggin’sense.”“‘Ikilledaninnocentguy,butlookhowguiltyIfeelaboutit,’”Iexplained.“Guy’sstilldead.”Shestaredatmeforalongtime.“Well.IseewhyVoschwantedyoufortheteam.”

•••

Thegreenblobofhisheadadvancestowardme,weavingthroughthetrees,andnowIcanseetheglintofariflethroughthelanguidsnow.I’mprettysureitisn’tacrucifix.Cradlingmy rifle, leaningmyhead against the tree as if I’mdozingor looking at the flakes float

betweentheglisteningbarebranches,lionessinthetallgrass.Fiftyyardsaway.ThemuzzlevelocityofaM16is3,100feetpersecond.Threefeetinayard,which

meanshehastwo-thirdsofasecondleftonEarth.Hopehespendsitwisely.Iswingtheriflearound,squaremyshoulders,andletloosethebulletthatcompletesthecircle.Themurder of crows rockets from the trees, a riot of blackwings andhoarse, scolding cries.The

greenballoflightdropsanddoesn’trise.Iwait.Bettertowaitandseewhathappensnext.Fiveminutes.Ten.Nomotion.Nosound.Nothing

butthethunderoussilenceofsnow.Thewoodsfeelveryemptywithoutthecompanyofthebirds.Withmybackpressedagainstthetree,Islideupandholdstillanothercoupleofminutes.NowIcanseethegreenglowagain,on theground,notmoving. Istepover thebodyof thedeadrecruit.Frozen leavescracklebeneathmyboots.Eachfootstepmeasuresoutthetimewindingdown.Halfwaytothebody,IrealizewhatI’vedone.Teacupliescurledintoatightballbesideafallentree,herfacecoveredinthecrumbsoflastyear’s

leaves.Behindarowofemptybeercoolers,adyingmanhuggedabloodycrucifix tohischest.Hiskiller

didn’thaveachoice.Theygavehernochoice.Becauseoftherisk.Toher.Tothem.Ikneelbesideher.Hereyesarewidewithpain.Shereachesformewithhandsdarkcrimsoninthe

graylight.“Teacup,”Iwhisper.“Teacup,whatareyoudoinghere?Where’sZombie?”

Iscanthewoodsbutdon’thearorseehimoranyoneelse.Herchestheavesandfrothybloodboilsoverherlips.She’schoking.Igentlypushherfacetowardthegroundtoclearhermouth.Shemusthaveheardmecursing.That’showshefoundme,bymyownvoice.Teacup screams. The sound knifes through the stillness, bounces and ricochets off the trees.

Unacceptable.Ipressmyhanddownhardoverherbloodylipsandtellhertohush.Idon’tknowwhoshotthekidIfound,butwhoeverdiditcan’tbefar.Ifthesoundofmyrifledoesn’tbringhimbacktoinvestigate,herscreamingwill.Damnit,shutup.Shutup.Whatthehellareyoudoingouthere,sneakinguponmelikethat,youlittle

shit?Stupid.Stupid,stupid,stupid.Teeth scrape frantically againstmy palm.Tiny fingers seekmy face.My cheeks paintedwith her

blood.Withmyfreehand,Itugopenherjacket.I’vegottocompressthewoundorshe’llbleedout.Igrabthecollarofhershirtandripdownward,exposinghertorso.Iwaduptheremnantandpressit

justbelowherribcage,againstthebulletholeweepingblood.Shejerksatmytouchwithastrangledsob.“WhatdidItellyouaboutthat,soldier?”Iwhisper.“What’sthefirstpriority?”Slicklipsslideovermypalm.Nowordscomeout.“Nobadthoughts,”Itellher.“Nobadthoughts.Nobadthoughts.Becausebadthoughtsmakeusgo

soft.Theymakeussoft.Soft.Soft.Andwecan’tgosoft.Wecan’t.Whathappenswhenwegosoft?”The woods brim with menacing shadows. Deep in the trees, there’s a snapping sound. A boot

crunchingonthefrozenground?Oranice-encrustedbranch,splintering?Wecouldbesurroundedbyahundredenemies.Orzero.Iracethroughouroptions.Therearen’tmany.Andtheyallsuck.First option: We stay. The problem is stay for what. The dead recruit’s unit is unaccounted for.

Whoeverkilledthekidisalsounaccountedfor.AndTeacuphasnochanceofsurvivingwithoutmedicalattention.Shehasminutes,nothours.Secondoption:Werun.Theproblem iswhere.Thehotel?Teacupwouldbleed todeathbeforewe

make itback,plusshemayhave takenoff foragood reason.Thecaverns?Can’t riskgoing throughUrbana,whichmeansaddingmilesofopenfieldsandmanyhourstoajourneythatendsataplacethatprobablyisn’tsafe,either.There’sathirdoption.Theunthinkableone.Andtheonlyonethatmakessense.Thesnowfallsheavier, thegraydeepens.Icupherfacewithonehandandpresstheotherintothe

wound,butIknowit’shopeless.Mybullettorethroughhergut;theinjuryiscatastrophic.Teacupisgoingtodie.Ishouldleaveher.Now.But Idon’t. Ican’t.LikeI toldZombieon thenightCampHavenblew, theminutewedecideone

persondoesn’tmatter,they’vewon,andnowmywordsarethechainthatbindsmetoher.Iholdherinmyarmsintheawfuldeadstillnessofthewoodsinsnow.

6

IEASEHERDOWNontotheforestfloor.Drainedofallcolor,herfaceisonlyslighterdarkerthanthesnow.Hermouthhangsopen,hereyelidsflutter.She’sslippedintounconsciousness.Idon’tthinkshe’llwakeagain.Myhandsareshaking.I’mstrugglingtokeepittogether.I’mpissedashellather,atmyself,atthe

sevenbillionimpossibledilemmastheirarrivalbrought,at theliesandthemaddeninginconsistenciesandalltheridiculous,hopeless,stupidunspokenpromisesthathavebeenbrokensincetheycame.Don’tgosoft.Thinkaboutwhatmatters,righthere,rightnow;you’regoodatthat.Idecidetowait.Itcan’tbemuchlonger.Maybeaftershe’sdead,thesoftnessinsidemewillpassand

I’llbeabletothinkclearly.EveryuneventfulminutemeansIstillhavetime.Buttheworldisaclockwindingdown,andtherearenosuchthingsasuneventfulminutesanymore.Aheartbeat after Idecide to staywithher, thepercussive thrumof rotors shatters the silence.The

soundofthechopperssnapsthespell.Knowingwhatmatters:besidesshooting,thethingI’mbestat.Ican’tletthemtakeTeacupalive.If they take her, they may be able to save her. And if they save her, they’ll run her through

Wonderland.There’sthetiniestchancethatZombie’sstillsafeatthehotel.AchancethatTeacupwasn’trunning fromanything, just snuckoff to findme.One trip by either of us down the rabbit hole andeverybody’sdoomed.Ipullmysidearmfromtheholster.Theminutewedecide...IwishIhadaminute.IwishIhadthirtyseconds.Thirtysecondswouldbe

alifetime.Aminutewouldbeaneternity.Ilevelthegunatherheadandliftupmyfacetothegray.Snowsettlesonmyskin,whereitquivers

foramomentbeforemelting.SullivanhadherCrucifixSoldierandnowIhavemine.No.Iamthesoldier.Teacupisthecross.

7

IFEELHIMTHEN,theonestandingdeepinthetrees,motionless,watchingme.Ilook,andthenIseehim,alighterhuman-shapedshadowbetweenthedarktrunks.Foramoment,neitherofusmoves.Iknow,withoutunderstandinghow,thatheistheonewhoshotthekidandtheothermembersofhissquad.AndIknowtheshootercan’tbearecruit.Hisheaddoesnotglowinmyeyepiece.Thesnowspins,thecoldsqueezes.Iblink,andtheshadowisgone.Iftheshadowwaseverthere.I’mlosingmygrip.Toomanyvariables.Toomuchrisk.Shakinguncontrollably,Iwonderifthey’ve

finallybrokenme;aftersurvivingthetsunamithattookmyhome,theplaguethattookmyfamily,thedeathcampthattookmyhope,theinnocentlittlegirlwhotookmybullet,Iamterminal,done,finished,andwasiteverinquestion,neverifbutalwayswhen?Thechoppersbeardown.IhavetofinishwhatIstartedwithTeacuporI’lljoinherwhereshelies.Isightalongthebarrelofmypistolintothepale,angelicfaceatmyfeet,myvictim,mycross.And the roar of the Black Hawks’ approach makes my thoughts seem like the tiny squeaking

whimpersofadyingrodent.It’sliketherats,isn’tit,Cup?Justliketherats.

8

THEOLDHOTELswarmedwithvermin.Thecoldhadkilledoffthecockroaches,butotherpestssurvived,especiallybedbugsandcarpetbeetles.Andtheywerehungry.Withinaday,allofuswerecoveredwithbites.Thebasementbelonged to the flies,wherecorpseshadbeenbroughtduring theplague.By thetimewecheckedin,mostoftheflieshaddiedoff.Somanydeadfliesthattheirblackhuskscrunchedbeneathourfeetwhenwewentdownthere thefirstday.Thatwasalso the lastdaywewent into thebasement.Theentirebuildingreekedofrot,andItoldZombiethatopeningthewindowswouldhelpdissipate

thesmellandkilloffsomeofthebugs.Hesaidhe’drathergetbitandgagthanfreezetodeath.Ashesmiledtodrenchyouinhisirresistiblecharm.Relax,Ringer.It’sjustanotherdayinthealienwild.Thebugsandthesmelldidn’tbotherTeacup.Itwastheratsthatdrovehercrazy.Theyhadchewed

theirwayintothewalls,andatnighttheirgnawingandscratchingkepther(andthereforeme)awake.She tossed and turned, whined and bitched and generally obsessed, because practically any otherthoughtsaboutoursituationendedupinabadplace.Inavainattempttodistracther,Ibeganteachingherchess,usingatowelforaboardandcoinsforthepieces.“Chessisastupidgameforstupidpeople,”sheinformedme.“No,it’sverydemocratic,”Isaid.“Smartpeopleplay,too.”Teacuprolledhereyes.“Youwanttoplayjustsoyoucanbeatme.”“No,IwanttobecauseImissplayingit.”Hermouthdroppedopen.“That’swhatyoumiss?”Ispreadthetowelonthebedandpositionedthecoins.“Don’tdecidehowyoufeelaboutsomething

beforeyoutryit.”IwasaroundheragewhenIbegan.Thebeautifulwoodenboardonastandinmyfather’sstudy.Thegleamingivorypieces.Thesternking.Thehaughtyqueen.Thenobleknight.Thepiousbishop.Andthegameitself,thewayeachpiececontributeditsindividualpowertothewhole.Itwassimple.Itwascomplex.Itwassavage;itwaselegant.Itwasadance;itwasawar.Itwasfiniteandeternal.Itwaslife.“Penniesarepawns,”Itoldher.“Nickelsarerooks,dimesareknightsandbishops,quartersarekings

andqueens.”Sheshookherhead.Ringerisanidiot.“Howcandimesandquartersbeboth?”“Heads:knightsandkings.Tails:bishopsandqueens.”Thecoolnessoftheivory.Thewaythefelt-coveredbasesslidoverthepolishedwood,likewhispered

thundercrashing.Myfather’sfacebentovertheboard,leanandunshaven,red-eyedandpurse-lipped,encrusted with shadows. The sickly sweet smell of alcohol and fingers that thrummed likehummingbirds’wings.It’scalledthegameofkings,Marika.Wouldyouliketolearnhowtoplay?“It’sthegameofkings,”IsaidtoTeacup.“Well,I’mnotaking.”Shecrossedherarms.Sooverme.“Ilikecheckers.”“Thenyou’lllovechess.Chessischeckersonsteroids.”Myfathertappinghischippednailsonthetabletop.Theratsscratchinginsidethewalls.

“Here’showthebishopmoves,Teacup.”Thisishowtheknightmoves,Marika.She jammed a stale piece of gum into hermouth and chewed angrily as the dry shards crumbled.

Mintybreath.Whiskeybreath.Scratch,scratch,tap,tap.“Giveitachance,”Ibeggedher.“You’llloveit.Ipromise.”Shegrabbedthecornerofthetowel.“Here’swhatIfeel.”Isawitcoming,butstillflinchedwhenshe

flungthetowelandthecoinsexplodedintotheair.Anickelpoppedherintheforeheadandshedidn’tevenblink.“Ha!”Teacupshouted.“Iguessthat’scheckmate,bitch!”Reactingwithoutthinking,Islappedher.“Don’tevercallmethat.Ever.”Thecoldmadetheslapmorepainful.Herbottomlippokedout,hereyeswelledup,butshedidn’t

cry.“Ihateyou,”shesaid.“Idon’tcare.”“No,Ihateyou,Ringer.Ihateyourfuckingguts.”“Cussingdoesn’tmakeyougrown-up,youknow.”“Then I guess I’m a baby. Shit, shit, shit! Fuck, fuck, fuck!” She started to touch her cheek. She

stoppedherself.“Idon’thavetolistentoyou.Youaren’tmymotherormysisteroranybody.”“Thenwhyhaveyoubeenlatchedontomelikeapilotfishsinceweleftcamp?”Nowateardidfall,asingledropthattraileddownherscarletcheek.Shewassopaleandthin,her

skinasluminescentasoneofmyfather’schesspieces.Iwassurprisedtheslaphadn’tshatteredherintoa thousand bits. I didn’t knowwhat to say or how to unsaywhat had been said, so I said nothing.Instead,Ilaidahandonherknee.Shepushedmyhandaway.“Iwantmygunback,”shesaid.“Whydoyouwantyourgunback?”“SoIcanshootyou.”“Thenyou’redefinitelynotgettingyourgunback.”“CanIhaveitbacktoshootalltherats?”Isighed.“Wedon’thaveenoughbullets.”“Thenwepoisonthem.”“Withwhat?”Shethrewupherhands.“Okay,sowesetthehotelonfireandburnthemallup!”“That’sagreatidea,onlywehappentobelivinghere,too.”“Thenthey’regonnawin.Againstus.Abunchofrats.”Ishookmyhead.Ididn’tfollowher.“Win—how?”Hereyeswidenedindisbelief.Ringerthemoron.“Listentothem!They’reeatingit.Andprettysoon

wewon’tbelivingherebecausetherewon’tbeanyheretolivein!”“That’snotwinning,”Ipointedout.“Theywouldn’thaveahome,either.”“They’rerats,Ringer.Theycan’tthinkthatfarahead.”Notjusttherats,Ithoughtthatnightaftershefinallyfellasleepnexttome.Ilistenedtotheminside

thewalls,chewing,scratching,screeching.Eventually,withthehelpofweather,insects,andtime,theoldhotelwouldcollapse.Inanotherhundredyears,onlythefoundationwouldremain.Inathousand,nothingatall.Hereoranywhere.Itwouldbeasifwehadneverexisted.WhoneedsthekindofbombsusedatCampHavenwhentheycanturntheelementsthemselvesagainstus?Teacupwaspressedtightagainstme.Evenundermoundsofcovers,thecoldsqueezedhard.Winter:

awavetheydidn’thavetoengineer.Thecoldwouldkilloffthousandsmore.Nothing that happens is insignificant,Marika,my father toldme during one ofmy chess lessons.

Everymovematters.Masteryisinunderstandinghowmucheachtime,everytime.Itnaggedatme.Theproblemofrats.NotTeacup’sproblem.Nottheproblemwithrats.Theproblem

ofrats.

9

ISEETHECHOPPERSclosinginthroughtheleaflessbranchesclothedinwhite,threeblackdotsagainstthegray.Ihaveseconds.Options:FinishTeacupandtakemychancesagainstthreeBlackHawksequippedwithHellfiremissiles.LeaveTeacuptobefinishedbythem—orworse,saved.Onelastoption:Finishbothofus.Abulletforher.Abulletforme.Idon’tknowifZombieisokay.Idon’tknowwhat—ifanything—droveTeacupfromthehotel.What

Idoknowisourdeathsmaybehisonlychancetolive.Iwillmyselftosqueezethetrigger.IfIcanfirethefirstround,thesecondwillbemucheasier.Itell

myselfit’stoolate—toolateforherandtoolateforme.There’snoavoidingdeath,anyway.Isn’tthatthelessonthey’vebeenhammeringintoourheadsformonths?Nohidingfromit,norunningfromit.Putitoffforaday,anddeathwillsurelyfindyoutomorrow.Shelookssobeautiful,notevenreal,nestledinabowerofsnow,herdarkhairshimmeringlikeonyx,

herexpressioninsleeptheindescribableserenityofanancientstatue.Iknowthatkillingbothofusistheonlyoptionwiththeleastrisktothemostpeople.AndIthinkof

ratsagainandhowsometimes,topasstheinterminablehours,TeacupandIwouldplotourcampaignagainstthevermin,stratagemsandtactics,wavesofattack,eachmoreridiculousthanthelast,untilshedissolvedintohystericallaughter,andIgaveherthesamespeechIgaveZombieonthefiringrange,thesamelessonthatnowcomeshometome,thefearthatbindskillertopreyandthebulletconnectingbothasifbyasilvercord.NowIamthekillerandtheprey,acircleofacompletelydifferentkind,andmymouthhasgonedryasthesterileair,myheartascold:Thetemperatureoftruerageisabsolutezero,andmineisdeeperthantheocean,widerthantheuniverse.Soitisn’thopethatmakesmeslipthesidearmbackintoitsholster.Itisn’tfaithanditsureisn’tlove.It’srage.Rage,andthefactthatIhaveadeadrecruit’simplantstilllodgedbetweenmycheekandgums.

10

ILIFTHERUP.Herheadfallsagainstmyshoulder.Wetakeoffthroughthetrees.ABlackHawkthundersoverhead.Theothertwochoppershavesplitoff,onetotheeast,onetothewest,cuttingoffanyescape.Thehigh,thinbranchesbend.Snowwhipssidewaysintomyface.Teacupweighsnothing;Icouldbecarryingawadofdiscardedclothes.Wecomeoutof the treesasaBlackHawkroars infromthenorth.Theblastofairwhipsmyhair

withcyclonicfury.Thechopperhoversaboveusandnowwearemotionless,standinginthemiddleoftheroad.Nomorerunning.Nomore.IlowerTeacuptotheblacktop.Thehelicopterissoclose,Icanseetheblackvisorofthepilotandthe

opendoor to theholdand theclusterofbodies inside,andIknowI’min themiddleofahalfdozensights,meandthelittlegirlatmyfeet.AndeverysecondthatpassesmeansI’vesurvivedthatsecondand,witheachsecond, theincreasedprobabilityI’llsurvivethenext.Itmightnotbetoolate,notforme,notforher,notyet.Idonotglowintheireyepieces.Iamoneofthem.Imustbe,right?Islingtheriflefrommyshoulderandslipmyfingerthroughthetriggerguard.

11

FROMTHETIMEIcouldbarelywalk,myfatherwouldaskme,Cassie,doyouwanttofly?Andmyarmswouldshootovermyhead.Areyoukiddingme,oldman?DamnstraightIwanttofly!Andhewouldgrabmywaistandtossmeintotheair.MyheadwouldsnapbackandIwouldhurtle

likearockettowardthesky.Foraninstantthatlastedathousandyears,itfeltasifI’dkeepflyinguntilIreached thestars. Iwouldscreamwith joy, that fierceroller-coaster-ridefear,myfingersclutchingatclouds.Fly,Cassie,fly!Mybrotherknewthatfeeling,too.Betterthanme,becausethememorywasfresher.Evenafterthe

Arrival,Dadwas launchinghimintoorbit. I sawhimdo itatCampAshpita fewdaysbeforeVoschshowedupandmurderedhiminthedirt.Sam,m’boy, do youwant to fly?Lowering his voice frombaritone to bass like an old-time carny

hustler,thoughtheridehewassellingwasfree—andpriceless.Dadthelaunchingpad.Dadthelandingzone.Dad the tether thatkeptSams—andme—fromhurtling into thenullityofdeepspace,anullityhimselfnow.IwaitedforSamtoask.That’stheeasiestwaytobreakhorriblenews.Alsothelowest.Hedidn’task,

though.Hetoldme.“Daddy’sdead.”Atinylumpbeneathamoundofcovers,browneyesbigandroundandblankliketheteddybear’s

pressedagainsthischeek.Teddybearsare forbabies,he toldme the firstnight atHotelHell. I’masoldiernow.Burrowedinthebednexttohis,anothersolemn,pint-sizedsoldierstaringatme,theseven-year-old

theycallTeacup.Theonewiththeadorablebaby-dollfaceandhauntedeyeswhodoesn’tshareabedwithastuffedanimal;shesleepswitharifle.Welcometothepost-humanage.“Oh, Sam.” I left my post by the window and sat beside the cocoon of covers swaddling him.

“Sammy,Ididn’tknowhow—”He slugged me in the cheek with a balled-up, apple-sized fist. I never saw it coming, in both

meaningsofthephrase.Brightstarsexplodedinmyvision.ForasecondIwasafraidhe’ddetachedmyretina.Okay.Rubbingmycheek.Ideservedthat.“Whydidyou lethimdie?”hedemanded.Hedidn’tcryorscream.Hisvoicewas lowandfierce,

simmeringwithrage.“Youweresupposedtotakecareofhim.”“Ididn’tlethimdie,Sams.”Myfatherbleeding,crawlinginthedirt—Whereareyougoing,Dad?—andVoschstandingoverhim,

watchingmyfathercrawlthewayasadistickidmightaflythathe’sdewinged,grimlysatisfied.Teacupfromherbed:“Hitheragain.”Samsnarledather,“Youshutup.”“Itwasn’tmyfault,”Iwhispered,myarmwrappedaroundthebear.

“Hewassoft,”Teacupsaid.“That’swhathappenswhenyougo—”Samwasonher in twoseconds.Then itwasall fists andkneesand feet anddust flying from the

blanketsandDearGod, there’sarifle in thatbed!and I shovedTeacupaway, scoopedSam intomyarms,andheldhimtightlyagainstmychestwhileheswunghisarmsandkickedhislegs,spittingandgnashinghisteeth,andTeacupwasshoutingobscenitiesathimandpromisingshe’dputhimdownlikea dog if he ever touched her again. The door flew open and Ben burst into the roomwearing thatridiculousyellowhoodie.“It’scool!”Ishoutedoverthescreaming.“I’vegotthis!”“Cup!Nugget!Standdown!”Likeaswitchbeingflipped, theminuteBenbarkedtheorder,bothkidsfellsilent.Samwentlimp.

Teacupfloppedagainsttheheadboardandfoldedherarmsoverherchest.“Shestartedit.”Sampouted.“IwasjustthinkingofpaintingabigredXontheroof,”Bensaid.Heholsteredhispistol.“Thanks,

guys, for savingme the trouble.”He grinned atme. “Maybe Teacup should bunk inmy room untilRingergetsback.”“Good!”Teacupsaid.Shejumpedoutofbed,marchedtothedoor,turnedonherheel,wentbackto

thebed,grabbedtherifle,andyankedonBen’swrist.“Let’sgo,Zombie.”“Inaminute,”hesaidgently.“Dumbo’sonthewatch.Takehisbed.”“Mybednow.”Shecouldn’tresistapartingshot:“A-holes.”“You’rethea-hole!”Sammyshoutedafterher.Thedoorslammedinthatquick,violentwayofhotel

doors.“A-hole.”Benlookedatme,righteyebrowcocked.“Whathappenedtoyourface?”“Nothing.”“Ihither,”Sammysaid.“Youhither?”“Forlettingmydaddydie.”NowSam lost it.As in tears,not fists, and thenext thing Iknew,Benwaskneelingandmybaby

brotherwas crying in his arms, andBenwas saying, “Hey, it’s okay, soldier. It’s going to beokay.”StrokingthecrewcutIwasstillgettingusedto—Sammyjustdidn’tseemlikeSammywithoutthemopofhair—saying thatdumb-asscampnameoverandover.Nugget,Nugget. Iknew it shouldn’t,but itbotheredmethateveryonehadanomdeguerrebutme.IlikedDefiance.Benpickedhimupanddepositedhiminthebed.ThenhefoundBearlyingonthefloorandplaced

himonthepillow.Samknockedhimaway.Benpickedhimupagain.“YoureallywanttodecommissionTeddy?”heasked.“Hisnameisn’tTeddy.”“PrivateBear,”Bentried.“JustBear,andIneverwanttoseehimagain!”Samyankedthecoversoverhishead.“Nowgoaway!

Everybody.Just.Go.Away!”Itookasteptowardhim.Bentskedatmeandjerkedhisheadtowardthedoor.Ifollowedhimoutof

theroom.Alargeshadowhulkedbythewindowdownthehall:thebig,silentkidnamedPoundcake,whosesilencedidnotfallintothecreepycategory,moreliketheprofoundstillnessofamountainlakevariety.Benleanedagainst thewall,huggingBeartohischest,mouthslightlyopen,sweatingdespitethe freezing temperature. Exhausted after a tusslewith a couple of kids, Benwas in trouble, whichmeantweallwere.“Hedidn’tknowyourdadwasdead,”hesaid.Ishookmyhead.“Hedidandhedidn’t.Oneofthosethings.”“Yeah.”Bensighed.“Thosethings.”

AleadballofsilencethesizeofNewarkdroppedbetweenus.BenwasabsentlystrokingBear’sheadlikeanoldmanstrokesacatwhilereadingthenewspaper.“Ishouldgobacktohim,”Isaid.Bensidesteppedtothedoor,blockingmyway.“Maybeyoushouldn’t.”“Maybeyoushouldn’tpokeyournoseinto—”“Notthefirstpersoninhislifetodie.He’lldeal.”“Wow.Thatwasharsh.”We’retalkingabouttheguywhowasmyfather,too,Zombieboy.“YouknowwhatImeant.”“Whydopeoplealwayssaythataftertheysaysomethingtotallycruel?”ThenIsaidit,becauseImay

have certain issues with self-editing: “I happen to know what it’s like to ‘deal’ with death all byyourself. Justyouandnothingelsebut thebigemptyofwhereeverythingused tobe. Itwouldhavebeennice,really,reallynice,tohavehadsomeonetherewithme...”“Hey,”Bensaidsoftly.“Hey,Cassie,Ididn’t—”“No, you didn’t. You really didn’t.” Zombie.Because he didn’t have feelings, dead inside like a

zombie?TherewerepeopleatAshpitlikethat.Shufflers,Icalledthem,human-shapedsackfulsofdust.Something irreplaceablehad crumbled inside.Toomuch loss.Toomuchpain.Shuffling, blank-eyed,slack-jawedmutterers.Was thatBen?Washe a shuffler?Thenwhydidhe risk everything to rescueSam?“Whereveryouwere,”Bensaidslowly,“wewerethere,too.”Thewordsstung.Becausetheyweretrueandbecausesomeoneelsesaidpracticallythesamethingto

me:You’renottheonlyonewho’slosteverything.Thatsomeoneelsesufferedtheultimateloss.Allformysake,thecretinwhomustbereminded,again,thatshe’snottheonlyone.Lifeisfulloflittleironies,butit’salsopockmarkedwithsomethesizeofthatbigrockinAustralia.Timetochangethesubject.“DidRingerleave?”Bennodded.Stroke,stroke.Thebearwasbuggingme.Ituggeditfromhisarms.“I tried to send Poundcakewith her,” he said.He laughed softly. “Ringer.” Iwondered if hewas

awareofhowhesaidhername.Quietly,likeaprayer.“Youknowwehavenobackupplanifshedoesn’tcomeback.”“She’llcomeback,”hesaidfirmly.“Whatmakesyousosure?”“Becausewehavenobackupplan.”Nowanall-out,fullsmile,andit’sdisorienting,seeingtheold

smilethatlitupclassroomsandhallwaysandyellowschoolbusesoverlaidonhisnewface,reshapedbydiseaseandbulletsandhunger.Like turningacorner inastrangecityandrunning intosomeoneyouknow.“That’sacircularargument,”Ipointedout.“Youknow,someguysmightfeelthreatenedbeingsurroundedbypeoplesmarterthantheyare.Butit

justmakesmemoreconfident.”Hesqueezedmyarmandlimpedacrossthehalltohisroom.Thenit’sthebearandthebigkiddown

thehallandthecloseddoorandmeinfrontofthecloseddoor.Itookadeepbreathandsteppedinsidetheroom.Satbesidethelumpofcovers.Ididn’tseehimbutknewhewasthere.Hedidn’tseemebutknewIwasthere.“Howdidhedie?”Muffledvoiceburied.“Hewasshot.”“Didyousee?”“Yes.”Ourfathercrawling,handsclawingthedirt.“Whoshothim?”

“Vosch.”Iclosedmyeyes.Badidea.Thedarksnappedthesceneintosharpfocus.“Wherewereyouwhenheshothim?”“Hiding.”Ireachedtopulldownthecovers.ThenIcouldn’t.Whereveryouwere.Inthewoodssomewhereoff

anemptyhighway,agirlzippedherselfupinasleepingbagandwatchedherfatherdieagainandagain.Hidingthen,hidingnow,watchinghimdieagainandagain.“Didhefight?”“Yes,Sam.Hefoughtveryhard.Hesavedmylife.”“Butyouhid.”“Yes.”CrushingBearagainstmystomach.“Likeabigfatchicken.”“Notlikethat,”Iwhispered.“Itwasn’tlikethat.”Heslungtheblanketsasideandboltedupright.Ididn’trecognizehim.I’dneverseenthiskidbefore.

Faceuglyandtwistedbyrageandhate.“I’mgoingtokillhim.I’mgoingtoshoothiminthehead!”Ismiled.Ortriedto,anyway.“Sorry,Sams.Ihavedibs.”Welookedateachotherandtimefoldedinonitself,thetimewehadlostinbloodandthetimewe

hadpurchased inblood, the timewhen Iwas just thebossybig sister andhewas theannoying littlebrother,thetimewhenIwasthethingworthlivingforandhewasthethingworthdyingfor,andthenhecrumpledintomyarms,thebearsmushedbetweenusthewayweweretrappedbetweenthebefore-timeandtheafter-time.Ilaydownnexttohimandtogetherwesaidhisprayer:IfIshoulddiebeforeIwake...AndthenI

toldhimthestoryofhowDaddied.Howhestoleagunfromoneofthebadguysandsingle-handedlytookouttwelveSilencers.HowhestooduptoVosch,tellinghim,Youcancrushourbodiesbutneverourspirit.HowhesacrificedhimselfsoIcouldescapetorescueSamfromtheevilgalactichorde.SoonedaySamcouldgathertheragtagremnantsofhumanityandsavetheworld.Sohismemoriesofhisfather’slastmomentsaren’tofabroken,bleedingmancrawlinginthedirt.Afterhefellasleep,Islippedoutofbedandreturnedtomypostbythewindow.Astripofparking

lot,adecrepitdiner(“AllYouCanEatWednesdays!”),andastretchofgrayhighwayfadingintoblack.TheEarthdarkandquiet,thewayitwasbeforeweshoweduptofillitwithnoiseandlight.Somethingends.Somethingnewbegins.Thiswasthein-betweentime.Thepause.On the highway, beside an SUV that had run into the median strip, starlight glinted off the

unmistakable shape of a rifle barrel, and for a secondmyheart stopped.The shadow toting the gundartedintothetreesandIsawtheshimmerofjet-blackhair,glossyandperfectly,annoyinglystraight,andIknewtheshadowwasRinger.RingerandIdidn’tstartoffontherightfoot,andtherelationshipjustwentdownhillfromthere.She

treatedeverythingIsaidwithakindoficycontempt,likeIwaslyingorstupidorjustcrazy.EspeciallywhenEvanWalkercameup.Areyousure?Thatdoesn’tmakeanysense.Howcouldhebebothhumanandalien?Thehotter Igot, thecolder shegot,untilwecanceledeachotherout likeeither sideofachemicalequation.LikeE=MC2,thekindofchemicalequationthatmakesmassiveexplosionspossible.Ourpartingwordswereaperfectexample.“Youknow,DumboIget,”Itoldher.“Thebigears.AndNugget,becauseSamissosmall.Teacup,

too.ZombieIdon’tgetsomuch—Benwon’tsay—andI’mguessingPoundcakehassomethingtodowithhisroly-poly-ness.ButwhyRinger?”Heranswerwasanicystare.“Itmakesmefeelalittleleftout.Youknow,theonlygangmemberwithoutastreetname.”“Nomdeguerre,”shesaid.

I lookedatherforaminute.“Letmeguess,NationalMeritScholar,chessclub,math team, topofyour class?And you play an instrument,maybe a violin or cello, somethingwith strings.Your dadworkedinSiliconValleyandyourmomwasacollegeprofessor,I’mthinkingphysicsorchemistry.”Shedidn’tsayanythingforacouplethousandyears.Thenshesaid,“Anythingelse?”IknewIshouldstop.ButIwasinnow,andwhenIgoin,Igoallthewayin.That’stheSullivanway.

“You’re theoldest—no,anonlychild.YourdadisaBuddhist,butyourmomisanatheist.Youwerewalking at tenmonths.Your grandmother raised you because your parentsworked all the time. Shetaughtyoutaichi.Youneverplayedwithdolls.Youspeakthreelanguages.OneofthemisFrench.Youwere on theOlympic development team.Gymnastics.Youbrought home aBonce and your parentstookawayyourchemistrysetandlockedyouinyourroomforaweek,duringwhichtimeyoureadthecompleteworksofWilliamShakespeare.”Shewasshakingherhead.“Okay,notthecomedies.Youjustcouldn’tgetthehumor.”“Perfect,”shesaid.“That’samazing.”Hervoicewasasflatandthinasapieceofaluminumfoilfresh

fromtheroller.“CanItryyou?”Istiffenedupalittle,bracingmyself.“Youcantry.”“You’vealwaysbeenself-consciousaboutyourlooks,especiallyyourhair.Thefrecklesareaclose

second.You’resociallyawkward,soyoureadalotandyou’vekeptajournalsincemiddleschool.Youhadonlyoneclosefriendandyourrelationshipwascodependent,whichmeanseverytimeyoufoughtwithher,youslidintoadeepdepression.You’readaddy’sgirl,neverthatclosetoyourmother,whoalwaysmadeyoufeellikenomatterwhatyoudid,itwasn’tgoodenough.Itdidn’thelpthatshewasprettierthanyou.Whenshedied,youfeltguiltyforsecretlyhatingherandforbeingsecretlyrelievedthat shewasgone.You’re stubbornand impulsiveanda littlehyper, soyourparents enrolledyou insomethingtohelpwithyourcoordinationandconcentration,likeballetorkarate,probablykarate.Youwantmetogoon?”Well,whatwasIgoingtodo?Isawonlytwooptions:laughorpunchherintheface.Okay,three:

laugh,punchherintheface,orgivebackoneofherownstoicstares.Ioptedfornumberthree.Badidea.“Okay,”Ringer said. “You’renota tomboyandyou’renotagirlygirl.You’re in thatgrayarea in

between.Beinganin-betweenmeantyoualwayssecretlyenviedtheoneswhoweren’t,butyousavedmostofyourresentmentfortheprettygirls.You’vehadcrushesbutneveraboyfriend.Youpretendyouhateboysyoulikeandlikeboysyouhate.Wheneveryou’rearoundsomeonewho’sprettierorsmarterorbetter thanyouinanyway,yougetangryandsarcastic,becausetheyremindyouofhowordinaryyoufeelinside.Goon?”Andtiny-voicedme:“Sure.Whatever.”“UntilEvanWalkercamealong,youhadneverevenheldaboy’shand,exceptonelementaryschool

fieldtrips.Evanwaskindandundemandingand,asanaddedbonus,almosttoobeautifultolookat.Hemadehimself an empty canvasyou couldpaintwithyour longing for aperfect relationshipwith theperfectguywhowouldeaseyourfearbyneverhurtingyou.Hegaveyouallthosethingsyouimaginedthe pretty girls had that you never did, so being with him—or the ideaof him—was mostly aboutrevenge.”Iwasbitingmylowerlip.Myeyesburned.Iclenchedmyfistssohard,mynailswerebitingintomy

palms.Why,oh,whydidn’tIgowithoptiontwo?Shesaid,“Youwantmetostopnow.”Notaquestion.Iliftedmychin.AndDefianceshallbemynomdeguerre!“What’smyfavoritecolor?”“Green.”“Wrong.It’syellow,”Ilied.Sheshrugged.SheknewIwaslying.Ringer:thehumanWonderland.

“Seriously,though,why‘Ringer’?”That’sit.Putherbackonthedefensive.Well,sheneveractuallywasonthedefensive.Thatwouldbeme.“I’mhuman,”shesaid.“Yeah.”Ipeekedthroughthecrackinthecurtainstotheparkinglottwostoriesbelow.WhydidIdo

that?DidIreallythinkI’dseehimstandingthere,lurkerthathewas,smilingupatme?See?IsaidI’dfindyou.“Someoneelsetoldmethat,too.And,likeadummy,Ibelievedhim.”“Notsodumb,giventhecircumstances.”Oh,nowshewasbeingkind?Nowshewascuttingmesomeslack?Ididn’tknowwhichwasworse:

icemaidenRingerorcompassionatequeenRinger.“Don’tpretend,”Isnapped.“Iknowyoudon’tbelievemeaboutEvan.”“Ibelieveyou.It’shisstorythatdoesn’tmakesense.”Thenshewalkedoutoftheroom.Justlikethat.Rightinthemiddle,beforeanythingwasresolved.

Who,besideseverymalepersoneverborn,doesthat?Avirtualexistencedoesn’trequireaphysicalplanet...WhowasEvanWalker?Shiftingmyeyesfromthehighwaytomybabybrotherandbackagain.Who

wereyou,EvanWalker?Iwasanidiotfortrustinghim,butIwashurtandalone(aloneas in thinkingIwas the lasthuman

being in the freakinguniverse) andmajorlymind screwedbecause I had alreadykilledone innocentperson,andthisperson,thisEvanWalker,didn’tendmylifewhenhecouldhave;hesavedit.Sowhenthe bells went off, I ignored them. Plus it didn’t hurt (help?) that he was impossibly gorgeous andequallyimpossiblyobsessedwithmakingmefeellikeImatteredmoretohimthanhedidtohimself,frombathingmetofeedingmetoteachingmehowtokilltotellingmeIwastheonethinghehadleftworthdyingfortoprovingitallbydyingforme.HebeganasEvan,wokeupthirteenyearslatertofindouthewasn’t,thenwokeagain,hetoldme,

whenhesawhimselfthroughmyeyes.Hefoundhimselfinme,andthenIfoundhiminmeandIwasinhimand therewasno spacebetweenus.Hebeganby tellingmeeverything Iwanted tohear andendedtellingmethethingsIneededto:Theprincipalweapontoeradicatethehumanhangers-onwerethehumansthemselves.Andwhenthelastofthe“infested”weredead,Voschandcompanywouldpulltheplugonthe5thWave.Purgeover.Housecleanandreadytomovein.WhenItoldBenandRingerallthis—minusthepartaboutEvanbeinginsideme,abittoonuanced

for Parish—there was a lot of dubious staring and significant looks from which I was painfullyexcluded.“Oneofthemwasinlovewithyou?”RingeraskedwhenIfinished.“Wouldn’tthatbelikeusfalling

inlovewithacockroach?”“Oramayfly,”Ishotback.“Maybetheyhaveathingforinsects.”WeweremeetinginBen’sroom.OurfirstnightattheWalkerHotel,asRingerdubbedit,mostly,I

think,togetundermyskin.“Whatelsedidhetellyou?”Benasked.Hewassprawledonthebed.FourmilesfromCampHaven

to thehotel,andhe looked likehe’d justsprintedamarathon.ThekidwhopatchedmeandSamup,Dumbo,wouldn’tcommitwhenIaskedhimaboutBen.Wouldn’tsayifhe’dgetbetter.Wouldn’tsayifhe’dgetworse.Ofcourse,Dumbowasonlytwelve.“Capabilities?Weaknesses?”“Theyhavenobodiesanymore,”Isaid.“Evantoldmethatitwastheonlywaytheycouldmakethe

journey.Someweredownloaded—him,Vosch, theotherSilencers—somearestillon themothership,waitingforustobegone.”Ben rubbedhismouthwith thebackofhishand. “Thecampswere setup towinnowout thebest

candidatesforbrainwashing...”“Andtodisposeoftheoneswhoweren’t,”Ifinished.“Oncethe5thWavewasrolledout,alltheyhad

todowassitbackandletthestupidhumansdotheirdirtywork.”Ringerwassittingbythewindow,silentasashadow.“But why use us at all?” Benwondered. “Why not download enough of their troops into human

bodiestofinishusoff?”“Notenoughofthem,maybe,”Iguessed.“Orsettingupthe5thWaveposedtheleastrisk.”“Whatrisk?”Shadow-Ringersaid,breakinghersilence.Idecidedtoignoreher.Foralotofreasons,themainonebeingyouengagedwithRingeratyourown

peril.Shecouldhumiliateyouwithasingleword.“Youwere there,” I remindedBen.“YouheardVosch.They’dbeenwatchingus forcenturies.But

Evanprovedthat,evenwiththousandsofyearstoplan,somethingcanstillgowrong.Idon’tthinkiteveroccurredtothemthatbybecomingus,theymightactuallybecomeus.”“Right,”Bensaid.“Sohowcanweusethat?”“We can’t,” Ringer answered. “There’s nothing Sullivan’s told us thatwill help, unless this Evan

personsomehowsurvivedtheblastandcanfillintheblanks.”Benwasshakinghishead.“Nothingcouldhavesurvivedthat.”“Therewere escape pods,” I said, grasping at the same straw I’d been reaching for since he said

good-bye.“Really?”Ringerdidn’tsoundlikeshebelievedme.“Thenwhydidn’theputyouinone?”Itoldher,“Look,Iprobablyshouldn’ttellsomeoneholdingahigh-poweredsemiautomaticriflethis,

butyou’rereallystartingtogetonmynerves.”Sheactedsurprised.“Why?”“We’vegottogetahandleonthis,”Bensaidsharply,cuttingoffmyanswer,whichwasagoodthing:

RingerwasholdinganM16andBenhadtoldmeshewasthebestshotinthecamp.“What’stheplan?WaitforEvantoshowuporrun?Andifwerun,whereto?”Cheeksflamingwithfever,eyesshining.It’sfourthandlongwithfoursecondsleft.“IsthereanythingelseEvantoldyouthatmighthelp?Whataretheygoingtodowiththecities?”“They’renotgoingtoblowthemup,”Ringersaid.Shedidn’twaitformetoanswer.Thenshedidn’t

waitformetoaskhowthehellshewouldknowthat.“Ifthatwastheplan,theywould’veblownthemupfirst.Overhalftheworld’spopulationlivedinurbanareas.”“Sotheyplantousethem,”Bensaid.“Becausethey’reusinghumanbodies?”“Wecan’thideinacity,Zombie,”Ringersaid.“Anycity.”“Why?”“Becauseit isn’tsafe.Fires,sewage,diseasefromalltherottingcorpses,othersurvivorswhomust

knowbynowthey’reusinghumanbodies.Ifwewanttostayaliveaslongaspossible,wehavetokeepmoving.Keepmovingandstayaloneaslongaspossible.”Oh,boy.WheredidIhear thatrulebefore?Myheadfelt light.Mykneewaskillingme.Theknee

shotbyaSilencer.MySilencer.I’ll findyou,Cassie.Don’t Ialways findyou?Not this time,Evan. Idon’tthinkso.IsatonthebednexttoBen.“She’sright,”Isaidtohim.“Stayinganywhereformorethanafewdaysisnotagoodidea.”“Orstayingtogether.”Ringer’swordshungintheicyair.Besideme,Benstiffened.Iclosedmyeyes.Heardthatrule,too:

Trustnoone.“Notgoingtohappen,Ringer,”Bensaid.“ItakeTeacupandPoundcake.Youtaketherest.Ourchancesdouble.”“Whystopthere?”Iaskedher.“Whydon’tweallsplitup?Ourchancesquadruple.”“Septuple,”shecorrectedme.“Well,I’mnomathwhiz,”Bensaid.“Butitseemstomesplittingupplaysrightintotheirstrategy.

Isolate,thenexterminate.”HegaveRingerahardlook.“Personally,Iliketheideaofsomeonehavingmyback.”He pushed himself from the bed and swayed for a second.Ringer told him to lie back down.He

ignoredher.“Wecan’tstay,butwehavenowheretogo.Youcan’tgettonowherefromhere,sowheredowego?”

heasked.“South,”Ringersaid.“Asfarsouthaspossible.”Shewaslookingoutthewindow.Iunderstood—a

decentsnowandyou’retrappeduntilitthaws.Ergo,getsomewherewhereitdoesn’tsnow.“Texas?”Bensaid.“Mexico,”Ringeranswered.“OrCentralAmerica,oncethewaterrecedes.Youcouldhideintherain

forestforyears.”“I like it,”Bensaid.“Back tonature.There’s justone little flaw.”Hespreadhishands.“Wedon’t

havepassports.”Hewatchedher,holdingthegesture,likehewaswaitingforsomething.Ringerlookedbackathim,

expressionless.Bendroppedhishandswithashrug.“You’renotserious,”Isaid.Thiswasgettingridiculous.“CentralAmerica?Inthemiddleofwinter,

onfoot,withBenhurtandtwolittlekids.We’llbeluckytomakeittoKentucky.”“Beatshangingaroundherewaitingforyouralienprincetocome.”Thatdidit.Ididn’tcareifshewasholdinganM16.Iwasgrabbingahandfulofthosesilkylocksand

slingingheroutthatwindow.Bensawitcomingandsteppedbetweenus.“We’re all on the same team here, Sullivan. Let’s keep it together, okay?” He turned to Ringer.

“You’reright.Heprobablydidn’tmakeit,butwe’regonnagiveEvanachancetokeephispromise.I’minnoshapeforaroadtripanyway.”“I didn’t come back for you and Nugget so we could be the featured guests at a turkey shoot,

Zombie,”Ringersaid.“Dowhatyouthinkisright,butifthingsgethot,I’moutofhere.”IsaidtoBen,“Teamplayer.”“Maybeyou’reforgettingwhosavedyourlife,”Ringersaid.“Oh,kissmyass.”“Thatdoesit!”Benboomedinhisbestquarterback,I’m-the-guy-in-charge-herevoice.“Idon’tknow

howwe’remakingitthroughthisunholymess,butIdoknowthatthisisnottheway.Stowthecrap,bothofyou.That’sanorder.”Hefellbackontothebed,gaspingforair,ahandpressedagainsthisside.RingerlefttofindDumbo,

whichleftBenandmealoneforthefirsttimesinceourreuniondeepinthebowelsofCampHaven.“Somethingweird,”Bensaid.“Youwouldthink,withninety-ninepercentofusgone,thetwopercent

wouldgetalongbetter.”Um,thatwouldbeonepercent,Parish.Istartedtopointthatoutandthensawhimsmiling,waiting

forme to correct hismath, knowing itwouldnearly impossible forme to resist.Heplayedwith thestereotype of the dumb jock the way someone Sammy’s age played with sidewalk chalk: in broad,clumsystrokes.“She’sapsycho,”Isaid.“Seriously,something’soff.Youlookinhereyesandthere’snoonethere

there.”Heshookhishead.“Ithinkthere’salotthere.It’sjust...realdeep.”He winced, hand tucked in the pocket of that hideous hoodie like he was doing a Napoleon

impression,pressingonthebulletwoundthatRingerhadgivenhim.Awoundheaskedfor.Awoundsohecouldriskeverythingtosavemylittlebrother.Awoundthatnowmaycosthimhislife.“Itcan’tbedone,”Iwhispered.“Ofcourseitcan,”hesaid.Helaidhishandontopofmine.

Ishookmyhead.Hedidn’tunderstand.Iwasn’ttalkingaboutus.The shadow of their coming fell upon us andwe lost sight of something fundamental within the

absolutedarkof that shadow.Butsimplybecausewecouldn’t see itdidn’tmean itwasn’t there:Myfathermouthing tome,Run! when he couldn’t. Evan pullingme from the belly of the beast beforegivinghimselfuptoit.BenplungingintothejawsofhelltosnatchSamfromthem.Thereweresomethings—well, there was probably only one thing—unblemished by the shadow. Confounding.Indefatigable.Undefeatable.Theycankillus,evendowntothelastofus,buttheycan’tkill—canneverkill—whatlastsinus.Cassie,doyouwanttofly?Yes,Daddy.Iwanttofly.

12

THESILVERHIGHWAYthatfadedintotheblack.Theblacksearedbystarlightunleashed.Theleaflesstreeswitharmsupraisedlikethievescaughtintheact.Mybrother’sbreathcongealinginthefrigidairasheslept.ThewindowfoggingasIbreathed.And,beyondthefrostyglass,besidethesilverhighwayinthesearingstarlight,atinyfiguredartingbeneaththeupraisedarmsofthetrees.Oh,crap.I launchedacross the roomandsmashed into thehall,wherePoundcakewhippedaround, rifleup,

Relax, big boy, then busted into Ben’s room, where Dumbo leaned against the windowsill and Bensprawled on the bed closest to the door. Dumbo stood up. Ben sat up. And I spoke up: “Where’sTeacup?”DumbopointedatthebednexttoBen’s.“Righthere.”GivingmealooklikeThiscrazychick’slostit.Iwenttothebedandwhippedasidethemoundofcovers.BencursedandDumbobackedupagainst

thewall,hisfaceturningred.“IsweartoGodshewasjustthere!”“Isawher,”ItoldBen.“Outside—”“Outside?”Herolledhislegsoffthesideofthebed,gruntingwiththeeffort.“Onthehighway.”Thenheunderstood.“Ringer.She’sgoingafterRinger.”Heslappedhisopenhandonthemattress.

“Damnit!”“I’llgo,”Dumbosaid.Ben held up his hand. “Poundcake!” he hollered. You could hear the big kid coming. The floor

protestedhispassage.Hestuckhisheadintheroom,andBensaid,“Teacuptookoff.AfterRinger.GograbherlittlebuttandbringitbackheresoIcanwhaleonit.”PoundcakelumberedoffandthefloorwentThanksalot!Benwasstrappingonhisholster.“Whatareyoudoing?”Iasked.“TakingPoundcake’spostuntilhegetsbackwiththatlittleshit.YoustaywithNugget.Imean,Sam.

Whoever.Weneedtopickonenameandsticktoit.”Hisfingerswereshaking.Fever.Fear.Alittleofboth.Dumbo’smouth opened and closed, but no sound came out.Ben noticed. “At ease,Bo.Not your

bad.”“I’lltakethehall,”Dumbosaid.“Youstayhere,Sarge.Youshouldn’tbeonyourfeet.”He rushed from the roombeforeBen could stop him.Ben, now looking atmewith sparkly eyes,

feverbright.“Idon’tthinkItoldyou,”hesaid.“AfterwewentrogueinDayton,Voschdispatchedtwosquadstohuntusdown.Iftheywerestillinthefieldwhenthecampblew...”He didn’t finish the thought. Either he thought he didn’t need to or he couldn’t. He stood up.

Staggered.Iwenttohimandhethrewhisarmaroundmyshoulderswithoutembarrassment.There’snoniceway tosay this:BenParishsmelledsick.Thesourodorof infectionandoldsweat.For thefirsttimesinceIrealizedhewasn’tacorpse,Ithoughthemightbeonesoon.“Getbackinbed,”Itoldhim.Heshookhishead,thenhishandloosedonmyshoulderandhefell

back,hittingtheedgeofthemattresswithhisbuttandslidingdowntothefloor.“Dizzy,”hemurmured.“GogetNuggetandbringhiminherewithus.”“Sam.CanwegowithSam?”WheneverIheardNugget,IthoughtoftheMcDonald’sdrive-thruand

hotFrench fries and strawberry-banana smoothies andMcCaféFrappéMochas toppedwithwhippedcreamanddrizzledwithchocolate.Bensmiled.Anditbrokemyheart, thatluminoussmileonthatwastedface.“We’llgowithit,”he

said.SambarelysighedwhenIpulledhimfromthebedandcarriedhimintoBen’sroom.I laidhimin

Teacup’svacatedbed,tuckedhimin,touchedhischeekwiththebackofmyhand,anoldhabitleftoverfromtheplaguedays.Benwasstillsittingonthefloor,headthrownback,staringattheceiling.Istartedtowardhim,andhewavedmeback.“Window,”hegasped.“Nowwe’reblindononeside.Thanksalot,Teacup.”“Whywouldshetakeofflike—?”“EversinceDayton,she’sbeenlatchedontoRingerlikeapilotfish.”“AllIeversawthemdoisfight.”Thinkingofthechessbrawl,thecoinsmackingTeacupinthehead,

andIhateyourfuckingguts!Benchuckled.“It’sathinline.”Iglanceddownattheparkinglot.Theasphaltshonelikeonyx.Latchedontoherlikeapilotfish.I

thoughtofEvanlurkingbehinddoorsandaroundcorners.Ithoughtoftheunblemishedthing,thethingthatlasts,andIthoughttheonlythingwiththepowertosaveusalsohadthepowertoslayus.“Youreallyshouldn’tbeonthefloorlikethat,”Iscoldedhim.“It’swarmeruponthebed.”“A half of a half of a half of a degree, right. This is nothing, Sullivan. A head cold next to the

plague.”“Youhadtheplague?”“Oh,yeah.RefugeecampoutsideWright-Patterson.Aftertheytookoverthebase,theyhauledmein,

pumpedmefullofantivirals,thenputarifleinmyhandandtoldmetogokillsomepeople.Howaboutyou?”Acrucifixclutchedinabloodyhand.Youcaneitherfinishmeorhelpme.Thesoldierbehindthebeer

coolerswasthefirst.No.ThefirstwastheguywhoshotCriscoinapitofashes.That’stwo,andthenthereweretheSilencers,theoneIshotrightbeforeIfoundSamandtheonerightbeforeEvanfoundme.Four, then.Was Imissing somebody?The bodies pile up and you lose track.OhGod, you losetrack.“I’vekilledpeople,”Isaidsoftly.“Imeanttheplague.”“No.Mymom...”“Howaboutyourdad?”“Differentkindofplague,”Isaid.Heglancedoverhisshoulderatme.“Vosch.Voschmurderedhim.”ItoldhimaboutCampAshpit.TheHumveesandbigflatbedfulloftroops.Thesurrealappearanceof

theschoolbuses.Justthekids.Roomonlyforthelittleones.ThegatheringoftherestinthebarracksandDadsendingmewithmyfirstvictimtofindCrisco.ThenDadinthedirt,Voschtoweringoverhim,whileIhidinthewoods,andDadmouthingRun.“Weird that they didn’t put you on a bus,” Ben said. “If the point was to build an army of

brainwashedkids.”“Isawmostlylittlekids,Sam’sage,someevenyounger.”“Atcamp,theyseparatedanyoneunderfive,kepttheminthebunker...”Inodded.“Ifoundthem.”Inthesaferoom,theirfaceslifteduptomineasIhuntedforSam.“Whichmakesyouwonder:Whykeep them?”Bensaid. “UnlessVoschexpectsavery longwar.”

Thewayhesaidit,asifhedoubtedthatthatwasthereason.Hedrummedhisfingersonthemattress.“WhatthehellisgoingonwithTeacup?Theyshouldbebackbynow.”“I’llgocheck,”Isaid.“Likehellyouwill.Thisisturningintoeveryhorrormovieevermade.Youknow?Gettingpickedoff

onebyone.Uh-uh.Fivemoreminutes.”Wefellsilent,listening.Buttherewasonlythewindwhisperinginthepoorlysealedwindowandthe

constantundercurrentofratsscratchinginthewalls.Teacupwasobsessedwiththem.IlistenedtohoursofherandRingerplottingtheirdemise.ThatannoyinglecturingtoneofRinger’s,explaininghowthepopulationwasoutofcontrol:Thehotelhadmoreratsthanwehadbullets.“Rats,”Bensaid,asifhereadmymind.“Rats,rats,rats.Hundredsofrats.Thousandsofrats.More

ratsthanusnow.Planetoftherats.”Helaughedhoarsely.Maybehewasdelirious.“Youknowwhat’sbeenbuggingthehelloutofme?Voschtellingusthey’vebeenwatchingusforcenturies.Like,howisthatpossible?Oh, Igethow it’spossible,but Idon’tgetwhy theydidn’t attackus then.HowmanypeoplewereonEarthwhenwebuiltthepyramids?Whywouldyouwaituntilthere’resevenbillionofusspreadoutovereverycontinentwithtechnologyalittlemoreadvancedthanspearsandclubs?Youlike a challenge? The time to exterminate the vermin in your new house isn’t after the verminoutnumberyou.WhataboutEvan?Hesayanythingaboutthat?”Iclearedmythroat.“Hesaidtheyweredividedoverwhethertoexterminateus.”“Huh.Somaybetheydebateditforsixthousandyears.Dickedaroundbecausenobodycouldmake

uphismind,untilsomeonesaid,‘Oh,whatthehell,let’sjustoffthebastards.’”“Idon’tknow.Idon’thavetheanswers.”Iwasfeelingalittledefensive.AsifknowingEvanmeantI

shouldknoweverything.“Voschcouldhavebeenlying,Iguess,”Benmused.“Idon’tknow,togetinourheads,messwithus.

Hemessedwithmefromthestart.”He lookedatme, then lookedaway.“Shouldn’tadmit this,but Iworshippedtheguy.Ithoughthewas,like...”Hetwirledhishandintheair,searchingforthewords.“Thebestofus.”Hisshouldersbegantoshake.Atfirst,Ithoughtitmustbethefever,andthenIthoughtitcouldbe

somethingelse,soIleftmyspotbythewindowandwenttohim.Forguys,breakingdownisaprivatething.Neverletthemseeyoucry,meansyou’reweak,means

you’re soft, a baby, awuss.Not verymanly and all thatBS. I couldn’t imagine thepre-ArrivalBenParishcryinginfrontofanyone,theguywhohadeverything,theboywhoalltheotherboyswantedtobe,theonewhobrokeothers’heartsandneversufferedhisowntobebroken.Isatbesidehim.Ididn’ttouchhim.Ididn’tspeak.HewaswherehewasandIwaswhereIwas.“Sorry,”hesaid.Ishookmyhead.“Don’tbe.”Hewipedthebackofhishandagainstonecheek,thentheothercheek.“Youknowwhathetoldme?

Well,morelikepromised.Hepromisedhewouldemptyme.Hewouldemptymeandfillmeupwithhate.Buthebrokethatpromise.Hedidn’tfillmewithhate.Hefilledmewithhope.”I understood. In the safe room, a billion upraised faces populating the infinite, and the eyes that

soughtmine,andthequestioninthoseeyestoohorribletoputintowords,WillIlive?It’sallconnected.TheOthersunderstoodthat,understooditbetterthanmostofus.Nohopewithoutfaith,nofaithwithouthope,no lovewithout trust, no trustwithout love.Removeoneand theentirehumanhouseof cardscollapses.ItwaslikeVoschwantedBentodiscover the truth.Wanted to teachhimthehopelessnessofhope.

Andwhatcouldbethepointofthat?Iftheywantedtoannihilateus,whydidn’ttheyjustgoaheadandannihilateus?Theremustbeadozenwaystowipeusoutquickly,buttheydrewitoutinfivewavesofescalatinghorror.Why?

Uptonow,IalwaysthoughtthattheOthersfeltnothingtowardusexceptdisdainwithmaybealittledisgustmixedin,thewaywefeelaboutratsandcockroachesandbedbugsandothernastylowerformsof life.Nothingpersonal,humans,butyougottago. Itneveroccurred tome that itcouldbeentirelypersonal.Thatsimplykillingusisn’tenough.“Theyhateus,”Isaid,asmuchtomyselfastohim.Benlookedatme,startled.AndIlookedbackat

him,scared.“There’snootherexplanation.”“Theydon’thateus,Cassie,”hesaidgently,thewayyoutalktoafrightenedlittlekid.“Wejusthad

whattheywant.”“No.”Nowmycheekswerewetwith tears.The5thWavehadoneexplanationandonlyone.Any

otherpossiblereasonwasabsurd.“Thisisn’taboutrippingtheplanetawayfromus,Ben.Thisisaboutrippingus.”

13

“THAT’SIT,”Bensaid.“Time’sup.”Thenhewasup,buthedidn’tgetveryfar.Halfwaytohisfeetbeforeploppingdownhardonhisbutt.

Iputahandonhisshoulder.“I’llgo.”He smacked his thighwith his palm. “Can’t let it happen,” hemuttered as I opened the door and

pokedmyheadintothehallway.Can’tletwhathappen?LosingTeacupandPoundcake?Losingallofusonebyone?Losingthebattleagainsthisinjuries?Orlosingthewaringeneral?Thehallwasempty.FirstTeacup.ThenPoundcake.NowDumbo.Weweredisappearingfasterthancampersinaslasher

movie.“Dumbo!” I called softly. The ridiculous name echoed in the cold, stagnant air. My mind raced

throughthepossibilities.Leastlikelytomost:Somebodyquietlyneutralizedhimandstashedhisbody;hewascaptured;hesaworheardsomethingandwenttoinvestigate;hehadtopee.Ilingeredinthedoorwayforacoupleofsecondsincasethelastpossibilitywastrue.Whenthehall

stayedempty,Isteppedbackintotheroom.Benwasupright,checkingthemagazineofhisM16.“Don’tmakemeguess,”hesaid.“Nevermind.Idon’tneedtoguess.”“StayherewithSam.I’llgo.”Heshuffledtoastopaninchfrommynose.“Sorry,Sullivan.He’syourbrother.”I stiffened. The room was freezing; my blood was colder. His voice was hard, flat, without any

feelingatall.Zombie.WhydotheycallyouZombie,Ben?Then he smiled, a very real, very Ben Parish–y smile. “Those guys out there—they’re all my

brothers.”He sidestepped me and stumbled toward the door. The situation was escalating quickly from

impossiblydangeroustodangerouslyimpossible.Icouldn’tseeanyotherway:IscrambledoverBen’sbedandgrabbedSamby theshoulders.Shookhimhard.Hewokeupwithasoftcry. I slammedmyhandoverhismouthtostopperthenoise.“Sams!Listen!Something’swrong.”IpulledtheLugerfromtheholsterandpresseditintohislittle

hands.Hiseyeswidenedwithfearandsomethingthatunnervinglyresembledjoy.“BenandIhavetocheckitout.Putonthenightlatch—youknowwhatanightlatchis?”Big-eyednod.“Andputachairundertheknob.Lookthroughthelittlehole.Don’tlet...”DidIneedtospellouteverything?“Look,Sams, this is important, very important.Very, very important.You knowhowwe tell the good guysfromthebadguys?Thebadguysshootatus.”Bestlessonmyfatherevertaughtme.IkissedthetopofSam’sheadandlefthimthere.Thedoor clicked shut behindme. I heard thenight latch slide into thenotch.Goodboy.Benwas

halfwaydownthehall.Hemotionedformetojoinhim.Hepressedhislips,fever-hot,againstmyear.“Wecleartherooms,thenwegodown.”Weworked together. I took thepointwhileBen coveredme.TheWalkerHotel had anopendoor

policy:Every lockhadbeenbustedat somepoint as survivors sought refugeduring thewaves.Also

helpfulwasthefactthattheWalkerwasperfectforthefamilyonabudget.TheroomswereroughlythesizeofBarbie’sDreamhouse.Thirtysecondstocheckone.Fourminutestoclearthemall.Backinthehall,Bencrushedhislipsintomyearagain.“Theshaft.”Hedroppedtoonekneeinfrontof theelevatordoors.Gesturedformetocoverthestairwaydoor,

thenpulledouthis ten-inchcombatknifeandshovedtheblade into thecrack.Ah,I thought.Theoldhide-in-the-elevatortrick!SowhywasIcoveringthestairs?Benpushedopenthedoorsandwavedmeover.IsawrustycablesandalotofdustandsmelledwhatIassumedtobedeadrat.Ihopeditwasdead

rat.Hepointedatthedarknesspoolingbelow,andthenIunderstood.Weweren’tcheckingtheshaft—wewereusingit.“I’mclearingthestairs,”hebreathedinmyear.“Youstayintheelevator.Waitformysignal.”Heplacedhisfootagainstonedoorandleanedbackagainsttheothertoholdthemopen.Pattedthe

tinyspacebetweenhishipandtheedge.Mouthed,Let’sgo.CarefullyIeasedoverhislegs,plantedmybuttinthespace,anddroppedmylegsovertheside.Thetopoftheelevatorlookedtwentymilesdown.Bensmiledreassuringly:Don’tworry,Sullivan.Iwon’tletyoufall.I inchedforwarduntilmybuttdangled inopenspace.Nope, thatwon’twork. Iswungback to the

edge,thenmaneuveredontomyknees.Bengrabbedmywristandgavemeathumbs-upwithhisfreehand.Iknee-walkeddowntheshaftwall,grippingtheedgeuntilmyarmswerefullyextended.Okay,Cassie.Timetoletgonow.Ben’sgotyou.Yeah,dumbass,andBen’shurtandaboutasstrongasathree-year-old.Whenyou letgo,yourweight isgoing topullhimoffhisperchandyou’llbothdrop.He’lllandon topofyouandbreakyourneckand thenhe’ll slowlybleed todeathalloveryourparalyzedbody...Oh,whatthehell.I letgo. IheardBengrunt softly,buthedidn’tdropmeandhedidn’t tumbledownon topofme.

Bendingfromthewaistasheloweredmedown,untilIsawhisheadsilhouettedintheopening,hisfacemaskedinshadow.Mytoesbrushedagainsttheroofoftheelevator.Igavehimathumbs-up,thoughIwasn’tsureifhecouldseeit.Threeseconds.Four.Andthenheletgo.Isanktomykneesandfeltaroundfortheservicehatch.Somegrease,somedirt,andalotofgreasy

dirt.Beforeelectricity,theymeasuredbrightnessincandlepower.Thelightdownherewasaboutonehalf

ofonehalfofonecandle.Thenthedoorsabovemeclosedandthecandlepowerdroppedtozero.Thanks,Parish.YoucouldhavewaitedtillIfoundthehatch.And,whenIdid,thelatchwasstuck,probablyrustedshut.IreachedformyLugerwiththethought

ofusingthebuttendasahammer, thenrememberedI’dentrustedmysemiautomaticpistol toafive-year-old’scare.Ipulledthecombatknifefrommyankleholsterandgavethelatchthreehardwhackswiththehandle.Themetalscreeched.Averyloudscreech.Somuchforstealth.But thelatchgave.Ipulledthehatchopen,whichresultedinanotherveryloudscreech,thistimefromtherustyhinge.Well,sure, this sounds really loud toyou,kneeling right next to it.Outside the shaft, probablyonlya tinymouselikesqueaky-squeak.Don’tgetparanoid!Myfatherhadasayingaboutparanoia.Ineverthoughtitwasveryfunny,especiallyafterhearingittwothousandtimes:I’monlyparanoidbecauseeveryoneisagainstme.Onlyajoke,Iusedtothink.Notanomen.Idroppedintotheutterdarkoftheelevatorcar.Waitformysignal.Whatsignal?Benneglectedto

coverthat.Ipressedmyeartothecrackbetweenthecoldmetaldoorsandheldmybreath.Countedtoten. Breathed. Counted to ten again. Breathed. After six ten counts and four breaths and hearingnothing, I started getting a little antsy.Whatwas happeningout there?WherewasBen?Wherewas

Dumbo?Our littlebandwasbeing rippedapartonepersonat a time.Abigmistake splittingup,buteachtimewedidn’thaveachoice.Wewerebeingoutplayed.Someonewasmakingthislookfoolishlyeasy.Ormultiplesomeones:AfterwewentrogueinDayton,Voschdispatchedtwosquadstohuntusdown.Thatwasit.Thathadtobeit.Oneorpossiblybothsquadshadfoundourhidingplace.Wewaited

heretoolong.That’sright,andwhydidyouwait,Cassiopeia“Defiance”Sullivan?Ohyeah,becausesomedead

guypromisedhe’dfindyou.Soyouclosedyoureyesandjumpedoffthecliff intothatemptiness,andnowyou’reshockedthere’snobigfatmattressatthebottom?Yourfault.Whateverhappensnow.You’reresponsible.The elevator was not large, but in the pitch dark it seemed the size of a football stadium. I was

standing in a vast underground pit, no light, no sound, a lifeless, lightless void, frozen to the spot,paralyzedbyfearanddoubt.Knowing—withoutunderstandinghowIknew—thatBen’ssignalwasn’tcoming.Understanding—withoutknowinghowIunderstood—thatEvanwasn’tcoming,either.Youneverknowwhenthetruthwillcomehome.Youcan’tchoosethetime.Thetimechoosesyou.

I’dhaddaystofacethetruththatnowfacedmeinthatcold,blackspace,andI’drefused.Iwouldn’tgothere.Sothetruthdecidedtocometome.Whenhe touchedmeonour lastnight together, therewasnospacebetweenus,no spotwherehe

endedandIbegan,andnowtherewasnospacebetweenmeandthedarknessofthepit.Hepromisedhewouldfindme.Don’tIalwaysfindyou?AndIbelievedhim.AfterdistrustingeverythinghesaidfromthemomentImethim,forthefirsttime,inthelastwordshespoke,Ibelieved.Ipressedmyfaceagainst thecoldmetaldoors. Ihad thesensationof falling,milesuponmilesof

emptyairbeneathme.Iwouldneverstopfalling.You’reamayfly.Hereforadayandthengone.No.I’mstillhere,Evan.You’retheonewho’sgone.“Youknewfromthemomentweleftthefarmhousewhatwouldhappen,”Iwhisperedintothevoid.

“Youknewyouweregoingtodie.Andyouwentanyway.”Icouldn’tstayuprightanymore.Ihadnochoice.Isliddowntomyknees.Falling.Falling.Iwould

neverstopfalling.Letgo,Cassie.Letgo.“Letgo?I’mfalling.I’mfalling,Evan.”ButIknewwhathemeant.I’d never let him go.Not really. I toldmyself a thousand times a day he couldn’t have survived.

Lecturedmyselfthatourholingupinthisfleabagmotelwasuseless,dangerous,crazy,suicidal.ButIclungtohispromisebecauselettinggoofthepromisemeantIwaslettinggoofhim.“Ihateyou,EvanWalker,”Iwhisperedtothevoid.Frominsidethevoid—andfromthevoidinside—silence.Can’tgoback.Can’tgoforward.Can’tholdon.Can’tletgo.Can’t,can’t,can’t,can’t.Whatcanyou

do?Whatcanyoudo?Iliftedmyface.Okay.Icandothat.Istoodup.That,too.Isquaredmyshouldersandslippedmyfingertipsintotheplacewherethetwodoorsmet.I’msteppingoutnow,Itoldthesilentdeep.I’mlettinggo.Iforcedthedoorsapart.Lightfloodedintothevoid,devouringthesmallestshadow,downtothelast

one.

14

ISTEPPEDINTOthelobby,ourbravenewworldinmicrocosm.Shatteredglass.Moundsoftrashpiledintocorners,likeautumnleavesblowntherebythewind.Deadbugsontheirbacks,legscurledup.Bittercold.Soquiet,yourbreathwastheonlysound:AftertheHumvanished,theHush.NosignofBen.Betweenthesecondfloorandthestairs,somethingmusthavehappenedtohimand

notagoodsomething.Ieasedtowardthestairwaydoor,fightingtheinstinct tohaulassbacktoSambeforehedisappearedlikeBen,likeDumbo,likePoundcakeandTeacup,like99.9percentofeveryoneonEarth.Debriscracklingbeneathmyboots.Coldairburningmyfaceandhands.Myhandsgrippingtherifle

andmyeyesbarelyblinkingintheweakstarlightthatblaredspotlight-brightaftertheabsolutedarkoftheelevator.Slow.Slow.Nomistakes.Stairwaydoor.Iheldthemetalhandleforagoodthirtyseconds,earpressedagainstthewood,butall

Iheardwasthethumpingofmyheart.Slowly,Ipusheddownthehandle,pulledthedooropentocreateacrackjustwideenoughtopeekthrough.Totallydark.Totallysoundless.Damnit,Parish.Wherethehellareyou?Nowhere to go but up. I slid into the stairwell. Snick:The door closed behind me. Plunged into

darknessagain,butthistimeIwasdeterminedtokeepitontheoutside,whereitbelonged.The tart smell of death hung in the musty air. A rat, I told myself. Or a raccoon or some other

woodland creature that got trapped in here.My boot came down on something squishy. Tiny bonescrunched.Iwipedoffthegooeyremainsontheedgeofastep;Ididn’twanttoslip,tumbledowntothebottom, breakmyneck, lie helplesslywaiting forwhoever itwas to findme and put a bullet inmybrain.Thatwouldbebad.I reached the tiny landing,onemore flight, deep breath, almost there,and then the shot rang out,

followedbyanother,thenathird,thenawholebarrageaswhoeverwasshootingemptiedthemagazine.I rocketedup the remaining steps, slammed through thedoor, and chargeddown thehall toward theroom that was now missing a door, the room where my baby brother was, and my toe caught onsomething—asoftsomethingIdidn’tseeinmymaddashforSam—andIwentairborne,landingwithajaw-poppingforceonthethincarpeting,jumpedup,glancedback,andsawBenParishlyinglifelesslythere,armsoutstretched,darkwetblotchofbloodseeping throughthat ridiculousyellowhoodie,andthenSamscreamedandI’mnottoolate,nottoolate,andhereIcome,yousonofabitch,hereIcome,andintheroomatallshadowloomedoverthetinyfigurewhosetinyfingeryankedimpotentlyatthetriggeroftheemptygun.Ifired.Theshadowwhirledtowardme,thenpitchedforward,reachingforme.I slammedmy foot down on its neck and jammed themuzzle of the rifle against the back of the

shadow’shead.“Excuseme,”Igasped;Ihadnobreath.“Butyouhavethewrongroom.”

15

ASACHILD,hedreamedofowls.Hehadn’t thoughtof thedreaminyears.Now,ashis lifeslippedaway, thememorycameback to

him.Thememorywasnotpleasant.Thebirdperchedonthewindowsill,staringintohisroomwithbrightyelloweyes.Theeyesblinked

slowly,rhythmically;otherwise,theowlnevermoved.Watching theowlwatchinghim,paralyzedwithfearwithoutunderstandingwhy,unable tocall for

hismotherand,afterward,thesickfeelingallover,nauseated,dizzy,feverish,andthejittery,unnervingsensationofbeingwatchedthatlingeredfordays.Whenheturnedthirteen,thedreamsstopped.Hehadawakened;therewasnoneedtohidethetruth

anymore.When the timecame,hisawakenedselfwouldneed thegifts that the“owl”hadgiven.Heunderstoodthedreams’purposebecausehispurposehadbeenrevealed.Makeready.Preparetheway.Theowlhadbeenalietoprotectthetenderpsycheofhishostbody.Afterheawakened,anotherlie

tookitsplace:hislife.Hishumanitywasalie,amask,likethedreamofowlsinthedark.Nowhewasdying.Andtheliewasdyingwithhim.Therewasnopain.Hedidnotfeel thebittercold.Hisbodyseemedtofloatonawarm,boundless

sea.Thealarmsignalsfromhisnervestothepaincentersofhisbrainhadbeenshutdown.Thisgentle,painlesseasingofhishumanbodyintooblivionwouldbethefinalgift.Andthen,afterthelasthumanbeingwasdead:rebirth.Anewhumanbodyunburdenedby thememoryofbeinghuman.Hewouldnot remember thepast

eighteenyears.Thosememoriesand theemotionsattached to themwouldbe forever lost—and therewasnothingthatcouldbedoneabouttheagonyattendingthatknowledge.Lost.Everythinglost.Thememoryofherface.Lost.Thetimewithher.Lost.Thewardeclaredbetweenwhathewasand

whathepretendedtobe.Lost.In the quiet of thewinter-drapedwoods, floating on a boundless sea, he reached for her, and she

slippedaway.Heknewwhatwouldcomeofit.Hehadalwaysknown.Oncehefoundherimprisonedinsnowand

carriedherbackandmadeherwhole,hisdeathwouldbetheprice.Virtuesarevicesnow,anddeathisthecostoflove.Notthedeathofhisbody.Hisbodywasthelie.Truedeath.Thedeathofhishumanity.Thedeathofhissoul.Inthewoods, inthebittercold,onthesurfaceofaboundlesssea,whisperinghername,entrusting

hermemorytothewind,totheembraceofthesilentsentineltreesandtothecareofthefaithfulstars,hernamesake,pureandeverlasting,theuncontaineduniversecontainedinher:Cassiopeia.

16

HEWOKETOPAIN.Blindingpaininhishead,hischest,hishands,hisankle.Hisskinwasonfire.Hefeltasifhe’dbeen

dippedinboilingwater.Abirdperchedonatreebranchabovehim,acrow,regardinghimwithregalindifference.Theworld

belongedtothecrowsnow,hethought.Therestwereinterlopers,short-timers.Smokecurledinthebarebranchesoverhead:acampfire.Andthesmellofmeatsizzlinginapan.Hewasproppedupagainstatree,coveredbyaheavywoolblanket,witharolled-upwinterparkafor

apillow.Slowly,he liftedhisheadan inchandrealized immediately thatanymovementatallwasaverybadidea.Atallwomancameintoviewcarryinganarmloadofwood,thenvanishedfromsightforamoment

whileshefedthefire.“Goodmorning.”Hervoicewaslow-pitched,lilting,andvaguelyfamiliar.Shesatbesidehim,pulledherkneestoherchest,andwrappedherlongarmsaroundherlegs.Her

facewasfamiliar,too.Fair-skinned,blond,Nordicfeatures,likeaVikingprincess.“Iknowyou,”hewhispered.Histhroatburned.Shepressedthemouthofhercanteenagainsthisraw

lips,andhedrankforalongtime.“That’s good,” she said. “You were talking nonsense last night. I was worried you’d suffered

somethingalittlemoreseriousthanaconcussion.”Shestoodupanddisappearedfromviewagain.Whenshecameback,shewasholdingafryingpan.

Shesatnexttohim,placingthepanonthegroundbetweenthem.Shewasstudyinghimwiththesamehaughtyindifferenceasthecrow.“I’mnothungry,”hesaid.“Youhavetoeat.”Notpleading.Statingafact.“Freshrabbit.Imadeastew.”“Howbadisit?”“Notbad.I’magoodcook.”Heshookhisheadandforcedasmile.Sheknewwhathemeant.“It’sprettybad,”shesaid.“Sixteenbrokenbones,skullfracture,second-degreeburnsovermostof

yourbody.Notyourhair,though.Youstillhaveyourhair.That’sthegoodnews.”Thewoman dipped a spoon into the stew, brought the spoon to her lips, blew gently, swiped her

tongueslowlyaroundtheedge.“What’sthebadnews?”heasked.“Yourankleisfractured.Fairlybadly.That’sgoingtotakesometime.Therest. . .”Sheshrugged,

sippedthestew,pursedherlips.“Needssalt.”Hewatchedherdigintoherrucksack,searchingforthesalt.“Grace,”hesaidsoftly.“Yournameis

Grace.”“Oneofthem,”thewomansaid.Thenshesaidherrealname,theonesheborefortenthousandyears.

“Ihavetobehonest.IlikeGracebetter.Somucheasiertopronounce!”Sheswirledthesoupwiththespoon.Offeredhimasip.Hislipstightened.Thethoughtoffood...

Sheshruggedandtookanothersip.“Ithoughtitwasdebrisfromtheexplosion,”shewenton.“Ineverexpectedtofindoneoftheescapepods—oryouinit.Whathappenedtotheguidancesystem?Didyoudisarmit?”Hethoughtcarefullybeforeheanswered.“Malfunction.”“Malfunction?”“Malfunction,”hesaidlouder.Histhroatwasonfire.Sheheldthecanteenforhimwhilehedrank.“Nottoomuch,”shecautionedhim.“You’llgetsick.”Waterdribbleddownhischin.Shewipeditforhim.“Thebasewascompromised,”hesaid.Sheseemedsurprised.“How?”Heshookhishead.“Notsure.”“Whywereyouthere?That’sthecuriousthing.”“Ifollowedsomeonein.”Thiswasnotgoingwell.Forapersonwhoseentirelifehadbeenalie,lying

did not come easily to him.He knewGracewould not hesitate to terminate his current body if shesuspectedthatthe“compromise”extendedtohim.Theyallunderstoodtheriskindonningthehumanmantle.Sharingabodywithahumanpsychecarriedwith it thedangerofadoptinghumanvices—aswellashumanvirtues.Andfarmoredangerousthangreedorlustorenvyoranyofthosethings—oranything—waslove.“You...followedsomeone?Ahuman?”“Ididn’thaveachoice.”Thatmuchwastrueatleast.“Thebasewascompromised.Byahuman.”Sheshookherheadwithwonder.“Andyouabandoned

yourpatroltostopit.”Heclosedhiseyes.Perhapsshe’dthinkhepassedout.Thesmellofthestewmadehisstomachroll.“Verycurious,”Gracesaid.“Therewasalwaysriskofacompromise,butfromwithintheprocessing

center.Howcouldahumaninyoursectorknowanythingaboutthecleansing?”Playingpossumwasn’tgoingtowork.Heopenedhiseyes.Thecrowhadnotmoved.Thebirdstared

athim,andherememberedtheowlonthesillandthelittleboyinthebedandthefear.“I’mnotsureshedid.”“She?”“Yes.Itwasa...afemale.”“Cassiopeia.”Helookedsharplyather,couldn’thelpit.“Howdoyou...?”“I’vehearditalotoverthepastthreedays.”“Threedays?”Hisheartquickened.Hehadtoask.Buthowcouldhe?Askingmightmakehermoresuspiciousthan

shealreadywas.Itwouldbefoolishtoask.Sohesaid,“Ithinkshemighthaveescaped.”Gracesmiled.“Well,ifshedid,I’msurewe’llfindher.”Helethisbreathoutslowly.Gracewouldhavenoreasontolie.IfshehadfoundCassie,shewould

havekilledherandhadnoreservationsintellinghim.ThoughGracenotfindingherwasnoproofoflife:Cassiestillmaynothavesurvived.Gracereachedintoherrucksackagainandtookoutabottleofcream.“Fortheburns,”sheexplained.

Gingerly, shepulled theblanketdown,exposinghisnakedbody to the freezingair.Above them, thecrowcockeditspolishedblackheadandwatched.Thecreamwascold.Herhandswerewarm.Gracehadbroughthimoutoffire;hehadbroughtCassie

outofice.He’dcarriedherthroughtheundulatingseaofwhitetotheoldfarmhouse,whereheremovedherclothesandplungedherfreezingbodyintowarmwater.AsGrace’shands,slickwithsalve,roamedhisbody,hisfingershadworkedthroughtheiceencrustedinCassie’sthickhair.Removingthebulletas

shefloatedinthewaterstainedpinkbyherblood.Thebulletmeantforherheart.Hisbullet.And,afterhepulledherfromthewaterandbandagedthewound,carryinghertohissister’sbed,avertinghiseyesashedressedherinhissister’sgown;Cassiewouldhavebeenmortifiedwhensherealizedhe’dseenherunclothed.Grace’seyesfixedonhim.Hiseyesfixedontheteddybearonthepillow.Hepulledthecovers to

Cassie’schin.Gracepulledtheblankettohis.You’regoingtolive,hetoldCassie.Moreofaprayerthanapromise.“You’regoingtolive,”Gracetoldhim.Youhavetolive,hesaidtoCassie.“Ihaveto,”hesaidtoGrace.Thewayshecockedherheadasshelookedathim,likethecrowinthetree,theowlonthesill.“Weallhaveto,”Gracesaid,noddingslowly.“It’swhywecame.”Sheleanedforwardandkissedhimgentlyonthecheek.Warmbreath,coollips,andthefaintodorof

woodsmoke.Herlipsslidfromhischeektowardhismouth.Heturnedhishead.“How did you know her name?” she whispered in his ear. “Cassiopeia. How did you know

Cassiopeia?”“Ifoundhercamp.Abandoned.Shekeptajournal...”“Ah.Andthat’showyouknewsheplannedtostormthebase.”“Yes.”“Well,itallmakesperfectsense,then.Didshesayinherjournalwhyshewasstormingthebase?”“Herbrother...takenfromarefugeecamptoWright-Patterson...sheescaped...”“That’sremarkable.Thensheovercomesourdefensesanddestroystheentirecommandcenter.That’s

evenmoreremarkable.Itbordersontheunbelievable.”Shepickedupthepan,slungthecontentsintothebrush,androsetoherfeet.Shetoweredoverhim,a

six-footblondcolossus.Hercheekswereflushed,perhapsfromthecold,perhapsfromthekiss.“Rest,”shesaid.“You’rewellenoughtotravelnow.We’releavingtonight.”“Where’rewegoing?”EvanWalkerasked.Shesmiled.“Myplace.”

17

ATSUNSET,Gracekilled the fire, slipped the backpack and rifle over her shoulder, and scoopedEvanfromthegroundforthesixteen-milehiketoherstationhouseonthesouthernoutskirtsofUrbana.Shewouldkeeptothehighwaytomakebettertime.Therewaslittleriskinitatthisstageofthegame:Shehadn’tseenahumanbeinginweeks.Thoseshehadn’tkilledhadbeentakenbythebusesorhadtakenrefuge against the onslaught ofwinter. Thiswas the in-between time. In another year, perhaps two,thoughnomorethanfive,therewouldbenoneedforstealth,becausetherewouldbenomorepreytostalk.Thetemperatureplungedwiththesun.Raggedcloudsracedacrosstheindigosky,drivenbyanorth

windthattoyedwithherbangsandplayfullyflippedthecollarofherjacket.Thefirststarsappeared,themoon rose, and the road shoneahead, a silver ribbon twistingacross theblackbackdropofdeadfieldsandemptylotsandtheguttedshellsofhouseslongabandoned.ShestoppedoncetorestanddrinkandspreadmoresalveoverEvan’sburns.“There’ssomethingdifferentaboutyou,”shemused.“Ican’tputmyfingeronit.”Puttingherfingers

alloverhim.“Ididn’thaveaneasyawakening,”hesaid.“Youknowthat.”Shegruntedsoftly.“You’reabrooder,Evan,andaverysoreloser.”Shewrappedhimbackupinthe

blanket.Ranherlongfingersthroughhishair.Lookeddeeplyintohiseyes.“There’ssomethingyou’renottellingme.”Hesaidnothing.“I felt it,” she said. “The first night,when I hauled you out of thewreckage.There’s a . . .” She

searchedfortherightwords.“Ahiddenroomthatwasn’ttherebefore.”Hisvoicesoundedhollowtohim,emptyasthewind.“Nothingishidden.”Gracelaughed.“Youshouldneverhavebeenintegrated,EvanWalker.Youfeelfartoomuchforthem

tobeoneofthem.”Shepickedhimupaseasilyasamotherhernewbornchild.Sheliftedherfacetothenightskyand

gasped. “I seeher!Cassiopeia, thequeenof thenight.”Shepressedher cheekagainst the topofhishead.“Ourhuntisover,Evan.”

18

GRACE’SSTATIONWASanold,one-storywoodenframehouseonHighway68,locatedattheexactcenterofherassignedsix-square-milepatrolsector.Asidefromboardingupthebrokenwindowsandrepairingthe exterior doors, she’d left the house as she found it. Family portraits on thewalls, heirlooms andmementostoolargetocarryeasily,smashedfurnitureandopendrawersandthethousandpiecesoftheoccupants’ lives deemedworthless by looterswere scattered in every room.Grace did not bother tocleanupthemess.Whenspringarrivedandthe5thWaverolledout,shewouldbegone.ShecarriedEvan to the secondbedroomat the rearof thehouse, thekids’ room,withbrightblue

wallpaper and toys littering the floor and amobile of the solar system hanging dejectedly from theceiling.Shelaidhiminoneofthetwinbeds.Achildhadscratchedhisinitialsintotheheadboard:K.M.Kevin?Kyle?Thetinyroomsmelledliketheplague.Therewasn’tmuchlight—Gracehadboardedthewindowinhere,too—buthiseyesightwasmuchmoreacutethananordinaryhuman’s,andEvancouldseethedarksplotchesofbloodthathadbeenflungonthebluewallsduringsomeone’sdeaththroes.Shelefttheroom,returningafterafewminuteswithmoresalveandarollofbandages.Sheworked

quickly wrapping the burns, as if she had pressing business elsewhere. Neither spoke until she hadcoveredhimagain.“Whatdoyouneed?”Graceasked.“Somethingtoeat?Bathroom?”“Clothes.”Sheshookherhead.“Notagoodidea.Aweekontheburns.Two,maybethreeontheankle.”Idon’thavethreeweeks.Threedaysistoolong.Forthefirsttime,hethoughtitmightbenecessarytoneutralizeGrace.Shetouchedhischeek.“Callifyouneedanything.Stayoffthatankle.Ihavetogetsomesupplies;I

wasn’texpectingcompany.”“Howlongwillyoubegone?”“Nomorethanacouplehours.Trytosleep.”“I’llneedaweapon.”“Evan, there isn’t anyone within a hundred miles.” She smiled. “Oh. You’re worried about the

saboteur.”Henodded.“Iam.”Shepressedherpistolintohishand.“Don’tshootme.”Hewrappedhisfingersaroundthegrip.“Iwon’t.”“I’llknockfirst.”Henoddedagain.“Thatwouldbeagoodidea.”Shepausedbythedoor.“Welostthedroneswhenthebasefell.”“Iknow.”“Whichmeanswe’rebothoffthegrid.Ifsomethingshouldhappentooneofus—oranyofus...”“Doesitmatternow?It’salmostover.”Gracenoddedthoughtfully.“Doyouthinkwe’llmissthem?”“The humans?”Hewondered if she wasmaking a joke. He’d never heard her try before; joking

wasn’tinhercharacter.“Not the ones out there.” She gestured beyond thewalls, at thewiderworld. “The ones in here.”

Handtoherchest.“Youcan’tmisswhatyoudon’tremember,”hesaid.“Oh,IthinkI’llkeephermemories,”Gracesaid.“Shewasahappylittlegirl.”“Thenthere’llbenothingtomiss,willthere?”Shefoldedherarmsoverherchest.Shewasleavingandnowshewasn’t.Whydidn’tsheleave?“Iwon’tkeepallofthem,”shesaid,meaningthememories.“Onlythegoodones.”“That’s beenmyworry from thebeginning,Grace:The longerweplay at beinghuman, themore

humanwebecome.”Shelookedathimquizzicallyandsaidnothingforaverylong,veryuncomfortablemoment.“Who’splayingatbeinghuman?”sheasked.

19

HEWAITEDUNTILherfootfallsfaded.Windwhistledinthecracksbetweentheplywoodandthewindowframe;otherwise,heheardnothing.Likehiseyesight,hishearingwasexquisitelyacute.IfGracewassittingontheporchcombingherhair,hewouldhearit.Firstthegun.Hepulledthemagazinefromtheframe.Justashesuspected:nobullets.Hethoughtthe

gunhadbeen too light.Evanallowedhimself aquiet laugh.The ironywas toomuch.Theirprimarymissionhadnotbeen tokill,but tosowmistrustamong thesurvivorsanddrive them like frightenedsheeptoslaughterhouseslikeWright-Patterson.Whathappenswhenthesowersofmistrustbecomeitsreapers?Reapers.Hefoughtbackahystericalgiggle.Hetookadeepbreath.Thiswasgoingtohurt.Hesatup.Theroomspun.Heclosedhiseyes.No.

That made it worse. He opened his eyes and willed himself to remain upright. His body had beenaugmented inpreparation forhisawakening.Thatwas the truth thedreamof theowldisguised.Thesecret that the screenmemorykept him from seeing and therefore from remembering:While he andGraceandtensofthousandsofchildrenlikethemhadslept,giftshadbeendeliveredinthenight.Giftstheywouldneedintheyearstocome.Giftsthatwouldturntheirbodiesintofinelytunedweapons,forthedesignersoftheinvasionhadunderstoodasimple, thoughcounterintuitive,truth:Wherethebodywent,themindfollowed.Givesomeonethepowerofthegodsandhewillbecomeasindifferentasthegods.Thepainsubsided.Thedizzinesseased.Heslidhislegsofftheedgeofthebed.Heneededtotestthe

ankle.The anklewas the key.The other injurieswere serious but inconsequential; he couldmanagethose.Gently,heappliedpressuretotheballofhisfoot,andalightningboltofagonyrocketeduphisleg.Hefellontohisback,gasping.Overhead,dustyplanetswerefrozeninorbitaroundadentedsun.Hesatupandwaitedforhisheadtoclear.Hewasn’tgoingtofindawayaroundthepain.Hewould

havetofindawaythroughit.He eased himself onto the floor, using the side of the bed to support his weight. Then he forced

himselftorest.Noneedtorush.IfGracereturned,hecouldexplainthathefelloutofbed.Slowly,byinches,hescootedhisbuttalongthecarpetuntilhewasflatonhisback,seeingthesolarsystembehindashowerofwhite-hotmeteorsthatcascadedacrosshisfieldofvision.Theroomwasfreezing,buthewassweatingprofusely.Outofbreath.Heartracing.Skinonfire.Hefocusedonthemobile,thefadedblueoftheEarth,theduskyredofMars.Thepaincameinwaves;hefloatednowinadifferentkindofsea.Theslatsbeneaththebedwerenailedintoplaceandweigheddownbytheheavyframeandmattress.

Nomatter.Hewiggledintothetightspacebeneath,thebodiesofdecayedinsectscrunchingunderhisweight,andtherewasatoycaronitsbackandthetwistedlimbsofaplasticactionfigurefromthetimewhenheroespopulatedchildren’sdaydreams.Hebroke theboard freewith threehardwhacksof theheelofhishand,scoochedback thewayhecame,andbroke theotherendfree.Dustsettled intohismouth.Hecoughed,sendinganothertsunamiofpainacrosshischest,downhisside,tocurlanaconda-likearoundhisstomach.Tenminuteslaterhewascontemplatingthesolarsystemagain,worriedthatGracewouldfindhim

passedout,clutchingafour-by-sixbedslattohischest.Thatmightbealittlemoredifficulttoexplain.Theworldspun.Theplanetsheldstill.There’sahiddenroom...Hehadcrossedthethresholdintothatroom,whereasimplepromisethrew

athousandbolts:I’llfindyou.Thatpromise,likeallpromises,createditsownmorality.Tokeepit,hewouldhavetocrossaseaofblood.Theworldunloosed.Theplanetsbound.

20

NIGHTHADFALLENbythetimeGracereturned,herarrivalpresagedbytheglowofalampexpandinginthehalloutside.Sheset thelamponthebedsidetable,andthelight threwshadowsthatengulfedherface.Hedidnotprotestwhenshedrewdownthecovers,unwrappedthebandagescoveringhiswounds,andexposedhisbodytothefrigidair.“Didyoumissme,Evan?”shemurmured,fingertipsslickwithsalveslidingoverhisskin.“Idon’t

meantoday.Howoldwerewethen?Fifteen?”“Sixteen,”heanswered.“Hmm.YouaskedmeifIwasafraidofthefuture.Doyouremember?”“Yes.”“Sucha...humanquestion.”Thefingersofonehandmassaginghimwhilethefingersoftheotherslowlyunbuttonedhershirt.“NotasmuchastheotheroneIasked.”Shetiltedherheadinquisitively.Herhairfelloverhershoulder.Herfacelostinshadowandhershirt

fallingopenlikeacurtaindrawnback.“Whatwasthat?”shewhispered.“Ifyou’dnotbeen,foraverylongtime,inexpressiblylonely.”Thecoolnessofherfingers.Theheatofhissearedflesh.“Yourheartisbeatingveryfast,”shebreathed.Shestoodup.Heclosedhiseyes.Forthepromise.Justoutsidethecircleoflight,Gracesteppedout

ofthepantsthatpooledaroundherankles.Hedidnotwatch.“Notsolonely,”Gracesaid,herbreathcaressinghisear.“Beinglockedinthesebodiesdoeshaveits

compensations.”Forthepromise.AndCassietheislandheswamtoward,risingfromablood-filledsea.“Notsolonely,Evan,”Gracesaid.Shetouchedhislipswithherfingers,hisneckwithherlips.Hehadnochoice.Hispromiseaffordednone.Gracewouldneverlethimgo;shewouldnothesitate

tokillhimifhetried.Therecouldbenooutrunningherorhidingfromher.Nochoice.Heopenedhiseyes,reachedupwithhisrighthandandranhisfingersthroughherhair.Hislefthand

slidbeneaththepillow.Abovethem,hecouldseethelonelysunstrippedofitsoffspring,shininginthelamplight.He thoughtGracemight notice the planetsweremissing.He expected her to askwhy heneededtoremovethem,thoughitwasn’ttheplanetsheneeded.Itwasthewire.ButGracehadn’tnoticed.Hermindhadbeenonotherthings.“Touchme,Evan,”shewhispered.Herolledhardtohisrightandsmashedhisleftforearmintoherjaw.Shestumbledbackwardashe

cameoffthebed,drivinghisshoulderintohermidsection.Shesankhernailsdeepintotheburnsonhisbackandripped.Theroomwentblackforamoment,buthedidn’tneedtosee—hejustneededtobeclose.Shemayhaveseenthemakeshiftgarroteofbrokenwoodandmobilewireinhishand,orshemight

havebeenjustlucky,butherfistclosedaroundthewireandpushedashedrewittight.Hesweptherleg

withtheoutsideofhisgoodankleandtookhertothefloor,followingherbodydown,crushinghiskneeintoherlowerbackonimpact.Nochoice.He summoned every ounce of augmented strength that remained into tightening thewire, until it

slicedthroughherpalmandhitbone.Shebuckedagainsthisweight.Heswunghisrightkneearoundandgrounditintoherhead.Tighter.

Tighter.Hesmelledblood.His.Hers.Theroomspunaround.Sinkingdeepintoblood,his,hers,EvanWalkerheldstill.

21

WHENITWASDONE,hecrawledtothebedandpulledoutthebrokenslat.Alittlelongforacrutch—hehadtoholdtheboardatadifficultangle—butitwouldhavetodo.Hehobbledtotheotherbedroom,wherehefoundmen’sclothing:apairofjeans,aplaidshirt,ahand-knitsweater,andaleatherjacketwiththenameoftheowner’sbowlingteam,TheUrbanaPinheads,emblazonedontheback.Thefabricscrapedandrubbedagainsthisrawskin,makingeverymovementastudyinpain.Thenheshuffledintothelivingroom,wherehefoundGrace’srucksackandrifle.Hethrewbothoverhisshoulder.Hourslater,restinginthenestlikemangleofmetalinthemiddleofaneight-carpileuponHighway

68,heopenedthesacktotakeinventoryandfounddozensofplasticbaggieslabeledwithblackmarker,eachbagcontainingclippingsofhumanhair.Atfirsthewaspuzzled.Whosehairwasthisandwhywasitinbaggies,eachneatlymarkedwithdates?Thenheunderstood:Gracewastakingtrophiesfromherkills.Wherethebodywent,themindfollowed.Hefashionedasplintforhisanklefromtwopiecesofbrokenmetalandtherestofthebandageroll.

Hedrankafewsipsofwater.Hisbodyachedforsleep,buthewouldnotsleepagainuntilhekepthispromise.Heliftedhisfacetothepinpricksofpurelightfixedabovehiminthelimitlessdark.Don’t Ialwaysfindyou?Theheadlampofthecarbesidehimexplodedinashowerofpulverizedglassandplastic.Hedove

beneaththenearestvehicle,draggingtheriflebehindhim.Grace.Ithadtobe.Gracewasalive.Helefttooquickly.Heassumedtoomuch,hopedtoomuch.Andnowhewastrapped,pinneddown

withnowayout,andEvanrealizedinthatmomenthowpromisescanbekeptinthemostunexpectedofways:He’dfoundCassiebybecomingher.Wounded,trappedbeneathacar,unabletorun,unabletorise,atthemercyofafaceless,merciless

hunter,aSilencerengineeredtosnuffoutthehumannoise.

22

HEMET—foundwouldbemoreaccurate—Gracethesummertheybothturnedsixteen,at theHamiltonCountyFair.Evanwasstandingoutside theexoticpettingzoo tentwithhis littlesister,Val,whohadbeendemanding tosee thewhite tigersince theyarrivedearly thatmorning. ItwasAugust.The linewas long.Valwas tired and grouchy and stickywith sweat.He’d put her off. He didn’t like to seeanimalsincaptivity.Whenhelookedintotheireyes,somethingintheireyeslookedbackathim.HefoundGracefirst,standingbesidethefunnelcaketrailer,adrippingwedgeofwatermeloninher

hand.Blondhairthatfelltothemiddleofherback,cool,nearlyarcticfeatures,especiallytheice-blueeyes,and thecynical turnofhermouth,glisteningwith juice.She turned towardhimandhequicklylookedaway,tothefaceofhisbabysister,whowouldbedeadinlessthantwoyears.Afacthecarriedwithin him, locked away in a different kind of hidden room. Sometimes it was hard to shake—theknowledge thatevery facehesawwas the faceofacorpse-to-be.Hisworldwaspeopledwith livingghosts.“What?”Valasked.He shookhis head.Nothing.He took a deep breath and glanced toward the trailer again. The tall

blondgirlwasgone.Insidethetent,behindasteelmeshfence,thewhitetigerpantedintheheat.Smallchildrencrowded

infront.Behindthem,camerasandsmartphonesclicked.Thetigerremainedregallyindifferenttotheattention.“Beautiful,”ahuskyvoicemurmuredinEvan’sear.Hedidnotturn.Heknew,withoutlooking,itwas

thegirlwiththelongblondhairandlipsthatglistenedwithwatermelonjuice.Theexhibitwaspacked;herbarearmbrushedagainsthis.“Andsad,”Evansaid.“No,”Gracesaid.“Hecouldtearthroughthatfenceintwoseconds.Ripoffakid’sfaceinthree.He’s

choosingtobethere.That’sthebeautifulthing.”He lookedather.Hereyeswereevenmorestartlingupclose.Theybored intohis,and inaknee-

weakeninginstant,heknewtheentityhidinginsideGrace’sbody.“Weshouldtalk,”Gracewhispered.

23

ATDUSK, the lights of theFerriswheelwere switched on and the tinnymusicwas turnedup and thecrowd swelled along the midway, cutoff shorts and flip-flops and the smell of coconut-scentedsunscreenandthewaddleofbig-belliedmeninJohnDeerecapswithdeeplycallusedhandsandwalletsattachedtobeltloopsbulginginbackpockets.HehandedValofftotheirmother,thenheadedfortheFerriswheel towait nervously forGrace.Shematerialized out of the crowd, holding a large stuffedanimal:awhiteBengaltiger,plasticbrightblueeyesonlyslightlydarkerthanhers.“I’mEvan,”hesaid.“I’mGrace.”Theywatchedthegiantwheelturnagainstthepurplesky.“Doyouthinkwe’llmissitwhenit’sgone?”heasked.“Iwon’t.”Hernosecrinkled.“Thesmellofthemishorrible.Ican’tgetusedtoit.”“You’rethefirstI’vemetsince...”Shenodded.“Metoo.Doyouthinkit’sanaccident?”“No.”“Iwasn’tcomingtoday,but thismorningwhenIwokeup, therewas this littlevoice.Go.Didyou

hearit?”Henodded.“Yes.”“Good.”Shesoundedrelieved.“ForthreeyearsI’vebeenwonderingifI’mcrazy.”“You’renot.”“Youdon’twonder?”“Notanymore.”Shesmiledarchly.“Doyouwanttogoforawalk?”Theywanderedovertothedesertedshowgroundsandsatonthebleachers.Thefirststarsappeared.

Thenightwaswarm,theairmoist.Graceworeapairofshortsandasleevelesswhiteblousewithalacecollar.Sittingclosetoher,Evancouldsmelllicorice.“Thisisit,”hesaid,noddingattheemptycorralwithitsmangledfloorofsawdustandmanure.“What?”“Thefuture.”Shelaughedasifhe’dmadeajoke.“Theworldends.Theworldendsandtheworldbeginsagain.It’s

alwaysbeenthatway.”“You’reneverafraidofwhat’scoming?Never?”“Never.”Huggingthestuffedtigerinherlap.Hereyesseemedtotakeonthecolorofwhatevershe

lookedat.Nowshewaslookingupatthedarkeningsky,andhereyeswereabottomlessblack.Theyspokeforafewminutesintheirnativelanguage,butitwasdifficultandtheygaveupquickly.

Too many words were unpronounceable. He noticed that she was much calmer afterward, and herealizeditwasn’tthefuturethatfrightenedher;itwasthepast,thefactthatshefearedtheentityinsideherbodywasafigmentofayounghumangirl’sshatteredmind.MeetingEvanvalidatedherexistence.“You’renotalone,”hetoldher.Helookeddownanddiscoveredherhandinhis.Onehandforhim,

theotherforthetiger.“That’sbeentheworstpart,”sheagreed.“Feelingasifyou’retheonlypersonintheuniverse.That

thewholethingishere,”touchingherchest,“andnowhereelse.”Years later,hewouldreadsomethingquitesimilar in thediaryofanothersixteen-year-oldgirl, the

onehefoundandlost,found,thenlostagain:SometimesIthinkImightbethelasthumanonEarth.

24

THE CAR’S UNDERCARRIAGE against his back. The cold asphalt against his cheek. The useless rifleclutchedinhishand.Hewastrapped.Gracehadseveraloptions.Hehadtwo.No.Iftherewasanyhopeofkeepinghispromise,hehadjustone:Cassie’schoice.She hadmade a promise, too. A hopeless, suicidal promise to the one person on Earth who still

mattered to her—mattered to hermore than her own life. She stood up that day to face the facelesshunterbecauseherdeathwasnothingcomparedtothedeathofthatpromise.Iftherewasanyhopeleft,itlayinlove’shopelesspromises.Hecrawled forward,past the frontbumper, into theopenair, and then, likeCassieSullivan,Evan

Walkerstoodup.Hetensed,waitingfor thefinishinground.WhenCassiestoodupthatcloudlessautumnafternoon,

herSilencerhadrun.HedidnotthinkGracewouldrun.Gracewouldfinishwhatshebegan.Butnofinishcame.Nosilencingbullet,connectingGracetohimasifbyasilvercord.Heknewshe

wasthere.Knewshecouldseehimstandingcrookedlyinfrontofthecar.Andherealizedtherewasnoescaping thepast,nododging inevitableconsequences:Cassie’s terror,heruncertaintyandpain, theybelongedtohimnow.Overhead, the stars. Straight ahead, the road that shone in the stars’ light. The tight grip of the

freezing air and themedicinal smell of the ointmentGrace had spread over his burns.Your heart isbeatingveryfast.She’snotgoing tokillyou, he toldhimself.Not thegoal. If killingyouwas thegoal, shewouldn’t

havemissedthatshot.Therecouldbeonlyoneanswer:Graceintendedtofollowhim.Hewasariddletoherandfollowing

himwasthewaytosolvetheriddle.Hehadescapedthetraponlytosinkdeeperintothepit.Keepinghispromisenowwasnotbeingfaithful;itwasanactofbetrayal.He couldn’t outrun her, not with the bad ankle. He couldn’t reason with her—he could barely

articulatehisownreasonsanymore.Hecouldwaitherout.Stayhere,donothing. . .andriskCassiebeingdiscoveredbysoldiersofthe5thWaveorabandoningthehotelbeforehisstalematewithGraceended.Hecouldforceaconfrontation,buthe’dfailedonceandtheoddswerehewouldagain.Hewastooweak,toohurt.Heneededtimetohealandtherewasnotime.Heleanedagainstthehoodofthecarandlookedupatthestar-encrustedsky,undimmedbyhuman

lights, scrubbed clean of contaminants, and these the same stars that shone on the world beforehumankindwalkeduponit.Forbillionsofyears,thesesamestars,andwhatwastimetothem?“Mayfly,”Evanwhispered.“Mayfly.”He shouldered the rifle andwormedhisway through thepileupback to thebackpackof supplies,

whichhethrewovertheothershoulder.Tuckedthemakeshiftcrutchbeneathhisarm.Thegoingwouldbeslow,painfullyslow,buthewouldforceGracetochoosebetweenlettinghimgoandfollowinghim,deserting her assigned territory at the moment when desertion could mean a serious setback in the

carefully constructed timetable. He would swing north of the hotel—north toward the nearest base.Northwhere the enemy had fled and retrenched andwaited for spring to launch the final, finishingassault.That’s where hope lay—where all hope had been from the beginning—on the shoulders of the

brainwashedchild-soldiersofthe5thWave.

25

LATERTHATEVENINGonthedaytheymet,EvanandGracewalkedalongthemidwaybeneaththelightsthatbeatbackthedark,weavingtheirwaythroughthecrowd,pasttheringtossandballoondartgameandbasketballfreethrow.Musicblaredfromspeakersmountedonthelightpoles,andbubblingbeneaththemusicwasthesoundofathousandconversations,likeanundercurrent,andtheflowofthecrowdwas likea river, too,eddyingandswirling,swifthere, languid there.Talland lissomeandstriking intheirgoodlooks,EvanandGracedrewattentionfromthepassersby,whichmadehimuncomfortable.He never liked crowds, preferring the solitude of the woods and the fields of the family farm, aninclinationthatwouldservehimwellwhenthetimeofcleansingarrived.Time.Abovethem,thestarsturnedlikethepointsoflightontheFerriswheelthatloomedabovethe

fairgrounds,thoughtooslowlyforthehumaneyetoregister,thehandsoftheuniversalclockthatwaswindingdown,thathadbeenwindingdownfromthebeginning,andthefacesthatpassedmarkingthetime, like the stars themselves, prisoners to it. Evan and Grace were not. They had conquered theunconquerable,deniedtheundeniable.Thelaststarwoulddie,theuniverseitselfwouldpassaway,buttheywouldgoonandon.“Whatareyouthinking?”sheasked.“‘Myspiritwillnotcontendwithhumansforever,fortheyaremortal.’”“What?”Shewassmiling.“It’sfromtheBible.”Sheshiftedthestuffedtigertoherotherhandsoshecouldtakehis.“Don’tbemorbid.It’sabeautiful

nightandwewon’tseeeachotheragainuntilit’sover.Yourproblemisyoudon’tknowhowtoliveinthemoment.”Shetuggedhimfromthemainconcourseintotheshadowsbetweentwotents,whereshekissedhim,

pressingherbodytightlyagainsthis,andsomethingopenedinsidehim.Sheenteredintohimandtheterriblelonelinesshe’dfeltsincehisawakeningeased.Grace pulled away. Her cheekswere flushed, her eyes burningwith a pale fire. “I think about it

sometimes.Thefirstkill.Whatitwillbelike.”Henodded.“Ithinkaboutit,too.Mostly,though,Ithinkaboutthelastone.”

26

HELEFT THEHIGHWAY, cutting throughopen fields, crossing lonelycountry lanes,pausing to refill hiscanteenwithwater froman icystream,navigatingas theancientsdid,by theNorthStar.His injuriesforcedhim to rest often, andeach timehe sawGrace in thedistance.Shedidn’tbother tohide.Shewantedhimtoknowshewasthere,justoutsidetherangeoftherifle.BydawnhehadreachedHighway68,themajorarteryconnectingHuberHeightsandUrbana.Inasmallstandoftreesborderingtheroad,hegatheredwoodforafire.Hishandswereshaking.Hefeltfeverish.Heworriedtheburnshadbecomeinfected.Hisbodily systemshadbeenaugmented,but anenhancedbodycould reacha tippingpointfromwhich therewas no return.His anklewas swollen to twice its normal size, the skin hot to thetouch,andthewoundthrobbedwitheachbeatofhisheart.Hedecidedtospendadayhere,maybetwo,andkeepthefireburning.Abeacontodrawthemintothetrap.Iftheywereoutthere.Iftheycouldbedrawn.Theroadbeforehim.Thewoodsbehindhim.Hewouldremainintheopen.Gracewouldstayinthe

woods.Shewouldwaitwithhim.Outofherassignedterritory,fullycommittednow,nogoingback.Hewarmedhimselfbythefire.Gracemadenofire.Histhelightandwarmth.Hersthedarkandcold.

He shrugged out of the jacket, pulled off the sweater, slipped off the shirt. Already the burns werescabbingover,buttheyhadbeguntoitchhorribly.Todistracthimself,hewhittledanewcrutchfromatreebranchsalvagedfromthewoods.Hewondered if Gracewould risk sleep. She knew his strength grewwith each passing hour and

everyhourshedelayed,herchancesofsuccesswaned.Hesawheratmidafternoononthesecondday,ashadowamongshadows,ashegatheredmorewood

forthefire.Fiftyyardsintothetrees,holdingahigh-poweredsniper’srifle,abloodybandagewrappedaroundherhand,anotheraroundherneck.Inthesubzeroair,hervoiceseemedtocarryintotheinfinite.“Whydidn’tyoufinishme,Evan?”Hedidn’tansweratfirst.Hecontinuedgatheringkindlingforthebeacon.Thenhesaid,“IthoughtI

did.”“No.Youcouldn’thavethoughtthat.”“MaybeI’msickofmurder.”“Whatdoesthatmean?”Heshookhishead.“Youwouldn’tunderstand.”“WhoisCassiopeia?”Herosetohisfullheight.Thelightwasweakinthetreesbeneathasheetofiron-grayclouds.Even

so,hecouldseethecynicalsetofherlipsandthepalebluefireofhereyes.“Theonewhostoodupwhenanyoneelsewouldhavestayeddown,”Evansaid.“TheoneIcouldn’t

stopthinkingaboutbeforeIevenknewher.Thelastone,Grace.ThelasthumanbeingonEarth.”Shedidn’tsayanythingforalongtime.Heremained.Sheremained.“You’re in lovewith a human.”Her voicewas full ofwonder.And then the obvious: “That’s not

possible.”“Weusedtothinkthesameaboutimmortality.”

“Itwouldbe likeoneof themfalling in lovewitha seaslug.”Smilingnow.“You’remad.You’vegoneinsane.”“Yes.”Heturnedhisbacktoher,invitingthebullet.Hewasmad,afterall,andmadnesscamewithitsown

armor.“Itcan’tbethat!”sheshoutedafterhim.“Whywon’tyoutellmewhat’sreallygoingon?”Hestopped.Thekindlingclatteredtothefrozenground.Thecrutchtoppledfromhisside.Heturned

hisheadbutdidnotturnaround.“Takecover,Grace,”hesaidsoftly.Herfingertwitchedonthetrigger.Normalhumaneyesmighthavemissedit.Evan’sdidnot.“Or—

what?”shedemanded.“You’llattackmeagain?”Heshookhishead.“I’mnotgoingtoattackyou,Grace.Theyare.”Shecockedherheadathim,likethebirdinthetreewhenheawakenedinhercamp.“They’rehere,”Evansaid.Thefirstbulletstruckherupper thigh.Sherockedbackwardbut remainedupright.Thenext round

punchedintoherleftshoulderandtherifleslippedfromherhand.Thethirdround,mostlikelyfromasecondshooter,explodedinthetreedirectlybesidehim,missinghisheadbymillimeters.Gracedovetotheground.Evanran.

27

RANWAS AN EXAGGERATION.More like a frantic hop, swinging his bad legwide to keepmost of hisweightonthegoodone,andeachtimehisheelhittheground,pinwheelsofbrightlightexplodedinhisvision.Pastthesmolderingcampfire,thebeaconthathadburnedfortwodays,thesignhe’dhunginthewoods,Hereweare!Snatchingtheriflefromthegroundinstride;hehadnointentionofstandinghisground.Gracewoulddrawtheirfire—apatrolofatleasttworecruits,perhapsmore.Hehopedmore.MorewouldkeepGracebusyforawhile.How far? Tenmiles? Twenty?Hewouldn’t be able tomaintain this pace, but as long as he kept

moving,heshouldbeclosetothehotelbydawnthenextday.Hecouldhearthefirefightbehindhim.Sporadicpops,notcontinuousfire,whichmeantthatGrace

wasbeingmethodical.Thesoldierswouldbewearingtheeyepieces,eveningtheplayingfieldabit.Notmuch,butabit.He abandoned any attempt at stealth and hit the highway, loping down the center of the road, a

solitaryfigureundertheimmensityofaleadensky.Amurderofcrowsathousandstrongwhippedandwheeled over him, heading north. He keptmoving, gruntingwith pain, every stride a lesson, everyjoltingfootfallareminder.Histemperaturesoared,hislungsburned,hisheartslammedinhischest.Thefrictionfromtheclothestoreopenthedelicatescabsandsoonhewasbleeding.Bloodplasteredhisshirttohisback,soakedthroughthejeans.Hewaspushingit,heknew.Thesysteminstalledtomaintainhislifepastallhumanendurancecouldcrash.Hecollapsedwhenthesundidbeneath thedomeof thesky,aslow-motionstumblingkindoffall,

hittingshoulderfirstandrollingtotheedgeoftheroad,wherehecametorestflatonhisback,armsspreadwide,numbfromthewaistdown,shakinguncontrollably,burninghotinthebitterair.DarknessrolledoverthefaceoftheEarth,andEvanWalkertumbleddowntothelightlessbottom,toahiddenroomthatdancedinlightandherfacethesourceofthatlight,andhehadnoexplanationforit,howherfaceillumedthelightlessplaceinside.You’remad.You’vegoneinsane.He’dthoughtso,too.Hefoughttokeepheralivewhileeverynighthe lefther tokill therest.Whyshouldone live though theworlditselfwillperish?Sheilluminedthelightless—herlifethelamp,thelaststarinadyinguniverse.Iamhumanity,shehadwritten.Self-centered,stubborn,sentimental,childish,vain.Iamhumanity.

Cynical,naïve,kind,cruel,softasdown,hardastungstensteel.Hemustgetup.Ifhecan’t,thelightwillgoout.Theworldwillbeconsumedbythecrushingdark.

Butthetotalityoftheatmospherepushedhimdownandheldhimunder,fivequadrilliontonsofbone-breakingforce.Thesystemhadcrashed.Taxedpastitslimits,thealientechnologyinstalledinsidehishumanbody

when hewas thirteen had shut down.Therewas nothing to sustain or protect himnow.Burned andbroken,hishumanbodywasnodifferentfromhisformerprey’s.Fragile.Delicate.Vulnerable.Alone.Hewasnotoneofthem.Hewascompletelyoneofthem.WhollyOther.Fullyhuman.Herolledontohisside.Hisbackspasmed.Bloodrushedintohismouth.Hespatitout.Onto his stomach. Then knees. Then hands. His elbows quivered, his wrists threatened to buckle

under his own weight. Self-centered, stubborn, sentimental, childish, vain. I am humanity. Cynical,

naïve,kind,cruel,softasdown,hardastungstensteel.Iamhumanity.Hecrawled.Iamhumanity.Hefell.Iamhumanity.Hegotup.

28

ALIFETIMELATER, fromhishidingplacebeneath thehighwayoverpass,Evanwatched thedark-hairedgirlsprintacrossthehotelparkinglot,crosstheinterstateaccessramp,trotafewhundredyardsnorthonHighway 68, then pause beside an SUV to look back at the building.He followed her gaze to asecond-storywindow,whereashadowflittedforaninstant,thenwasgone.Mayfly.Thedark-hairedgirlvanishedintothetreesborderingthehighway.Whyshehadleftandwhereshe

wasgoingwereunknown.Perhapsthegroupwassplittingup—itwouldincreasethechanceofsurvivalalittle—orperhapsshewasscoutingamoresecurehidingplacetorideoutthewinter.Whicheverthecase,hehadthesensehe’dfoundthemjustintime.Thedark-hairedgirlwasone,leavingatleastfourinside,theoneshehadseenmanningthewindows.

Hedidnotknowifanyofthemhadsurvivedtheexplosion.Hewasn’tevensureithadbeenCassie’sshadowinthewindow.Notthatitmattered.He’dmadeapromise.Hehadtogoin.He couldn’t approach openly. The situation was complicated by too many unknowns.What if it

wasn’tCassiebutasquadof5thWavesoldierscutoffwhenthebaseblew—likethesquadhe’dleftinGrace’scare?He’dbedeadbeforehecrossedadozenfeet.TheriskwasnearlyasgreatevenifitwasCassieandagroupofsurvivors:Theymightdrophimbeforetheyrealizedwhohewas.Goinginnow,though,poseditsownsetofrisks.Hedidn’tknowhowmanytherewereinside.Didn’t

know if he could manage two, much less four, heavily armed trigger-happy kids jacked up onadrenaline,readytoblowawayanythingthatmoved.Thesystemthataugmentedhisbodyhadcrashed.I’mfullyhuman,he’dtoldCassie.Nowthatwasliterallytrue.Hewasstillweighingtheoptionswhenatinyfigureappearedintheparkinglot.Achildwearing5th

Wave fatigues.Not Sam—Samhad been dressed in thewhite jumpsuit of the underaged and newlyprocessed—butyoung.Sixorseven,heguessed.Followingthesamerouteasthedark-hairedgirl,evenpausing by the same SUV to look back at the hotel. This time he saw no shadow in the window;whoeverhadbeentherewasgone.That made two. Were they abandoning the hotel one at a time? Tactically, it made some sense.

Shouldn’thesimplywait,then,forCassietocomeout,ratherthanriskhislifegoingin?Andthestarsspunoverhead,markingthetimewindingdown.Hestartedtogetup,thensankback.Anotheroneexitedthehotel,muchlargerthantheonebefore,a

big kidwith a large head, toting a rifle.Three now, none of themCassie orSamor the friend fromCassie’shighschool—whatwashisname?Ken?Witheachexodus,theoddsofCassienotbeinginthisgroupincreased.Shouldheevenattemptentry?Hisinstinctsaidgo.Noanswers,noweapons,andhardlyanystrength.Instinctwasallhehadleft.Hewent.

29

FOROVERFIVEYEARShe’d reliedon thegifts thatmadehimsuperior tohumans inalmosteveryway.Hearing.Eyesight.Reflexes.Agility.Strength.Thegiftshadspoiledhim.He’dforgottenwhatnormalfeltlike.Hewasgettingacrashcoursenow.Heslippedintoaground-floorroomthroughabroken-outwindow.Hobbledtothedoorandpressed

hisearagainstit,butallhecouldhearwasthethunderingofhisheart.Easingthedooropen,slidingintothehall,listening,waitinginvainforhiseyestoadjusttothedark.Downthehallandintothelobby.Hisownbreath,frostinginthefrigidair,otherwisesilence.Apparentlythegroundfloorwasdeserted.Heknewsomeonewasstandingatthesmallhallwaywindowupstairs;hecaughtaglimpseofhimashemaneuveredhiswayintothebuilding.Stairwell.Twoflights.Bythetimehereachedthesecondlanding,hewasdizzyfromthepainandout

ofbreathfromtheeffort.Hetastedblood.Therewasnolight.Hewasentombedinutterdarkness.Iftherewasonlyonepersonontheothersideofthisdoor,hehadseconds.Morethanoneandtime

didn’tmatter;hewasdead.Everyinstinctsaidwait.Hewent.Inthehallontheothersideofthedoorwasasmallkidwithextraordinarilylargeearsandamouth

flyingopeninastonishmentthemomentbeforeEvanlockedhiminthechokehold,pressinghisforearmhardagainstthekid’scarotid,cuttingoffthebloodsupplytohisbrain.Hedraggedhissquirmingcatchbackintotheblackpitofthestairwell.Thekidwentlimpbeforethedoorclickedshutagain.Evanwaited for a few seconds on the other side. The hall had been empty, the snatch quick and

relativelyquiet.Itcouldbeawhilebeforetheothers—iftherewereothers—realizedtheirsentrywasgone.Hedragged thekid to thebottomof the stairs and tuckedhisunconsciousbody into the smallspacebetween thestepsand thewall.Wentbackup.Crackedopen thedoor.Halfwaydown thehall,another door opened and two shadowy figures emerged. He watched them cross the hall and enteranotherroom.Theyreappearedamomentlaterandwenttoanotherdoor.Theywerecheckingeachroom.Thestairswouldbenext.Ortheelevator;he’dforgottenaboutthe

elevator.Wouldtheydropdowntheshaftandtakethestairsfrombelow?No.If there’reonlytwo,they’llsplitup.Oneforthestairs,onedowntheshaft,andmeetupinthe

lobby.Hewatchedthemcomeoutofthelastroom,thengototheelevator,whereoneheldthedoorswhile

theotherdroppedoutofsightintotheshaft.Theonewhoremainedhadtroublestanding,holdinghisstomachandgruntingsoftlyfromtheeffort,favoringonesideashelimpedtowardEvan.Hewaited.Twentyfeet.Ten.Five.Holdingtherifleinhisrighthand,hisgutwithhisleft.Standing

ontheothersideofthedoor,Evansmiled.Ben.NotKen.Ben.Foundyou.ToodangeroustotrustthatBenwouldrecognizehimandnotshoothimonthespot.Heburstthrough

thedoorandrammedhisfistashardashecouldintoBen’swoundedstomach.Theblowknockedthebreathoutofhim,butBenrefusedtogodown.Rockingback,hebroughthisrifleup.Evanslungitto

onesideandhithimagain,samespot,andthistimeBenwentdown,droppingtohiskneesatEvan’sfeet.Hisheadfellback.Theireyesmet.“Iknewyouweren’tforreal,”Bengasped.“Where’sCassie?”Heknelt,grabbedtwofistfulsoftheyellowhoodieBenwaswearing,andbroughttheirfacesclose.“Where’sCassie?”Ifhehadbeenhisoldself,ifthesystemhadn’tcrashed,hewouldhaveseentheblurofthebladeasit

came around, heard the infinitesimally smallwhistle of it cutting through the air. Instead, hewasn’tawareoftheknifeuntilBenhadburieditinhisthigh.He fell back, draggingBenwith him.Hurled him to one side asBen ripped the knife free. Evan

slammedhiskneedownonBen’swristtoneutralizethethreatandclampedbothhandsoverBen’sface,coveringhisnoseandmouthandpushinghard.Timespunout.Beneathhim,Benthrashedandkicked,whipped his head from side to side, his free hand clawing for the rifle less than an inch from hisfingertips,andtimefroze.ThenBenwentstillandEvanfellaway,gulpingair,drenchedinbloodandsweatandfeelingasifhis

bodymightburstintoflames.Notimetorecover,though:Downthehall,throughacrackinthedoor,asmall,heart-shapedfaceturnedhisway.Sam.Hepushedhimselftohisfeet,losthisbalance,careenedintothewall,fell.Backupagain,convinced

nowitwasCassiewhohaddroppedintotheshaft,buthehadtosecureSamfirst,exceptthekidhadslammedthedoorandwasnowscreamingobscenitiesthroughit,andthen,asEvandroppedhishandontheknob,heopenedfire.HethrewhimselfagainstthewallnexttothedoorwhileSamemptiedthemagazine.Whenthepause

came,hedidn’thesitate.Samhadtobeneutralizedbeforehecouldreload.Evanhadachoice:kickopenthedoorwiththebadfootorputallhisweightonitwhilehekicked

withtheother.Neitheroptionwasgood.Hechosetokickwiththebrokenone;hecouldn’trisklosinghisbalance.Threehard,sharpkicks.Threekicksthatproducedpainashe’dneverexperienceditbefore.Butthe

lockbrokewitha loudwallopand thedoorslammed into thewallon theotherside.Hefell into theroomand therewasCassie’sbrothercrab-crawling toward thewindowandsomehowEvan remainedupright, something held him up and propelled him toward the child, hand outstretched, I’m here,rememberme?Isavedyoubefore;I’llsaveyouagain...Andthen,behindhim,thelastone,thefinalstar,theonehecarriedacrossaninfiniteseaofwhite,the

onethinghe’dfoundworthdyingfor,openedfire.Andthebulletconnectedthemwhenitweddedbone,bindingthemtogetherasifbyasilvercord.

30

THEBOYSTOPPEDtalkingthesummeroftheplague.Hisfatherhaddisappeared.Theirsupplyofcandlesranlowandheleftonemorningtofindmore.He

nevercameback.Hismotherwassick.Herheadhurt.Sheachedallover.Evenherteethhurt,shetoldhim.Thenights

were theworst.Her fever shot up.Her tummy couldn’t hold anything down. The nextmorning shewould feel better.Maybe I’ll get over it, she said. She refused to go to the hospital. They’d heardstories,terriblestories,aboutthehospitalsandwalk-inclinicsandemergencyshelters.Onebyone,familiesfledtheneighborhood.Lootingwasgettingbadandgangsroamedthestreetsat

night.Themanwholivedtwodoorsdownwaskilled,shotinthehead,forrefusingtosharehisfamily’sdrinkingwater.Sometimesastrangerwanderedinto theneighborhoodandtoldstoriesofearthquakesandwallsofwaterfivehundredfeethigh,floodingthelandasfareastasLasVegas.Thousandsdead.Millions.Whenhismotherbecametooweaktogetoutofbed,thebabybecamehisresponsibility.Theycalled

himthebaby,buthewasactuallyalmostthree.Don’tbringhimnearme,hismothertoldhim.He’llgetsick.Thebabywasn’tthatmuchwork.Hesleptalot.Heplayedonlyalittle.Hewasjustatinykid;hedidn’tknow.SometimeshewouldaskwherehisdaddywasorwhatwasthematterwithMommy.Mostofthetime,heaskedforfood.Theywererunningoutoffood.Buthismotherwouldn’tlethimleave.It’stoodangerous.You’llget

lost.You’llgetabducted.You’llgetshot.Hewouldarguewithher.Hewaseightandverybigforhisage,thetargetofschool-yardtauntsandcruelinsultssincehewassix.Hewastough.Hecouldhandlehimself.Butshewouldn’t lethimgo.Ican’tkeepanythingdownandyoucouldstandto losea littleweight anyway. She wasn’t being cruel; she was trying to be funny. He didn’t think it was funny,though.Thentheyweredowntotheirlastcanofcondensedsoupandwrapperofstalecrackers.Heheatedthe

soupinthefireplace,overafirehefedwithpiecesofbroken-upfurnitureandhisfather’soldhuntingmagazines.Thebabyateallthecrackersbutsaidhedidn’twantthesoup.Hewantedmacandcheese.Wedon’thavemacandcheese.Wehavesoupandcrackers,andthat’sallwehave.Thebabycriedandrolledonthefloorinfrontofthefireplace,screamingformacandcheese.Hebrought a cupof the soup tohismother.Her feverwasbad.Thenightbefore, shehad started

throwingupthelumpyblackstuff,whichwastheliningofherstomachmixedwithblood,thoughhedidn’tknowthatthen.Shewatchedhimcomeintotheroomwithdead,expressionlesseyes,thefixedstareoftheRedDeath.Whatdoyouthinkyou’redoing?Ican’teatthat.Takeitaway.Hetookitawayandateitstandingatthekitchensinkwhilehisbabybrotherrolledonthefloorand

screamedandhismothersankdeeperintomindlessness,thevirusspreadingintoherbrain.Inthefinalhours,hismotherwoulddisappear.Herpersonality,hermemory,thewhoofwhoshewas,surrenderingbeforeherbody.Heatethelukewarmsoupandthenlickedthebowlclean.Hewouldhavetoleaveinthemorning.Therewasnomorefood.Hewouldtellhislittlebrothertostayinsidenomatterwhatand

hewouldn’tcomebackuntilhefoundsomethingforthemtoeat.Hesnuckoutthenextmorning.Helookedinabandonedgroceriesandconveniencestores.Helooked

in looted restaurants and fast-food places. He found Dumpsters reeking of decaying produce andoverflowingwithtorn-opengarbagebagswheremanyhandsbeforehishadsearched.Bylateafternoon,he’dfoundonlyoneediblemorsel:asmallcakeaboutthesizeofhispalm,stillinitsplasticwrapper,underneathanemptyshelfinagasstation.Itwasgettinglate;thesunwasgoingdown.Hedecidedtogohomeandreturnthenextmorning.Maybethereweremorecakesandotherkindsoffoodstashedorlostandheneededtolookharder.When he got home, the front door was ajar. He remembered closing it behind him, so he knew

somethingwaswrong.Heraninside.Hecalledforthebaby.Hewentroomtoroom.Helookedunderbedsandinsideclosetsandinthecarsthatsatcoldanduselessinthegarage.Hismothercalledhimintoherroom.Wherehadhebeen?Thebabywouldn’tstopcryingforhim.Heaskedhismotherwherethebabywasandshesnappedathim,Can’tyouhearhim?Butheheardnothing.Hewentoutsideandyelledthebaby’sname.Hecheckedthebackyard,walkedovertotheneighbor’s

houseandbangedon thedoor.Hebangedoneverydooron the street.Nobodyanswered.Either thepeople insidewere tooscared tocomeoutor theyweresickordeador justgone.Hewalkedseveralblocksoneway,thenseveralmoretheotherway,callinghisbrother’snameuntilhewashoarse.Anoldwomantotteredoutontoherporchandscreamedathimtogoaway;shehadagun.Hewenthome.Thebabywasgone.Hedecidednottotellhismother.Whatwouldshedoaboutit?Hedidn’twant

hertothinkhewasbadforleaving.Heshouldhavebroughthimalong,buthethoughtitwassaferathome.YourhomeisthesafestplaceonEarth.Thatnight,hismothercalledtohim.Whereismybaby?Hetoldherthebabywasasleep.Itwasthe

worstnightyet.Bloodytissueswaddedonthebed.Bloodytissuescrowdingthenightstand,litteringthefloor.Bringmemybaby.He’sasleep.Iwanttoseemybaby.Youmightmakehimsick.Shecursedhim.Shetoldhimtogotohell.Shespatbloodyphlegmathim.Hestoodinthedoorway,

handsnervouslyfiddlinginhispockets,andthecakewrappercrackled,theplasticdamagedbytheheat.Wherehaveyoubeen?Lookingforfood.Shegagged.Don’tsaythatword!Watchinghimwithbrightred,bloodyeyes.Whywereyoulookingforfood?Youdon’tneedanyfood.You’rethemostdisgustingpieceofpig

lardI’veeverseen.Youcouldlivetillwinteronjustyourbellyfat.Hedidn’t sayanything.Heknew itwas theplague talking,nothismother.Hismother lovedhim.

Whentheteasingatschoolgotbad,shewent to theprincipalandsaidshewouldfilea lawsuit if thebullyingdidn’tstop.What’sthatnoise?What’sthathorriblenoise?Hetoldherhedidn’thearanything.Shegotveryangry.Shestartedtocurseagainandbloodyspittle

spatteredontheheadboard.It’scomingfromyou.Whatareyouplayingwithinyourpocket?Therewasnothinghecoulddo.Hehadtoshowher.Hepulledoutthecakeandshescreamedforhim

toputitawayandnevertakeitoutagain.Nowonderhewassofat.Nowonderhisbabybrotherwasstarvingwhileheatecakesandcandiesandallthemacandcheese.Whatsortofmonsterwashethathe

ateallhisbabybrother’smacandcheese?Hetriedtodefendhimself.Buteverytimehestartedtalking,shescreamedathimtoshutup,shutup,

shutUP.Hisvoicemadehersick.Hemadehersick.Hedidit.Hedidsomethingtoherhusbandandhedid something tohisbabybrotherandhedid something toher,madeher sick, poisonedher, hewaspoisoningher.Andeverytimehetriedtospeak,shescreamedathim.Shutup,shutup,shutUP.Shediedtwodayslater.Hewrappedherinacleansheetandcarriedherbodyintothebackyard.Hedousedthebodywithhis

father’scharcoallighterfluidandsetitonfire.Heburnedhismother’sbodyandallthebedding,too.Hewaitedanotherweekforhisbabybrothertocomehome,butheneverdid.Hesearchedforhim—and for food. He found food, but not his brother. He stopped calling for him. He stopped talkingaltogether.Heshutup.Sixweekslater,hewaswalkingdownahighwaydottedwithstalled-outcarsandwrecksofcarsand

trucksandmotorcycleswhenhesawblacksmokeinthedistanceand,afterafewminutes,thesourceofthesmoke,ayellowschoolbusfullofchildren.Thereweresoldiersonthebusandthesoldiersaskedhisnameandwherehewasfromandhowoldhewas,andlaterherememberednervouslystuffinghishandsinhispocketsandfindingtheoldpieceofcake,stillinitswrapper.Piglard.Livetillwinteronyourbellyfat.What’sthematter,kid?Can’tyoutalk?Hisdrillsergeantheardthestoryofhowhecametocampwithnothingbuttheclothesonhisback

andapieceofcakeinhispocket.Beforeheheardthestory,thedrillsergeantcalledhimFatboy.Afterheheardthestory,thedrillsergeantrenamedhimPoundcake.Ilikeyou,Poundcake.Ilikethefactthatyou’reabornshooter.Ibetyoupoppedoutofyourmomma

withaguninonehandandadoughnutintheother.IlikethefactthatyougotthelooksofElmerFuddandthegoddamnedheartofMufasa.AndIespeciallylikethefactthatyoudon’ttalk.Nobodyknowswhereyou’refrom,whereyou’vebeen,whatyouthink,howyoufeel.Hell,Idon’tknowandIdon’tgiveashit,andyoushouldn’t,either.You’reamute-assed,stone-coldkillerfromtheheartofdarknesswithahearttomatch,aren’tyou,PrivatePoundcake?Hewasn’t.Notyet.

31

THEFIRSTTHINGIplannedtodowhenhewokeupwaskillhim.Ifhewokeup.Dumbowasn’tsurethatwouldhappen.“He’smessedupbad,”hetoldmeafterwestrippedhimdown

andDumbo got a good look at the damage. Stabbed in one leg, shot in the other, covered in burns,bonesbroken,shakingwithahighfever—thoughwepiledcoversonhim,Evanstillshooksoviolentlythatitlookedlikethebedwasvibrating.“Sepsis,”Dumbomuttered.Henoticedme staringdumbly at himandadded, “When the infection

getsintoyourbloodstream.”“Whatdowedo?”Iasked.“Antibiotics.”“Whichwedon’thave.”Isatontheotherbed.Samscootedtothefoot,clutchingtheemptypistol.Herefusedtogiveitup.

Benwas leaningon thewall, cradlinghis rifle andeyeingEvanwarily, likehewas sureany secondEvanwouldboltoutofbedandmakeanotherattempttotakeusout.“Hedidn’thaveachoice,” I toldBen.“Howcouldhe just strollup in thedarkwithout somebody

shootinghim?”“IwanttoknowwherePoundcakeandTeacupare,”Bensaidthroughgrittedteeth.Dumbotoldhimtogetoffhisfeet.He’drepackedthebandages,butBenhadlostalotofblood.Ben

wavedhimaway.Hepushedhimselffromthewall,limpedtoEvan’sbedside,andwhackedhimacrossthecheekwiththebackofhishand.“Wakeup!”Whack.“Wakeup,yousonofabitch!”IshotfromthebedandgrabbedBen’swristbeforehecouldpopEvanagain.“Ben,thiswon’t—”“Fine.”Heyankedhisarmawayandlurchedtowardthedoor.“I’llfindthemmyself.”“Zombie!”Samcalledout.Hepoppedupandrantohisside.“I’llcome,too!”“Cutitout,bothofyou,”Isnapped.“Nobody’sgoinganywhereuntilwe—”“What,Cassie?”Benyelled.“Untilwewhat?”Mymouthopenedandnowordscameout.Samwastuggingonhisarm:Comeon,Zombie!Myfive-

year-oldbrotherwavingaroundanemptygun;there’sametaphorforyou.“Ben,listentome.Areyoulisteningtome?Yougoouttherenow—”“Iamgoingouttherenow—”“—andwemight loseyou, too!”Shoutingoverhim.“Youdon’tknowwhathappenedout there—

EvanprobablyknockedthemoutlikehedidyouandDumbo.Butmaybehedidn’t—maybethey’reonthewaybackrightnow,andgoingoutthereisastupidrisk—”“Don’tlecturemeaboutstupidrisks.Iknowallabout—”Benswayed.Thecolordrainedfromhisfaceandhewentdowntooneknee,Samgrabbingfutilely

onhissleeve.DumboandIpulledhimupandgothimtotheemptybed,wherehefellback,cussingusandcussingEvanWalkerandcussingthewholefucked-upsituationingeneral.Dumbowasgivingmea

deer-in-headlightslook,likeYougottheanswers,right?Youknowwhattodo,right?Wrong.

32

IPICKEDUPDumbo’srifleandpusheditintothekid’schest.“We’re blind,” I told him. “Stairway, both hall windows, east-side rooms, west-side rooms, keep

movingandkeepyoureyesopen.I’llstayherewiththealphamalesandtrytokeepthemfromkillingeachother.”Dumbowasnoddinglikeheunderstood,buthewasn’tmoving.Iputmyhandsonhisshouldersand

focusedonhisjigglyeyes.“Stepup,Dumbo.Understand?Stepup.”Hejerkedhisheadupanddown,ahumanPEZdispenser,andslumpedoutoftheroom.Leavingwas

thelastthinghewantedtodo,butwe’dbeenatthatpointforalongtimenow,thepointofdoingthelastthingwewantedtodo.Behindme,Bengrowled,“Whydidn’tyoushoothiminthehead?Whytheknee?”“Poeticjustice,”Imuttered.IsatnexttoEvan.Icouldseehiseyesquiveringbehindthelids.Hehad

beendead.I’dsaidgood-bye.NowhewasaliveandImightnotbeabletosayhello.We’reonlyaboutfourmilesfromCampHaven,Evan.Whattookyousolong?“We can’t stay here,” Ben announced. “It was a bad call sending Ringer ahead. I knew we

shouldn’t’vesplitup.We’rebuggingoutofhereinthemorning.”“Howarewegoingtodothat?”Iasked.“You’rehurt.Evanis—”“Thisisn’tabouthim,”Bensaid.“Well,Iguessitistoyou—”“He’sthereasonyou’realiverightnowtobitch,Parish.”“I’mnotbitching.”“Yes,youare.You’rebitchinglikeajuniormissbeautyqueen.”Sammylaughed.Idon’tthinkI’dheardmybrotherlaughsinceourmotherdied.Itstartledme,like

findingalakeinthemiddleofadesert.“Cassiecalledyouabitch,”SaminformedBen,incasehemissedit.Benignoredhim.“Wewaitedhereforhimandnowwe’retrappedherebecauseofhim.Dowhatyou

want,Sullivan.Inthemorning,I’moutofhere.”“Metoo!”Samssaid.Bengotup,leanedonthesideofthebedforaminutetocatchhisbreath,thenhobbledtothedoor.

Samtrailedafterhim,andIdidn’ttrytostopeitheroneofthem.Whatwouldbethepoint?Bencrackedthedoorandcalledsoftly toDumbonot toshoothim—hewascomingout tohelp.ThenEvanandIwerealone.IsatonthebedBenhadjustabandoned.Itwasstillwarmfromhisbody.IgrabbedSammy’sbear

andpulleditintomylap.“Canyouhearme?”Iasked—Evan,notthebear.“Guesswe’reevennow,huh?Youshootmeinthe

knee;Ishootyouintheknee.Youseemebuttnaked;Iseeyoubuttnaked.Youprayoverme;I—”Theroomswamoutoffocus.ItookBearandpoppedEvaninthechestwithit.“Andwhatwaswiththatridiculousjacketyouwerewearing?ThePinheads,that’saboutright.That

nailsit.”Ihithimagain.“Pinhead.”Again.“Pinhead.”Again.“Andnowyou’regoingtocheckoutonme?Now?”

Hislipsmovedandawordleakedoutslowly,likeairescapingfromatire.“Mayfly.”

33

HISEYESOPENED.WhenIrecalledwritingabouttheirwarm,meltedchocolateness,somethinginmewentgah.Whydidhehave this knees-to-jelly effect onme?Thatwasn’tme.Whydid I let himkiss andcuddleandgenerallymopearoundafterme likea forlorn little lost alienpuppy?Whowas thisguy?Fromwhatwarpedversionofrealitydidhetransportintomyownpersonalwarpedversionofreality?Noneofitfit.Noneofitmadesense.Fallinginlovewithmemightbelikemefallinginlovewithacockroach,butwhatdoyoucallmyreactiontohim?What’sthatcalled?“Ifyouweren’tdyingandall,I’dtellyoutogotohell.”“I’mnotdying,Cassie.”Flutterylids.Sweatyface.Shakyvoice.“Okay,thengotohell.Youleftme,Evan.Inthedark,justlikethat,andthenyoublewuptheground

beneathme.Youcouldhavekilledallofus.Youabandonedmerightwhen—”“Icameback.”Hereachedouthishand.“Don’ttouchme.”NoneofyourcreepyVulcanmind-meldtricks.“Ikeptmypromise,”hewhispered.Well, what snarky comeback did I have for that? A promisewaswhat broughtme to him in the

beginning.AgainIwasstruckbyhowreallyweirditwasthathewaswhereIhadbeenandIwaswherehe had been.His promise formine.My bullet for his.Down to stripping each other naked becausethere’snochoice;clingingtomodestyintheageoftheOthersislikesacrificingagoattomakeitrain.“Youalmost got shot in thehead,moron,” I toldhim. “It didn’t occur toyou to just shout up the

stairs,‘Hey,it’sme!Holdyourfire!’?”Heshookhishead.“Toorisky.”“Oh,right.Muchmoreriskythanchancingyourheadgettingblownoff.Where’sTeacup?Where’s

Poundcake?”Heshookhisheadagain.Who?“Thelittlegirlwhotookoffdownthehighway.Thebigkidwhochasedafterher.Youmusthaveseen

them.”Nowhenodded.“North.”“Well,Iknowwhichdirectiontheywent...”“Don’tgoafterthem.”Thatbroughtmeupshort.“Whatdoyoumean?”“Itisn’tsafe.”“Nowhereissafe,Evan.”Hiseyeswererollingbackinhishead.Hewaspassingout.“There’sGrace.”“Whatdidyousay?Grace?Asin‘AmazingGrace’orwhat?What’sthatmean,‘There’sgrace’?”“Grace,”hemurmured,andthenheslippedaway.

34

ISTAYEDWITHHIMtilldawn.Sittingwithhimlikehesatwithmeintheoldfarmhouse.Hebroughtmetothatplaceagainstmywillandthenmywillbroughthimtothisplace,andmaybethatmeantwesortofownedeachother.Orowedeachother.Anyway,nodebtiseverfullyrepaid,notreally,nottheonesthatreallymatter.Yousavedme,hesaid,andbackthenIdidn’tunderstandwhatIhadsavedhimfrom.Thatwasbeforehetoldmethetruthaboutwhohewas,andafterwardIthoughthemeantIhadsavedhimfromthatwholehumangenocide,mass-murdererthing.NowIwasthinkinghedidn’tmeanIsavedhimfromanything,butforsomething.Thetrickypart,theunanswerablepart,thepartthatscaredthecrapoutofme,waswhatthatsomethingmightbe.Hemoanedinhissleep.Hisfingersclawedatthecovers.Delirious.Beenthereanddonethat, too,

Evan.Itookhishand.Burnedandbruisedandbroken,andIhadwonderedwhattookhimsolongtofindme?Hemusthavecrawledhere.Hishandwashot;hisfaceshonewithsweat.ForthefirsttimeitoccurredtomethatEvanWalkermightdie—sosoon,too,afterrisingfromthedead.“You’regoing to live,” I toldhim.“Youhave to live.Promise,Evan.Promisemeyou’regoing to

live.Promiseme.”Islippedalittle.Triednotto.Couldn’thelpit:“That’llcompletethecircle,thenwe’redone;we’rebothdone,meandyou.YoushotmeandIlived.

I shot you andyou live. See?That’s how itworks.Ask anybody.Plus the fact that you’reMr.Ten-Centuries-OldSuperbeingdestinedtosaveuspitifulhumansfromtheintergalacticswarm.That’syourjob.Whatyouwereborn todo.Orbred to.Whatever.Youknow, asplans to conquer theworldgo,yourshasbeenprettysucky.Almostayear into itandwe’restillhere,andwho’s theone flatonhisbacklikeabugwithdroolonhischin?”Actually,hedidhavesomedroolonhischin.Idabbeditupwithacorneroftheblanket.Thedooropenedandbigol’Poundcakesteppedintotheroom.ThenDumbo,grinningfrombigearto

bigear,thenBen,andfinallySam.FinallyasinnoTeacup.“Howishe?”Benasked.“Burningup,”Ianswered.“Delirious.Hekeepstalkingaboutgrace.”Benfrowned.“Like‘AmazingGrace’?”“Maybesayinggrace,likebeforeameal,”Dumbosuggested.“He’sprobablystarving.”Poundcake lumbered over to the window and stared down at the icy parking lot. I watched him

Eeyore-walkacrosstheroom,thenturnedtoBen.“Whathappened?”“Hewon’tsay.”“Thenmakehimsay.You’rethesarge,right?”“Idon’tthinkhecan.”“SoTeacup’svanishedandwedon’tknowwhereorwhy.”“ShecaughtupwithRinger,”Dumboguessed.“AndRingerdecidedtotakehertothecaverns,not

wasteanytimebringingherback.”IjerkedmyheadtowardPoundcake.“Wherewashe?”“Foundhimoutside,”Bensaid.

“Doingwhat?”“Just...hangingout.”“Justhangingout?Really?YouguyseverwonderwhichteamPoundcakemightbeplayingfor?”Benshookhisheadwearily.“Sullivan,don’tstart—”“Seriously. The mute act could be just an act. Keeps you from having to answer any awkward

questions.Plus the fact that itmakes a lotof senseplantingoneofyourown into eachbrainwashedsquad,incaseanybodystartstowise—”“Right,andbeforePoundcakeitwasRinger.”Benwaslosingit.“Nextit’llbeDumbo.Orme.When

theguywhoadmittedhewastheenemyislyingrightthere,holdingyourhand.”“Actually,I’mholdinghishand.Andheisn’ttheenemy,Parish.Ithoughtwecoveredthis.”“Howdoweknowhedidn’tkillTeacup?OrRinger?Howdoweknowthat?”“Oh,Christ,lookathim.Hecouldn’tkilla...a...”Itriedtothinkoftheproperthinghehadthe

strength to kill, but the only thingmyhungry, sleep-deprivedbrain could comeupwithwasmayfly,whichwouldhavebeenareally,reallybadchoiceofwords.Likeaninadvertentomen,ifanomencanbeinadvertent.Ben whipped around to Dumbo, who flinched. I think he preferred Ben’s wrath be directed at

anybodybuthim.“Willhelive?”Dumboshookhishead,thetipsofhisearsgrowingbrightpink.“It’sbad.”“That’smyquestion.Howbad?Howsoonbeforehecantravel?”“Notforawhile.”“Damnit,Dumbo,when?”“Acoupleweeks?Amonth?Hisankle’sbroke,butthat’snottheworst.Theinfection, thenyou’ve

gottheriskofgangrene...”“Amonth?Amonth!”Benlaughedhumorlessly.“Hestormsthisplace,takesyouout,beatsthecrap

outofme,andacouplehourslaterhecan’tmoveforamonth!”“Thengo!”Ishoutedacrosstheroomathim.“Allofyou.Leavehimwithme,andwe’llfollowyou

assoonaswecan.”Ben’smouth,whichhadbeenhangingopen,snappedclosed.SamwashoveringnearBen’sleg,one

tinyfingerhookedintohisbigbuddy’sbeltloop.Somethinginmyheartgavealittleatthesight.Bentoldmetheycalledmylittlebrother“Zombie’sdog”incamp,meaningeverfaithfullybyhisside.Dumbowasnodding.“Makessensetome,Sarge.”“Wehadaplan,”Bensaid.His lipsbarelymoved.“Andwe’resticking to theplan. IfRinger isn’t

backbythistimetomorrow,we’rebuggingout.”Heglaredatme.“Allofus.”HejabbedhisthumbatPoundcakeandDumbo.“Theycancarryyourboyfriend,ifheneedstobecarried.”Benturned,bumpedintothewall,pinballedoffit,lurchedthroughthedoorandintothehall.Dumbotrailedafterhim.“Sarge,where’reyou...?”“Bed,Dumbo,bed!IgottaliedownorI’mgonnafalldown.Takethefirstwatch.Nugget—Sam—

whateveryournameis—whatareyoudoing?”“I’mcomingwithyou.”“Staywithyoursister.Wait.You’reright.She’sgotherhandsfull—literally.Poundcake!Sullivanhas

theduty.Getsomeshut-eye,youbigmutemother...”Hisvoicefadedaway.DumbocamebacktothefootofEvan’sbed.“Sargeisstrungout,”heexplained,likeIneededhimtoexplain.“He’susuallyprettychill.”“Metoo,”Isaid.“I’mthelaid-backtype.Noworries.”Hewouldn’tgoaway.Hewas lookingatmeandhischeekswereasbright redashisears. “Ishe

reallyyourboyfriend?”“Who?No,Dumbo.He’sjustaguyImetonedaywhilehewastryingtokillme.”

“Oh.Good.”Heseemedrelieved.“He’slikeVosch,youknow.”“He’snothinglikeVosch.”“Imean he’s one of them.” Lowering his voice like he was sharing a dark secret. “Zombie says

they’renotlikethesetinybugsinourbrains,butsomehowtheydownloadedthemselvesintouslikeacomputervirusorsomething.”“Yeah.Somethinglikethat.”“That’sweird.”“Well,Iguesstheycouldhavedownloadedthemselvesintohousecats,butgoingthatroutewould’ve

madeourexterminationmoretime-consuming.”“Onlybyamonthor two,”Dumbosaid, and I laughed.LikeSammy’s,mine surprisedme. Ifyou

wanted toseparatehumans from theirhumanity, I thought,killing laughterwouldbeagoodplace tostart. Iwasneververygoodathistory,butIwasprettysuredouchebagslikeHitlerdidn’t laughverymuch.“Istilldon’tgetit,”hewenton.“Whyoneofthemwouldbeonourside.”“I’mnotsurehecompletelyunderstandstheanswertothatquestion.”Dumbonodded,squaredhisshoulders,tookadeepbreath.Hewasdeadonhisfeet.Weallwere.I

calledsoftlytohimbeforehesteppedoutside.“Dumbo.”Ben’squestion,unanswered.“Ishegoingtomakeit?”Hedidn’tsayanythingforalongtime.“IfIwereanalienandIcouldpickanybodyIwanted,”he

saidslowly,“I’dpickareallystrongone.Andthen,justtomakesureI’dlivethroughthewar,I’dlike,Idon’tknow,makemyselfimmunetoeveryvirusandbacteriaonEarth.Oratleastresistant.Youknow,likegettingyourdogvaccinatedforrabies.”Ismiled.“You’reprettysmart,youknowthat,Dumbo?”Heblushed.“That’sanicknamebasedonmyears.”Heleft.Ihadtheeeriefeelingofbeingwatched.BecauseIwasbeingwatched:Poundcakestaredat

mefromhispostbythewindow.“Andyou,”Isaid.“What’syourstory?Whydon’tyoutalk?”Heturnedaway,andhisbreathfoggedthewindow.

35

“CASSIE!CASSIE,wakeup!”Iboltedupright.I’dbeencurledupnexttoEvan,myheadpressedagainsthis,myhandinhis,and

howthehelldidthathappen?Samwasstandingbesidethebed,pullingonmyarm.“Getup,Sullivan!”“Don’tcallmethat,Sams,”Imumbled.Thelightwasbleedingfromtheroom;itwaslateafternoon.

I’dsleptthroughtheday.“What...?”Heputonefingertohislipsandpointedattheceilingwithanother.Listen.Iheardit:theunmistakablesoundofachopper’srotors—faintbutgrowinglouder.Ijumpedfromthe

bed,grabbedmyrifle,andfollowedSamintothehall,wherePoundcakeandDumbohuddledaroundBen,theformerquarterbacksquattingonhishaunches,callingtheplay.“Mightbe just apatrol,”hewaswhispering. “Not evenafterus.Therewere two squadsout there

whenthecampblew.Mightbearescuemission.”“They’llpickupoursignatures,”Dumbosaid,panicking.“We’redone,Sarge.”“Maybenot,”Bensaidhopefully.He’dgottenbacksomeofhismojo.“Hearit?Fadingalready...”Nothisimagination:Thesoundwasfainter.Youhadtoholdyourbreathtohearit.Wehungtherein

thehallforanothertenminutesuntilthesounddisappeared.Waitedanothertenanditdidn’tcomeback.Benblewouthischeeks.“Thinkwe’regood...”“Forhowlong?”Dumbowantedtoknow.“Weshouldn’tstayheretonight,Sarge.Isayweheadfor

thecavernsnow.”“AndchancemissingRingeronherwayback?”Benshookhishead.“Orriskthatchoppercoming

backwhilewe’reexposed?No,Dumbo.Westicktotheplan.”He pushed himself to his feet. His eyes fell on my face. “What’s up with Buzz Lightyear? No

change?”“HisnameisEvanandno.Nochange.”Bensmiled.Idon’tknow,maybeimminentperilmadehimfeelmorealivesomehow,forthesame

reasonzombiesarecarnivoreswithonlyoneitemonthemenu.Youneverheardofundeadvegetarians.Where’sthechallengeinattackingaplateofasparagus?Samsgiggled.“Zombiecalledyourboyfriendaspaceranger.”“Heisn’taspaceranger—andwhyiseveryonecallinghimmyboyfriend?”Ben’ssmilebroadened.“He’snotyourboyfriend?Buthekissedyou...”“Fullon?”Dumboasked.“Oh,yeah.Twice.That’swhatIsaw.”“Withtongue?”“Ewww.”Sammymouth’sformedasourlemonpout.“Ihaveagun,”Iannounced,onlyhalfjoking.“Ididn’tseeanytongue,”Bensaid.“Wantto?”Istuckmytongueoutathim.Dumbolaughed.EvenPoundcakesmiled.

That’swhenthegirlappeared,steppingintothehallwayfromthestairwell,andtheneverythinggotverystrange,veryfast.

36

AMUD-(oritcouldhavebeenblood-)stained,tatteredpinkHelloKittyT-shirt.Apairofshortsthatoncehadbeentan,maybe,fadedtoadirtywhite.Grungywhiteflip-flopswithacouplestubbornrhinestonesclingingtothestraps.Anarrow,pixieishfacedominatedbyhugeeyes,toppedbyamassoftangleddarkhair.Andyoung,aroundSammy’sage,thoughshewassothin,herfacelookedlikealittleoldlady’s.Nobody said anything.We were shocked. Seeing her at the far end of the hall, teeth chattering,

knobbykneesknockinginthefreezingcold,wasanotherCampAshpit,yellow-school-bus-pulling-up-when-school-would-never-exist-againmoment.Somethingthatsimplycouldnotbe.ThenSammywhispered,“Megan?”AndBensaid,“WhothehellisMegan?”Whichwasverymuchwhattherestofuswerethinking.Samtookoffbeforeanybodycouldgrabhim.Pulleduphalfwaytoher.Thelittlegirldidn’tmove.

Didn’thardlyblink.Hereyesseemedtoshineinthedwindlinglight,brightandbirdlike,likeawizenedowl’s.Samturnedtousandsaid,“Megan!”Asifhewerepointingouttheobvious.“It’sMegan,Zombie.

Shewasonthebuswithme!”Heturnedbacktoher.“Hi,Megan.”Casually,liketheyweremeetingupatthemonkeybarsforaplaydate.“Poundcake,” Ben said softly. “Check the stairs. Dumbo, take thewindows. Then sweep the first

floor,bothofyou.There’snowayshe’salone.”Shespoke,andhervoicecameoutinahigh-pitched,scratchywhinethatremindedmeoffingernails

scrapingacrossablackboard.“Mythroathurts.”Herbigeyesrolledbackinherhead.Herkneesbuckled.Samracedtowardher,buthewastoolate:

Shewentdownhard,smackingthethincarpetingwithherforeheadasecondbeforeSamcouldreachher.BenandIrushedover,andhebentdowntopickherup.Ipushedhimaway.“Youshouldn’tbeliftinganything,”Iscoldedhim.“Shedoesn’tweighanything,”heprotested.Ipickedherup.Hewasnearlyright.Meganweighedlittlemorethanasackofflour;bonesandskin

andhairandteethandthat’saboutit.IcarriedherintoEvan’sroom,putherintheemptybed,andpiledsixlayersofblanketsoverherquakinglittlebody.ItoldSamtofetchmyriflefromthehall.“Sullivan,”Bensaidfromthedoorway.“Thisdoesn’tfit.”Inodded.Worsethantheoddsofherluckingintothishotelatrandomweretheoddsofhersurviving

thisweather inhersummeroutfit.BenandIwere thinking thesamething:Twentyminutesafterourhearingthechopper,Li’lMissMeganappearedonourdoorstep.Shedidn’twanderinhereonherown.Shewasdelivered.“Theyknowwe’rehere,”Isaid.“Butinsteadoffirebombingthebuilding,theydropherin.Why?”Sam came backwithmy rifle.He said, “That’sMegan.Wemet on the bus on theway toCamp

Haven,Cassie.”“Smallworld,huh?”Ipushedhimawayfromthebed,towardBen.“Thoughts?”

Herubbedhischin.Irubbedmyneck.Toomanythoughtsskitteringaroundbothourheads.Istaredat him rubbing his chin and he stared at me rubbing my neck, and that’s when he said, “Tracker.They’veimplantedherwithapellet.”Ofcourse.ThatmustbewhyBen’sincharge.He’stheIdeaMan.ImassagedthebackofMegan’s

pencil-thinneck,probingforthetelltalelump.Nothing.IlookedatBenandshookmyhead.“Theyknowwe’dlookthere,”hesaidimpatiently.“Searchher.Everyinch,Sullivan.Sam,youcome

withme.”“Whycan’tIstay?”Samwhined.Afterall,he’djustreunitedwithalong-lostfriend.“Youwanttoseeanakedgirl?”Benmadeaface.“Gross.”BenpushedSamoutthedoorandbackedoutoftheroom.Idugmyknucklesintomyeyes.Damnit.

Goddamnit.Ipulledthecoverstothefootofthebed,exposingherwastedbodytothedyinglightofamidwinter’sevening.Coveredinscabsandbruisesandopensoresandlayersofdirtandgrime,whittleddowntoherbonesbythehorriblecrueltyofindifferenceandthebrutalindifferenceofcruelty,shewasoneofusandshewasallofus.ShewastheOthers’masterwork,theirmagnumopus,humanity’spastanditsfuture,whattheyhaddoneandwhattheypromisedtodo,andIcried.IcriedforMeganandIcried formeand Icried formybrotherand Icried forall theones toostupidorunlucky tobedeadalready.Suckitup,Sullivan.We’rehere,thenwe’regone,andthatwastruebeforetheycame.That’salways

beentrue.TheOthersdidn’tinventdeath;theyjustperfectedit.Gavedeathafacetoputbackinourface,becausetheyknewthatwastheonlywaytocrushus.Itwon’tendonanycontinentorocean,nomountainorplain,jungleordesert.Itwillendwhereitbegan,whereithadbeenfromthebeginning,onthebattlefieldofthelastbeatinghumanheart.Istrippedherofthefilthy,threadbaresummerclothes.IspreadherarmsandlegsliketheDaVinci

drawingof the nakeddude inside the box, containedwithin the circle. I forcedmyself to go slowly,methodically,startingwithherheadandmovingdownherbody.Iwhisperedtoher,“I’msorry,I’msosorry,”pressing,kneading,probing.Iwasn’tsadanymore.IthoughtofVosch’sfingerslammingdownonthebuttonthatwouldfrymy

five-year-oldbrother’sbrains,andIwantedtotastehisbloodsobadly,mymouthbegantowater.Yousayyouknowhowwethink?ThenyouknowwhatI’mgoingtodo.I’llripyourfaceoffwitha

pairoftweezers.I’lltearyourheartoutwithasewingneedle.I’llbleedyououtwithsevenbilliontinycuts,oneforeachoneofus.That’s the cost. That’s the price.Get ready, becausewhen you crush the humanity out of humans,

you’releftwithhumanswithnohumanity.Inotherwords,yougetwhatyoupayfor,motherfucker.

37

ICALLEDBENintotheroom.“Nothing,”Itoldhim.“AndIchecked...everywhere.”“Whataboutherthroat?”Bensaidquietly.Hecouldheartheresidualrageinmyvoice.Hegotthat

hewastalkingtoacrazypersonandhadtotreadlightly.“Rightbeforeshefainted,shesaidherthroathurt.”Inodded.“Ilooked.There’snopelletinher,Ben.”“Areyoupositive?‘Mythroathurts’isaveryweirdthingforafreezing,malnourishedkidtosaythe

minutesheshowsup.”He sidledover to thebed, I don’tknow,maybebecausehewas concerned Imight jumphim in a

momentofmisplacedfury.Notthatthat’severhappened.Hegingerlypressedonehandtoherforeheadwhilepryinghermouthopenwiththeother.Stuckhiseyeclose.“Hardtoseeanything,”hemuttered.“That’swhyIusedthis,”Isaid,handinghimSam’scamp-issuedpenlight.Heshonethelightdownherthroat.“It’sprettyred,”heobserved.“Right.Whichiswhyshesaidithurt.”Ben scratched his stubble, worrying over the problem. “Not ‘help me’ or ‘I’m cold’ or even

‘resistanceisfutile.’Just‘mythroathurts.’”Icrossedmyarmsovermychest.“‘Resistanceisfutile’?Really?”Samwashoveringinthedoorway.Bigbrownsaucereyes.“Issheokay,Cassie?”heasked.“She’salive,”Isaid.“Sheswallowedit!”Bensaid.TheIdeaMan.“Youdidn’tfinditbecauseit’sinherstomach!”“Thosetrackingdevicesarethesizeofagrainofrice,”Iremindedhim.“Whywouldswallowingone

hurtherthroat?”“I’mnotsayingthedevicehurtherthroat.Herthroathasnothingtodowithit.”“Thenwhyareyousoworriedaboutitbeingsore?”“Here’swhat I’mworried about,Sullivan.”Hewas tryingveryhard to stay calm,because clearly

somebodyhadtobe.“Hershowingupoutofthebluelikethiscouldmeanalotofthings,butnoneofthose things couldbe a good thing. In fact, it canonlybe a bad thing.Averybad thingmade evenbadderbythefactthatwedon’tknowthereasonshewassenthere.”“Badder?”“Ha-ha.Thedumb jockwhocan’t talk theQueen’sEnglish. I swear toGod, thenext personwho

correctsmygrammargetspunchedintheface.”Isighed.Theragewasleachingoutofme,leavingmeahollow,bloodless,human-shapedlump.BenlookedatMeganforalongmoment.“Wehavetowakeherup,”hedecided.ThenDumboandPoundcakecrowdedintotheroom.“Don’ttellme,”BensaidtoPoundcake,whoof

coursewouldn’t.“Youdidn’tfindnothing.”“Anything,”Dumbocorrectedhim.Ben didn’t punch him in the face. But he did hold out his hand. “Give me your canteen.” He

unscrewedthecapandheldthecontaineroverMegan’sforehead.Adropofwaterhungquiveringon

thelipforaneternity.Beforeeternityended,acroakyvoicespokeupbehindus.“Iwouldn’tdothatifIwereyou.”EvanWalkerwasawake.

38

EVERYBODYFROZE.Eventhedropofwater,swellingattheedgeofthecanteen’smouth,heldstill.Fromhisbed,Evanwatcheduswithred,fever-brighteyes,waitingforsomeonetoasktheobviousquestion,whichBenfinallydid:“Why?”“Wakingherlikethatcouldmakehertakeaverydeepbreath,andthatwouldbebad.”Benturnedtofacehim.Thewaterdribbledontothecarpet.“Whatthehellareyoutalkingabout?”Evanswallowed,grimacingfromtheeffort.Hisfacewasaswhiteasthepillowcasebeneathit.“She

isimplanted—butnotwithatrackingdevice.”Ben’slipstightenedintoahard,whiteline.Hegotitbeforetherestofus.HewhippedonDumboand

Poundcake.“Out.Sullivan,youandSam,too.”“I’mnotgoinganywhere,”Itoldhim.“Youshould,”Evansaid.“Idon’tknowhowfinelyit’sbeencalibrated.”“Howfinelywhat’sbeencalibratedtowhat?”Idemanded.“TheincendiarydevicetoCO2.”Hiseyescutaway.Thenextwordswerehardforhim.“Ourbreath,

Cassie.”Everybodyunderstoodbythatpoint.Butthere’sadifferencebetweenunderstandingandaccepting.

The idea was unacceptable. After all we had experienced, there were still places our minds simplyrefusedtogo.“Getdownstairsnow,allofyou,”Bensnarled.Evanshookhishead.“Notfarenough.Youshouldleavethebuilding.”BengrabbedDumbo’sarmwithonehandandPoundcake’swiththeotherandslungthemtowardthe

door.Samhadbackedintothebathroomentrance,tinyfistpressedagainsthismouth.“Also,somebodyshouldopenthatwindow,”Evangasped.I pushed Sam into the hall, trotted over to thewindow, and pushed hard against the frame, but it

wouldn’tbudge,probablyfrozenshut.Benpushedmeoutofthewayandsmashedouttheglasswiththebuttofhisrifle.Freezingairrushedintotheroom.BenstrodebacktoEvan’sbedandconsideredhimforasecondbeforegrabbingahandfulofhishairandyankinghimforward.“Yousonofabitch...”“Ben!”Iputmyhandonhisarm.“Lethimgo.Hedidn’t—”“Oh,right.Iforgot.He’sagoodevilalien.”Heletgo.Evanfellback;hedidn’thavethestrengthto

stayup.ThenBensuggestedhedosomethingtohimselfthatwasanatomicallyimpossible.Evan’seyescutovertome.“Inherthroat.Suspendeddirectlyabovetheepiglottis.”“She’sabomb,”Bensaid,hisvoicequaveringwithrageanddisbelief.“Theytookachildandturned

herintoanIED.”“Canweremoveit?”Iasked.Evanshookhishead.“How?”“That’swhatshe’saskingyou,dipshit,”Benbarked.“The explosive is connected to a CO2 detector imbedded in her throat. If the connection’s lost, it

detonates.”

“Thatdoesn’tanswermyquestion,”Ipointedout.“Canweremoveitwithoutblowingourselvesintoorbit?”“It’sfeasible...”“Feasible.Feasible.”Benwaslaughingthisweird,hiccuppingkindoflaugh.Iwasworriedthathe

mightbefallingovertheproverbialedge.“Evan,”IsaidassoftlyandcalmlyasIcould.“Canwedoitwithout...”Icouldn’tsayit,andEvan

didn’tmakeme.“Theoddsofitnotdetonatingarealotbetterifyoudid.”“Doitwithout...what?”Benwashavingahardtimefollowing.Nothisfault.Hewasstillflailingin

theunthinkableplacelikeapoorswimmercaughtinariptide.“Killingherfirst,”Evanexplained.

39

BEN AND I CONVENED the latest oh-we’re-screwed planning meeting in the hallway. Ben orderedeverybodyelsetogoacrosstheparkinglotandhideinthedineruntilhegavethemtheall-clear—orthehotel blew up, whichever came first. Sam refused. Ben got stern. Sam teared up and pouted. Benremindedhimthathewasasoldierandagoodsoldierfollowsorders.Besides,ifhestayed,whowasgoingtoprotectPoundcakeandDumbo?Beforeheleft,Dumbosaid,“I’mthemedic.”He’dfiguredoutwhatBenwasupto.“Ishoulddoit,

Sarge.”Benshookhishead.“Getoutofhere,”hesaidtersely.Thenwewerealone.Ben’seyeswouldnotstaystill.Thetrappedcockroach.Thecorneredrat.The

fallingman,offthecliffandnoscrawnyshrubtograsp.“Well,Iguessthebigriddle’sbeenanswered,huh?”hesaid.“WhatIdon’tgetiswhytheydidn’tjust

wasteuswithacoupleofHellfiremissiles.Theyknowwe’rehere.”“Nottheirstyle,”Isaid.“Style?”“Hasn’t it ever struck you how personal it’s been—from the beginning? There’s something about

killingusthatgetsthemoff.”Benlookedatmewithsickwonder.“Yeah.Well.Icanseewhyyou’dwanttodateoneofthem.”Not

the thing to say. He realized it immediately and quickly backed off. “Who’re we kidding, Cassie?There’snothingreallytodecide,exceptwho’sgoingtodoit.Maybeweshouldflipacoin.”“MaybeitshouldbeDumbo.Didn’tyoutellmehetrainedinfieldsurgeryatthecamp?”Hefrowned.“Surgery?You’rekidding,right?”“Well,howelsearewe...?”ThenIunderstood.Couldn’taccept,butunderstood.Iwaswrongabout

Ben.Hehaddroppedfartherthanmeintothatunthinkableplace.Hewasfivethousandfathomsdown.He read the look on my face and dropped his chin toward his chest. His face was flushed. Not

embarrassedsomuchasangry,intenselyangry,theangerthat’spastallwords.“No,Ben.Wecan’tdothat.”Heliftedhishead.Hiseyesshone.Hishandsshook.“Ican.”“No,youcan’t.”BenParishwasdrowning.Hewas so farunder, Iwasn’t sure I could reachhim,

wasn’tsureIhadthestrengthtopullhimbacktothesurface.“Ididn’taskforthis,”hesaid.“Ididn’taskforanyofthis!”“Neitherdidshe,Ben.”HeleanedcloseandIsawadifferentkindoffeverburninginhiseyes.“I’mnotworriedabouther.

Anhourago,shedidn’texist.Understand?Shewasnothing,literallynothing.Ihadyou,andIhadyourlittlebrother,andIhadPoundcakeandDumbo.Shewastheirs.Shebelongstothem.Ididn’ttakeher.Ididn’ttrickherintogettingonabusandtellhershewasperfectlysafeandthenstuffabombdownherthroat.Thisisn’tmyfault.Itisn’tmyresponsibility.Myjobistokeepmyassandyourassaliveforaslongaspossible,andifthatmeanssomebodyelsewhoisnothingtomedies,thenIguessthat’swhatitmeans.”

Iwasn’tholdingupwell.Hewastoodeep,therewastoomuchpressure,Icouldn’tbreathe.“That’sit,”hesaidbitterly.“Cry,Cassie.Cryforher.Cryforallthechildren.Theycan’thearyouand

theycan’tseeyouandtheycan’tfeelhowreallybadyoufeel,butcryforthem.Atearforeachofthem,fillupthefuckingocean,cry.“YouknowI’mright.YouknowIdon’thaveachoice.AndyouknowRingerwasright.It’saboutthe

risk.It’salwaysbeenabouttherisk.Andifonelittlegirlhastodiesosixpeoplecanlive,thenthat’stheprice.That’stheprice.”Hepushedpastme and limpeddown thehall to thebrokendoor, and I couldn’tmove, I couldn’t

speak.Ididn’tliftafingerorframeanargumenttostophim.I’dreachedtheendofwords,andgesturesseemedpointless.Stophim,Evan.Please,stophim,becauseIcan’t.Inthesaferoomunderground,theirfaceslifteduptome,andmysilentprayer,myhopelesspromise:

Climbontomyshoulders,climbontomyshoulders,climbontomyshoulders.Hewouldn’tshoother.Becauseoftherisk.He’dsmotherher.Placeapillowoverherfaceandpress

untilhedidn’tneed topressanymore.Hewouldn’t leaveherbody there: the risk.Hewouldcarry itoutside,buthewouldn’tburyitorburnit:therisk.Hewouldtakeitfarintothewoodsandtossitonthefrozengroundlikesomuchtrashforthebuzzardsandcrowsandinsects.Therisk.Isankdownthewallanddrewmykneestomychest,duckedmyhead,andcovereditupwithmy

arms.Istoppedmyears.Iclosedmyeyes.AndtherewasVosch’sfingerslammingdownonthebutton,Ben’s hands holding the pillow, my finger on the trigger. Sam, Megan. The Crucifix Soldier. AndRinger’svoice,speakingoutofthesilentdark:Sometimesyou’reinthewrongplaceatthewrongtimeandwhathappensisnobody’sfault.AndwhenBencameout,alltornupandempty,IwouldgetupandIwouldgotohimandIwould

comforthim.Iwouldtakethehandthatmurderedachildandwewouldgrieveforourselvesandthechoiceswemadethatweren’tchoicesatall.Bencameout.Hesatagainstthewalltendoorsdown.Afteraminute,Igotupandwenttohim.He

didn’tlookup.Herestedhisforearmsonhisupraisedkneesandbowedhishead.Isatnexttohim.“You’rewrong,”Isaid.Hetwirledhishand:Whatever.“Shedidbelongtous.Theyallbelongtous.”Hisheadfellbackagainstthewall.“Hearthem?Thosemother-effingrats.”“Ben,Ithinkyouneedtogo.Now.Don’twaittillmorning.TakeDumboandPoundcakeandgetto

thecavernsasfastasyoucan.”MaybeRingercouldhelphim.Helistenedtoher,alwaysseemedalittleintimidatedbyher,evenawed.He laughed from a spot deep in his gut. “I’m kind of busted up right now. Broke. I’m broke,

Sullivan.”Helookedatme.“AndWalkerisinnoshapetodoit.”“Noshapetodowhat?”“Cutthedamnthingout.You’retheonlyoneherewhohashalfachance.”“Youdidn’t...?”“Icouldn’t.”Helaughedagain.Hisheadbrokethesurfaceandhetookadeep,life-givingbreath.“Icouldn’t.”

40

THEROOMWHEREshelaywascolderthanawalk-infreezer,andEvanwassittingupnow,watchingmeasIwalkedin.ApillowonthefloorwhereBenhaddroppedit,andmepickingitupandsittingatthefootofEvan’sbed.Ourbreathscongealingandourheartsbeatingandthesilencethickeningbetweenus.UntilIsaid,“Why?”Andhesaid,“Toblowapartwhatremains.Tobreakthefinal,unbreakablebond.”Ihuggedthepillowtomychestandrockedslowlybackandforth.Cold.Socold.“Noonecanbe trusted,” Isaid.“Notevenachild.”Thecoldboreddowntomybonesandcurled

insidethemarrow.“Whatareyou,EvanWalker?Whatareyou?”Hewouldn’tlookatme.“Itoldyou.”Inodded.“Yes,youdid.Mr.GreatWhiteShark.I’mnot,though.Notyet.We’renotgoingtokillher,

Evan.I’mgoingtopullitout,andyou’regoingtohelpme.”Hedidn’targue.Heknewbetter.Benhelpedmegatherthesuppliesbeforehelefttojointheothersinthedineracrosstheparkinglot.

Washcloth.Towels.Acanofairfreshener.Dumbo’sfieldkit.Wesaidgood-byeatthestairwaydoor.Itoldhimtobecareful,thereweresomeslipperyratgutsonthewaydown.“I lost it back there,” he said, lowering his eyes and scrubbing his foot across the carpet like an

embarrassedlittleboycaughtinalie.“Thatwasn’tcool.”“Yoursecretissafewithme.”Hesmiled.“Sullivan...Cassie...incaseyoudon’t...Iwantedtotellyou...”Iwaited.Ididn’tpushhim.“Theymadeamajormistake,”heblurtedout,“thedumbbastards,whentheydidn’tstartbykilling

youfirst.”“BenjaminThomasParish, thatwasthesweetestandmostbizarrecomplimentanyone’severgiven

me.”Ikissedhimonthecheek.Hekissedmeonthemouth.“Youknow,”Iwhispered,“ayearago,Iwouldhavesoldmysoulforthat.”Heshookhishead.“Notworthit.”And,forone–tenthousandthofasecond,allofitfellaway,the

despairandgriefandangerandpainandhunger,andtheoldBenParishrosefromthedead.Theeyesthatimpaled.Thesmilethatslayed.Inanothermoment,hewouldfade,slidebackintothenewBen,theone called Zombie, and I understood something I hadn’t before: He was dead, the object of myschoolgirldesires,justastheschoolgirlwhodesiredhimwasdead.“Getoutofhere,”Itoldhim.“Andifyouletanythinghappentomylittlebrother,I’llhuntyoudown

likeadog.”“Imaybedumb,butI’mnotthatdumb.”Hedisappearedintotheabsolutedarkofthestairwell.Iwentbacktotheroom.Icouldn’tdothis.Ihadtodothis.Evanscootedbackinthebeduntilhis

butt touched the headboard. I slid my arms beneathMegan and slowly lifted her, turned, and then

loweredhercarefullyontoEvan, leaningherheadback intohis lap. Ipickedup thespraycanofairfreshener(ADelicateBlendofEssences!)andsaturatedthewashcloth.Myhandswereshaking.NowaycouldIdothis.NowayIcouldn’t.“A five-prongedhook,”Evansaidquietly. “Embeddedbeneath the right tonsil.Don’t try topull it

out.Getagoodgriponthewire,makethecutasclosetothehookasyoucan,thenpullthehookout—slowly.Ifthewirecomesloosefromthecapsule...”Inoddedimpatiently.“Kaboom.Iknow.Youalreadytoldmethat.”Iopenedthemedkitandtookoutapairof tweezersandsurgicalscissors.Small,but theyseemed

huge.Iclickedonthepenlightandstuckthebuttendbetweenmyteeth.IhandedEvanthewashclothreekingofpine.HepressedtheclothoverMegan’snoseandmouth.Her

bodyjerked,hereyelidsflutteredopen,hereyesrolledtothebackofherhead.Herhands,foldedprimlyinherlap,twitched,becamestill.Evandroppedtheclothontoherchest.“If she wakes up while I’m in there . . .” I said around the flashlight, sounding like a very bad

ventriloquist:Ehcheewecksuh...Evannodded.“Ahundredwaysitcangowrong,Cassie.”Hetiltedherheadbackandforcedhermouthopen.Istareddownaglisteningredtunnelthewidthof

arazorandamiledeep.Tweezersinmylefthand.Scissorsinmyright.Bothhandsthesizeoffootballs.“Canyouopenitanywider?”Iasked.“IfIopenitanywider,I’lldislocateherjaw.”Well,inthegrandschemeofthings,adislocatedjawwasbetterthanbeingabletopickupourpieces

withthispairoftweezers.Butwhatever.“Thisone?”Touchingthetonsilgentlywiththeendofthetweezers.“Ican’tsee.”“Whenyousaidrighttonsil,youmeantherright,notmyright,right?”“Herright.Yourleft.”“Okay,”Ibreathed.“Justwantedtomakesure.”Icouldn’tseewhatIwasdoing.Ihadthetweezersdownherthroatbutnotthescissors,andIdidn’t

knowhowIwasgoingtostuffbothinthetinymouthofthislittlegirl.“Hookthewirewiththeendofthetweezers,”Evansuggested.“Thenveryslowlyliftitupsoyoucan

seewhatyou’redoing.Don’tyank.Ifthewiredisconnectsfromthecapsule—”“Dear Jesus Christ, Walker, you don’t have to warn me every two minutes what happens if the

freakingwiredisconnectsfromthefreakingcapsule!”Ifeltthetipofthetweezerscatchonsomething.“Okay,IthinkI’vegotit.”“It’sverythin.Black.Shiny.Yourlightshouldreflect—”“Pleasebequiet.”Or,inpenlightspeak:Pweezbeqwiwet.Mywholebodywasshakingbutmyhands,miraculously,hadbecomerocksteady.Iforcedmyright

handintohermouthbypushingagainsttheinsideofhercheek,maneuveringthetipsofthescissorsintoposition.Wasthatit?DidIactuallyhaveit?Thewire,ifthatwasthewireshininginmylight,wasasthinasastrandofhumanhair.“Slowly,Cassie.”“Shut.Up.”“Ifsheswallowsit—”“I am going to kill you, Evan. Seriously.” I had the wire now, pinched between the tines of the

tweezers.IcouldseethetinyhookembeddedinherenflamedfleshasItugged.Slow,slow,slow.Makesureyoucutontherightendofthewire.Theclawend.“You’retooclose,”hewarnedme.“Stoptalkinganddon’tbreathedirectlyintohermouth...”Right.Soinstead,IthinkI’mgoingtopunchyoudirectlyinyours.

Ahundredwaysitcouldgowrong,hesaid.Butthere’swrongways,reallywrongways,andreallyreallywrongways.WhenMegan’s eyes flipped open and her body bucked beneathmine, wewentdownareallyreallyone.“She’sawake!”Iyelledunnecessarily.“Don’tletgoofthewire!”heshoutedback,necessarily.Her teeth clampeddownhardonmyhand.Herheadwhipped from side to side.My fingerswere

trappedinsidehermouth.Itriedtoholdthetweezersstill,butonehardtugandthecapsulewouldpullfree...“Evan,dosomething!”Hefumbledfortheragsoakedinairfreshener.Ishouted,“No,holdherheadstill,moron!Don’tlether—”“Letgoofthewire,”hegasped.“What?Youjustsaiddon’tletgoofthe...”Hepinchedhernoseshut.Letgo?Don’tletgo?IfIletgo,thewiremighttwistaroundthetweezers

and pull free. If I don’t let go, all the turning and twisting andwhipping aroundmight yank it free.Megan’seyesrolledinherhead.Painandterrorandconfusion,theconstantmixtheOthersneverfailedtodeliver.HermouthflewopenandIjammedthescissorsdownherthroat.“Ihateyourightnow,”Ibreathedathim.“IhateyoumorethanIhateanyoneelseintheworld.”I

feltlikeheneededtoknowthatbeforeIsnappedthescissorsclosed.Incasewewerevaporized.“Doyouhaveit?”heasked.“IhavenofreakingclueifIhaveit!”“Doit.”Thenhesmiled.Smiled!“Cutthewire,Mayfly,”hesaid.Icutthewire.

41

“IT’SATEST,”Evansaid.The green liquid-gelcap-looking thing lay on the desk, safely—we hoped—sealed inside a clear

plasticbaggie,thekindyourmomusedinthelong-gonegoodolddaystokeepyoursandwichandchipsfreshforlunchperiod.“What,likehumanIEDsarestillintheR-and-Dphase?”Benasked.Hewasleaningonthesillofthe

busted-outwindow,shivering,butsomeonehadtowatchtheparkinglot,andhewasn’tlettinganyoneelsetaketherisk.Atleasthehadchangedoutoftheblood-soaked,hideous(itwashideousbeforeitwasblood-soaked) yellow hoodie and into a black sweatshirt that almost brought him back to his pre-Arrival,buffed-outperiod.Fromthebed,Samgiggledhesitantly,unsureifhisbelovedZombieleaderwasmakingajoke.I’mno

shrink,butIguessedSamshadundergonesometransferenceduetoseriouslyunresolveddaddyissues.“Notthebomb,”Evananswered.“Us.”“Great,”Bengrowled.“FirsttestI’vepassedinthreeyears.”“Cutitout,Parish,”Isaid.Whopassedthelawthatsaidjockshadtoactstupidtobecool?“Iknow

forafactyouwereaNationalMeritFinalistlastyear.”“Really?”Dumbo’searsperkedup.Okay,Ishouldn’tmakeremarksabouthisears,buthedidappear

tobedumbfounded.“Yes,really,”BensaidwithapatentedParishsmile.“Butitwasaveryweakyear.Aliensinvaded.”

HelookedatEvan.Hissmiledied,whichhissmileusuallydidwhenhelookedatEvan.“Whataretheytestingusfor?”“Knowledge.”“Yeah, thatwould be the purpose of a test.Youknowwhatwould be really helpful right now? If

you’dknockoff theenigmaticalienroutineandget thefuckreal.Becauseeverysecondthatgoesbyand that thingdoesn’tgooff”—nodding to thebaggie—“isasecond thatdoublesour risk.Soonerorlater,andI’mleaningtowardsooner,they’recomingbackandblowingourassestoDubuque.”“Dubuque?”Dumbosqueaked.Hedidn’tgetthereferenceandthatfrightenedhim.Whatwaswrong

inDubuque?“Justatown,Dumbo,”Bensaid.“Arandomtown.”Evanwasnodding.IglancedoveratPoundcakefillingthedoorway,hismouthhangingopenslightly

ashisbigheadping-pongedtofollowtheconversation.“Theywillcomeback,”Evansaid.“Unlesswefailthetestsotheydon’thaveto.”“Failit?Wepassed,didn’twe?”Benturnedtome.“Ifeelasifwepassed.Howaboutyou?”“Failingmeanswetookherin,allfat,dumb,andhappy,”Iexplained,“andthengotourassesblown

backtoDubuque.”“Dubuque,”Dumboechoed,mystified.“The absence of detonation can mean only one of three things,” Evan said. “One, the device

malfunctioned.Two,thedevicewasincorrectlycalibrated.Orthree...”Benhelduphishand.“Orthree,someoneinthehotelknowsaboutthebomb-childrenandwasable

to remove it, put it in a plastic baggie, and conduct a seminar on how to instill panic and paranoiaamongthedopeyhumans.ThetestistoseeifwehaveaSilenceramongus.”“Wedo!”Samyelled.HejabbedhisfingeratEvan.“You’reaSilencer!”“Somethingyouabsolutelycan’tknowforsureifyouvaporizethejointwithacoupleofwell-placed

Hellfiremissiles,”Benfinished.“Whichraisesthequestion,”Evansaidquietly.“Whywouldtheysuspectsuchathing?”A silence settled over the room. Ben drummed his fingers on his forearm. Poundcake’s mouth

snappedclosed.Dumbotuggedonanearlobe.Irockedbackandforthinthechair,pluckingatBear’spaw. Ididn’tknowhowIcame intopossessionofBear.Maybe IgrabbedhimwhilePoundcakewasmoving Megan into the adjacent room. I remembered his getting knocked to the floor but didn’trememberpickinghimup.“Well, it’sobvious,”Bensaid.“Theymusthaveawayofknowingyou’rehere.Right?Otherwise,

youruntheriskoftakingoutyourownplayers.”“IftheyknewIwashere,therewouldbenoneedforatest.TheysuspectI’mhere.”ThenIgotit.Andgettingitdidnotbringmeanycomfort.“Ringer.”Ben’sheadwhippedtowardme.Theslightestbreathofwindwouldhavetoppledhimfromhisperch.“She’sbeencaptured,”Isaid.“OrTeacup.Orboth.”IturnedtoEvan,becausethelookonBen’sface

wastoomuchtobear.“Thatmakesthemostsense,”Evanagreed.“Bullshit!Ringerwouldnevergiveusup,”Benbarkedathim.“Notwillingly,”Evansaid.“Wonderland,”Ibreathed.“They’vedownloadedhermemories...”Bencameoffthesillthen,losthisbalance,staggeredforward,knockedagainsttheedgeofSammy’s

bed.Hewasshaking,andnotfromthecold.“Ohno.No,no,no.Ringerhasnotbeencaptured.She’ssafeandTeacup’ssafeandwearenotgoingthere...”“No,”Evansaid.“We’realreadythere.”I slid out of the chair and went to Ben. One of thosemoments when you know you have to do

somethingbutyouhavenoideawhat.“Ben,he’sright.Thereasonwe’realiverightnowis thesamereasontheysentMegan.”“Whatisitwithyou?”Bendemanded.“Youbuyintoeverythinghesayslikehe’sMosescomedown

fromthemountaintop.If theythinkhe’shere, forwhateverreason, thentheyknowhe’sa traitorandwouldstillsenduspackingtoDubuque.”EverybodylookedatDumbo,waitingforit.“Theydon’twanttokillme,”Evansaidfinally.Hehadasad,sicklookonhisface.“That’sright,Iforgot,”Bensaid.“Thatwouldbeme.”Hepulledawayfrommeandshuffledbackto

thewindow, leanedhishandson the sill and studied thenight sky. “Stayhere,we’redone.Bugout,we’re done.We’re like five-year-olds playing chesswithBobbyFischer.”He swung back around toEvan.“Youcouldhavebeenspottedbyapatrol,followedhere.”Hepointedatthebaggie.“Thatdoesn’tmeantheyhaveRingerorCup.Allitmeansiswe’reoutoftime.Can’thide,can’trun,sothequestioncirclesbacktosamequestionit’salwaysbeen:not ifwe’regonnadie,buthow.Howarewegoingtodie?Dumbo,howdoyouwanttodie?”Dumbostiffened.Hisshoulderssquared,hischincameup.“Standingup,sir.”BenlookedatPoundcake.“Cake,doyouwanttodiestandingup?”Poundcakehadcometoattention,too.Henoddedsmartly.Bendidn’thavetoaskSam.Mylittlebrothersimplystoodupandveryslowlyanddeliberatelygave

hiscommandingofficerasalute.

42

OH,BROTHER.Guys.ItossedBearonthedesk.“I’vebeenherebefore,”ItoldtheMachoBrigade.“Runequalsdie.Stay

equalsdie.SobeforewegoallO.K.Corralonthis,let’sconsiderthethirdoption:Weblowitup.”Thatsuggestionsuckedall theair fromtheroom.Evangot it first,noddingslowly,butclearlynot

happywiththeidea.Lotsofvariables.Athousandwaysitcangowrong,onlyonewayright.Ben cut right to the gooey guts of the problem: “How?Who has the duty of breathing on it and

gettingvaporized?”“I’lldoit,Sarge,”Dumbosaid.Hisearshadturnedred,likehewasembarrassedbyhisowncourage.

Hesmiledshyly.He’dfinallygottenit:“I’vealwayswantedtoseeDubuque.”“Humanbreathisn’ttheonlysourceofCO2,”IpointedouttotheNationalMeritFinalist.“Coke!”Dumbofairlyshouted.“Goodluckfindingoneofthose,”Bensaid.Itwastrue.Alongwithanythingalcoholic,softdrinks

wereoneofthefirstcasualtiesoftheinvasion.“Acanorabottle,yes,”Evansaid.“Cassie,didn’tyoutellmetherewasadinernextdoor?”“TheCO2canistersforthefountaindrinks,”Istarted.“Areprobablystillthere,”hefinished.“Attachthebombtothecanister...”“RigthecanistertodispensetheCO2...”“Aslowleak...”“Inaconfinedspace...”“Theelevator!”wesaidinunison.“Wow,”Benbreathed.“Brilliant.ButI’malittleunclearonhowthissolvestheproblem.”“They’ll thinkwe’re dead,Zombie,”Sam said.The five-year-old understood, but he lackedBen’s

burdenofexperienceinoutwittingVoschandcompany.“Thentheycheckitout,theyfindnobodies,theyknow,”Bensaid.“Butitwillbuyustime,”Evanpointedout.“Andmyguessisbythetimetheyrealizethetruth,it’ll

betoolate.”“Becauseobviouslywe’rejusttoodarncleverforthem?”Benasked.Evansmiledgrimly.“Becausewe’regoingtothelastplacethey’dthinktolook.”

43

THEREWASNOTIMEformoredebate;wehadtopullthetriggeronOperationEarlyCheckoutbeforethe5thWave pulled the trigger on us. Ben and Poundcake left to fetch a CO2 canister from the diner.Dumbotookhallpatrol.I toldSamhehadtowatchMegan,herbeingapalfromtheolddaysontheschoolbus.Heaskedforthegunback.Iremindedhimthathavingthegundidn’thelpsomuchthelasttime:He’demptiedthemagazinewithoutevennickingthetarget.ItriedtogivehimBear.Herolledhiseyes.Bearwassosixmonthsago.ThenEvanandIwerealone.Justhim,me,andalittlegreenbombmadethree.“Spillit,”Iorderedhim.“Spillwhat?”EyesallbigandinnocentasBear’s.“Yourguts,Walker.You’reholdingback.”“Whydoyou—?”“Becausethat’syourstyle.Yourmodusoperandi.Likeaniceberg,three-quartersunderthesurface,

butthere’snowayI’mlettingyouturnthishotelintotheTitanic.”Hesighed,avoidingmyglare.“Penandpaper?”“What? Time for a tender love poem?” That was his style, too: Every time I edged too close to

something, he deflected by telling me how much he loved me or how I saved him or some otherswoony,pseudo-profoundobservationaboutthenatureofmymagnificence.ButIgrabbedthepadandpenfromthedeskandhandedthemoverbecause,attheendoftheday,whomindsgettingatenderlovepoem?Insteadhedrewamap.“Single-story,white—orusedtobewhite—woodframe,Idon’tremembertheaddress,butit’sright

onHighway68.Nexttoaservicestation.Hasoneofthoseoldmetalsignshangingoutfront,HavolineOilorsomethinglikethat.”Hetoreoffthesheetandpresseditintomyhand.“Andwhyisthisthelastplacethey’dlookforus?”Iwasfallingforthedeflectingtechniqueagain,

not thatHavolineOilhadanythingcloyinglypoeticalabout it.“Andwhyareyoudrawingmeamapwhenyou’recomingwithus?”“Incasesomethinghappens.”“Toyou.Whatifsomethinghappenstobothofus?”“You’reright.I’llmakefivemore.”Hestartedonthenextone.Iwatchedfortwoseconds,thengrabbedthepadoutofhishandandthrew

itathishead.“Yousonofabitch.Iknowwhatyou’redoing.”“Iwasdrawingamap,Cassie.”“RiggingadetonatorfromasodafountainMission: Impossible style, really?Whileweall run like

hell for the Havoline sign with you in the lead on your broken ankle and stabbed leg, sporting ahundred-and-six-degreetemperature...”“IfIhadahundred-and-six-degreetemperature,I’dbedead,”hepointedout.

“No,andyouwanttoknowwhy?Becausedeadpeoplehavenotemperature!”Hewasnoddingthoughtfully.“God,I’vemissedyou.”“There! There it is, right there! Just like theWalker homestead, just like Camp Ashpit, just like

Vosch’sdeathcamp.WheneverI’vegotyoucornered...”“YouhadmecorneredtheminuteIlaid—”“Stopit.”Hestopped.Isatonthebednexttohim.MaybeIwasgoingaboutthisallwrong.Youcatchmore

flieswithhoney,mygrandmotheralwayssaid.Theproblemwasthatwomanlywilesweren’tsomethingIcarriedinmywheelhouse.Itookhishand.Ilookeddeeplyintohiseyes.Iconsideredunbuttoningmyshirtabit,butdecidedhemightseethroughthatlittleploy.Notthatmyployswerethatlittle.“I’mnotlettingyoupullanotherCampHavenonme,”Isaid,addingwhatIhopedtobeanalluring

purr to the timbre. “That isn’t going to happen.You’re comingwith us. Poundcake andDumbo cancarryyou.”Hereachedupwithhisotherhandandtouchedmycheek.Iknewthattouch.I’dmissedit.“Iknow,”

hesaid.Theexpressioninhischocolatey(gah)eyeswasinfinitelysad.Iknewthatlook,too.I’dseenitbefore,inthewoodswhenheconfessedwhohereallywas.“Butyoudon’tknoweverything.Youdon’tknowaboutGrace.”“Grace,”Iechoed,pushinghishandfrommycheek,forgettingallaboutthehoney.Ilikedhistouch

toomuch,Idecided.Ineededtoworkonnotlikingitsomuch.AndalsoworkonnotlikingthewayhelookedatmeasifIwerethelastpersononEarth,whichIactuallythoughtIwasbeforehefoundme.That’saterriblething,anawfulburdentoputonsomeone.Youmakeyourwholeexistencedependentonanotherhumanbeingandyou’reaskingforaworldoftrouble.Thinkofeverytragiclovestoryeverwritten.AndIdidn’twant toplayJuliet toanybody’sRomeo,not if Icouldhelp it.Even if theonlycandidateavailablewaswillingtodieformeandsittingrightbesidemeholdingmyhandandlookingdeeplyintomyeyeswiththenot-so-gah-noweyesthecolorofmeltedchocolate.PlusbeingpracticallynakedunderthosecoversandpossessingthebodyofaHollisterdude. . .butI’mnotgettingintoallthat.“Graceagain.YoukeptmentioninggraceafterIshotyou,”Itoldhim.“Youdon’tknowGrace.”Well,thatstung.Ineverknewhewassoreligious—orjudgmental.Thetwousuallygohandinhand,

still...“Cassie,Ihavetotellyousomething.”“You’reaBaptist?”“That day on the highway after I—let you get away, I was very afraid. I didn’t understandwhat

happened,whyIcouldn’t...dowhatIcametodo.DowhatIwasborntodo.Itdidn’tmakesensetome.Andinalotofways,itstilldoesn’tmakesense.Youthinkyouknowyourself.Youthinkyouknowthe person you see in themirror. I found you, but in finding you, I lostmyself. Nothingwas clearanymore.Nothingwassimple.”Inodded.“Irememberthat.Iremembersimple.”“Inthebeginning,afterIbroughtyouback,Ireallydidn’tknowifyouweregoingtomakeit.AndI

wouldsittherewithyouandI’dthink,Maybesheshouldn’t.”“Gee,Evan.That’ssoromantic.”“Iknewwhatwascoming,”hesaid,andthatsurewassomethingclearandsimple.Hegrabbedboth

my hands and pulledme close, and I fell a thousandmiles into those damn eyes,which iswhy thehoneytechniquedoesn’tfitme:I’mmoretheflywhenI’maroundhim.“Iknowwhat’scoming,Cassie,anduntilnowIthoughtthedeadweretheluckyones.ButIseeitnow.Iseeit.”“What?Whatdoyousee,Evan?”Myvoicequivering.Hewasscaringme.Maybeitwasthefever

talking,butEvanwasactingveryun-Evanish.“Thewayout.Theway to finish it.TheproblemisGrace.Grace is toomuchforyou—foranyof

you.GraceisthedoorwayandI’mtheonlyonewhocanwalkthroughit.Icangiveyouthat.Andtime.Thosetwothings,Graceandtime,andthenyoucanfinishit.”

44

THENDUMBO,withperfecttiming,poppedhisheadintotheroom.“They’reback,Sullivan.Zombiesaid—”Hestopped.Obviouslyhe’dinterruptedanintimatemoment.ThankGodIhadn’tunbuttonedmyshirt.IpulledmyhandsfromEvan’sandstoodup.“Didtheyfindacanister?”Dumbonodded.“They’reputtingitintheelevatornow.”HelookedatEvan.“Zombiesaidanytime

you’reready.”Evan nodded slowly. “Okay.” But he didn’t move. I didn’t move. Dumbo stood there for a few

seconds.“Okay,”hesaid.Evandidn’tsayanything.Ididn’tsayanything.ThenDumbosaid,“Seeyouguys

later—inDubuque!Heh-heh.”Hebackedoutoftheroom.IwhirledonEvan.“Allright.RememberwhatBensaidabouttheenigmaticalienthing?”ThenEvanWalkerdidsomethingI’dneverseenhimdo—orheardhimsay,tobeaccurate.“Shit,”hesaid.Dumbowasbackinthedoorway,slack-jawed,red-eared,andinthegraspofatallgirlwithacascade

of honey-blond hair and striking Norwegian-model-type features, piercing blue eyes, full, pouty,collagen-packedlips,andthewillowyfigureofarunwayfashionprincess.“Hello,Evan,”CosmoGirlsaid.Andofcoursehervoicewasdeepandslightlyscratchylikeevery

seductivevillainesseverconceivedbyHollywood.“Hello,Grace,”Evansaid.

45

GRACE:APERSON,notaprayeroranythingclosetobeingconnectedtoGod.Andarmedtotheteeth:ShehadDumbo’sM16inadditiontotheheftysniperriflehangingfromherback.Sheshovedthekidintotheroomandthenblewoutmyeyesightwithhermegawattsmile.“And you must be Cassiopeia, queen of the night sky. I’m surprised, Evan. She’s nothing like I

pictured.Kindofaginger.Didn’tknowthatwasyourtype.”IlookedatEvan.“Whothehellisthisperson?”“Graceislikeme,”Evansaid.“Wegowayback.Tencenturies,giveortake.Speakingoftaking...”Gracemotionedformyrifle.I

tosseditatherfeet.“Sidearm,too.Andthatknifestrappedtoyourankle,underthefatigues.”“Letthemgo,Grace,”Evansaid.“Wedon’tneedthem.”Grace ignoredhim.Shegavemy rifle a littlekick and toldme to toss it out thewindowwith the

Lugerand theknife.Evannoddedatmeas if tosay,Betterdo it.SoIdid.Myheadwasspinning. Icouldn’tgrabholdofasinglecoherentthought.GracewasaSilencerlikeEvan—thatoneIcouldhugtight.ButhowdidsheknowmynameandwhywasshehereandhowdidEvanknowshewascomingandwhatdidhemeanbyGraceisthedoorway?Thedoorwaytowhat?“Iknewshewashuman.”GracewasbackonEvan’s favorite subject. “But I never imaginedhow

completelyhumanshewas.”Evanknewitwascoming,buthetriedtostopitanyway.“Cassie...”“Fuckyouandthehorseyourodeinon,youfuckingalienmotherfucker.”“Colorful.Imaginative.Nice.”GracemotionedwithDumbo’srifleformetosit.Again,Evanshotmealook:Doit,Cassie.SoIsatonthebednexttohis,besideDumbo,whowas

breathingthroughhismouthlikeanasthmatic.Graceremainedinthedoorwaysoshecouldkeepaneyeon the hall.Maybe she didn’t knowaboutSamandMegan in the next roomorBen andPoundcakewaitingforEvanin theelevatordownstairs.IunderstoodEvan’sstrategythen:Stall.Buytime.WhenBenandPoundcakecameuptoseewhatthehellwasgoingon,thatwouldbeourchance.IrememberedEvan taking out an entire squad of 5thWavers, outgunned and outnumbered, in pitch darkness, andthought,No,whentheyshowup,thatwillbeherchance.I studied her, theway she leaned against the jambwith one ankle thrown casually over the other,

golden tresses flowing over one shoulder, her head turned slightly to display for our admiration herstunningNordicprofile,andIthought,Sure,makessense.Ifyoucandownloadyourselfintoanysortofhumanbody,whynotpickanimpeccableone?Evan,too.Inthatsense,hewasnothingbutabigphony.Andthat’sweirdtothinkabout.Deepdown,thedudewhogavemetheJell-Okneeswasaneffigy,amaskoverafacelessfacethatprobablytenthousandyearsagolookedlikeasquidorsomething.“Well,theydidtellustherewasrisk,livingsolongashumansamonghumans,”Gracesaid.“Tellme

something,Cassiopeia:Don’tyouthinkhe’sperfectlyperfectinbed?”“Whydon’tyoutellme,”Ishotback.“Youextraterrestrialslut.”“Feisty,”GracesaidtoEvanwithasmile.“Likehernamesake.”“Theyhavenothingtodowiththis,”Evansaid.“Letthemgo,Grace.”

“Evan,I’mnotevensureIunderstandwhatthisis.”Sheleftherpostandfloated—there’snootherwordforit—tohisbedside.“AndnobodyisgoinganywhereuntilIdo.”Sheleanedoverandtookhisfaceinherhandsandkissedhimlongandlingeringonthelips.Hefoughther—Icouldseethat—butsheimmobilizedhimwithherotherworldlyüberwiles,whichshecarriedinspadesinherwheelhouse.“Didyoutellher,Evan?”shemurmuredagainsthischeek,thoughshemadesureIcouldhear.“Doessheknowhowallofthisends?”“Like this,”Isaid,and launchedmyselfather, leading,asIusuallydid,withmyhead,aiming the

hardcrownpartofitat thesoft templepartofhers.Theimpactknockedhersidewaysintotheclosetdoors.IendedupsprawledacrossEvan’slap.Perfectlyperfect,Ithought,alittleincoherently.IpushedmyselfupandEvanwrappedhisarmsaroundmywaistandyankedmebackdown.“No,

Cassie.”ButhewasweakandIwasstrongandIrippedfreeeasilyandjumpedfromthebedontoherback.

Thatwasabigmistake:Shegrabbedmyarmandhurledmeacrosstheroom.Ismashedagainstthewallbesidethewindowandploppedstraightdownonmyass,sendingahotjoltofpainupmyback.Fromthehallway,Iheardadoorflyopen,andIshouted,“Getout,Sam!GetZombie!Get—”Shewasgonebefore Igot the secondgetout.The last time I sawsomeonemove that fastwasat

CampAshpit,when thephonysoldiers fromWright-Patterson spottedmehiding in thewoods.Like,cartoonfast,whichmightbehumorousifnotforthereasonshebolted.Ohnoyoudon’t,bitch.Notmylittlebrother.IracedpastDumbo,pastEvan,whohadthrownoffthecoversandwasstrugglingtoswinghisbadly

woundedselfoutofbed, into thehall,whichwasempty,notagood thing,notgoodatall, then twostepstoSam’sroom,andwhenmyfingerstouchedthehandle,awreckingballsmashedintothebackofmy head and my nose smacked into the wood. Something went crunch, and it wasn’t the wood. Isteppedbackward,bloodpouringdownmyface.Icouldtastemybloodandsomehowitwasthetastethatkeptmeupright—Ididn’tknowtillthenthatragehadatasteandittastedlikeyourownblood.ColdfingerslockedaroundmyneckandIwatchedmyfeetleavethegroundthroughashowerofred

rain.ThenIwassoaringdownthelengthofthehallway,comingdownhardonmyshoulder,androllingtoastopafootfromthewindowatthefarend.Grace:“Staythere.”ShewasstandingbySammy’sdoor,alitheshadowdownadimlylittunnel,shimmeringontheother

sideofthetearsthatwelleduncontrollablyandspilleddownmycheekstomixwithblood.“Leave.My.Brother.Alone.”“Thatadorablelittleboy?He’syourbrother?I’msorry,Cassiopeia,Ididn’tknow.”Shakingherhead

inmocksadness.Liketheymockedeverydecenthumanthing.“He’salreadydead.”

46

THREETHINGSHAPPENEDthen,allatthesametime.Four,ifyoucountedmyheartblowingapart.I ran—notaway but toward. Iwas going to rip her cover-model face off. Iwas going to tear her

pseudo-humanheartfrombetweenherperfectlyshapedhumanboobs.Iwasgoingtoopenherupwithmyfingernails.Thatwasthefirstthing.The second was the stairway door flying open and Poundcake entering the hall in anything but

Eeyorefashion,shovingmebackwithonearmastheotherbroughthisrifletobearonGrace.Notaneasyshotbyanymeans,butPoundcakewasthesquad’sbestmarksmanafterRinger,accordingtoBen.Thethirdthingwasashirtless,boxer-shorts-wearingEvanWalker,crawlingoutoftheroombehind

Grace.Expertmarksmanornot, ifPoundcakemissed. . .orifGracedivedoutofthewayat thelastsecond...So I did the diving, wrapping my arms around the kid’s ankles. He toppled forward, his rifle

discharged,andthenIheardthestairwaydooragainandBenshouting,“Freeze!”justliketheyusedtointhemovies,butnobodyfroze,notme,notPoundcake,andnotEvan—andcertainlynotGrace,whowasgone.Shewasthereandthenshewasn’t.BenhoppedovermeandPoundcakeandlimpeddownthehalltotheroomoppositeSam’s.Sam.Ijumpedupandraceddownthehall.BenwasmotioningtoPoundcake,saying,“She’sinthere.”Iyankedonthehandle.Locked.Thankyou,God!Ipoundedonthedoor.“Sam!Sam,openup!It’s

me!”Andfromtheotherside,avoicenolouderthanamouse’ssqueak:“It’satrick!You’retrickingme!”Ilostit.Pressedmybloodycheekagainstthedoorandhadagood,solid,andverysatisfyingmini-

breakdown.I’dletmyguarddown.I’dforgottenhowcrueltheOtherscouldbe.Notenoughtopunchaholethroughmyheartwithabullet.No,firstyouhavetopummelitandstomponitandcrushitinyourhandsuntilthetissueoozesfrombetweenyourfingerslikePlay-Doh.“Okay,okay,okay,”Iwhimpered.“Stayinthere,okay?Nomatterwhat,Sam.Don’tcomeouttillI

comeback.”Poundcakewasstandingtoonesideofthedooracrossthehall.BenwashelpingEvantohisfeet—or

trying to. Every time he loosened his grip, Evan’s knees buckled. Ben finally decided to lean himagainstthewall,whereEvanrocked,gaspingforair,hisskinthecoloroftheashesatthecampwheremyfatherdied.Evanlookedoveratmeandhehardlyhadthebreathforthewords:“Getoutofthishallway.Now.”The drywall in front of Poundcake blew apart in a rain of fine white dust and chunks of moldy

wallpaper. He staggered backward. His rifle fell from his limp fingers. He knocked into Ben, whograbbedhimbytheshoulderandthrewhimintotheroomwithDumbo.Benreachedformenext,butIslappedhishandawayandtoldhimtograbEvanbeforepickingupPoundcake’srifleandopeninguponGrace’sdoor.Thesoundwasdeafeninginthenarrowhall.IemptiedthemagazinebeforeBengotholdofmeandpulledmeback.

“Don’tbeanidiot!”heshouted.Heslappedafullmagazineintomyhandandtoldmetowatchthedoorbutstaydown.The scene played out like a TV show going on in another room: just voices. I was flat on my

stomach, restingmyupperbodyonmyelbows, therifle trainedon thedoordirectlyacrossfromme.Comeon,icemaiden.Ihavealittlesomethingforyou.Runningmytongueovermybloodylips,hatingthetaste,lovingthetaste.Comeon,youcreepySwede.Ben:Dumbo,howisit?Dumbo!Dumbo:It’sbad,Sarge.Ben:Howbad?Dumbo:Prettybad...Ben:Oh,Christ.Icanfreakingseethatit’sbad,Dumbo!Evan:Ben—listentome—youhavetolistentome—wehavetogetoutofhere.Now.Ben:Why?Wegothercontained—Evan:Notforlong.Ben:Sullivancanhandleher.Whothehellisshe,anyway?Evan:(unintelligible)Ben:Well,sure.Themorethemerrier.Guesswe’rewellintoPlanB.I’vegotyou,Walker.Dumbo,

youhavePoundcake.Sullivanwilltakethekids.Beneaseddownbesideme,placinghishandonthesmallofmyback.Henoddedtowardthedoor.“Wecan’tbugoutuntilthethreat’sneutralized,”hewhispered.“Hey,whathappenedtoyournose?”Ishrugged.Swipe,swipewentthetongue.“How?”IsoundedlikeIhadabadheadcold.“Prettysimple.Somebodytakesthedoor,onelow,onehigh,onetotheright,onetotheleft.Worst

partthefirsttwoandahalfseconds.”“What’sthebestpart?”“Thelasttwoandahalfseconds.Ready?”“Cassie,wait.”Evan,onhiskneesbehinduslikeapilgrimatthealtar.“Bendoesn’tknowwhathe’s

dealingwith—butyoudo.Tellhim.Tellhimwhatshe’scapa—”“Shutup,loverboy,”Bengrowled.Hetuggedonmyshirt.“Let’sroll.”“She’snoteveninthereanymore—Iguaranteeyou,”Evansaid,raisinghisvoice.“What?Shejumpedtwostories?”Benlaughed.“That’sgreat.I’llpopherbroken-leggedasswhenI

getdownthere.”“Sheprobablyhas jumped—butshedidn’tbreakanything.Grace is likeme.”Evanwas talking to

bothofusbutlookingdesperatelyatme.“Likeme,Cassie.”“Butyou’rehuman—Imean,yourbodyis,”Bensaid.“Andnohumanbodycould—”“Herbodycould.Notmineanymore.Minehas...crashed.”“Yougettingallthis?”Benaskedme.“Becausetome,thissoundslikemoreofMr.E.T.’sbullshit.”“Whatdoyousuggestwedo,Evan?”Iasked.Despitethemightytastybloodinmymouth,therage

wasdrainingoutofme,replacedbytheveryuncomfortableand,bynow,veryfamiliarfeelingofbeinginfivethousandfathomsovermyhead.“Getout.Now.Itisn’tyoushewants.”“Sacrificialgoat,”Bensaidwithanastysmile.“Ilikeit.”“She’ll just letuswalkaway,” I said, shakingmyhead.Mysenseofdrowningwasgrowingmore

acute.CouldBenberight?WhatwasIthinking,trustingEvanWalkerwithmylifeandthelifeofmybrother?Somethingwasoffhere.Somethingwaswrong.“Justlikethat.”“Idon’tknow,”Evananswered,whichwasapoint inhisfavor.Hecouldhavesaid,Sure,she’san

okaypersononceyougetpastheritsy-bitsysadismproblem.“ButIdoknowwhatwillhappenifyoustay.”

“Goodenoughforme,”Benannounced.Hebackedintotheroom.“Changeofplans,boys.I’llhandlePoundcake.Dumbo,youtakeMegan.Sullivan’sgotherbrother.Dropyourtrunkandgrabyourjunk,we’regoin’toaparty!”“Cassie.”Evan scooted besideme.He turnedmy face toward his, ran his thumb overmy bloody

cheek.“It’stheonlyway.”“I’mnotleavingyou,Evan.AndI’mnotlettingyouleaveme.Notagain.”“AndSam?Youmadeapromisetohim,too.Youcan’tkeepboth.Graceismyproblem.She...she

belongstome.NotthewaythatSambelongstoyou;Idon’tmeanthat...”“Really?I’msurprised,Evan.You’reusuallysoclearabouteverything.”Isatup,tookadeepbreath,andslappedhisbeautifulface.Icouldhaveshothimbutdecidedtolet

himoffeasy.And that’swhenweheard it, like the slapwas the signal it hadbeenwaiting for: the soundof an

attackhelicopter,cominginfast.

47

THESPOTLIGHTHITNEXT:Brilliantbrightlightfloodedthehall,pouredintotheroom,flunghard-edgedshadowsagainstthewallsandfloor.Benracedoverandyankedmetomyfeet;IgrabbedEvan’sarmandtugged.Hepulledfree,shakinghishead.“Justleaveagunwithme.”“Yougotit,pal,”Bensaid,handingoverhissidearm.“Sullivan,getyourbrother.”“What’sthematterwithyouguys?”Isaid.Icouldn’tbelieveit.“Wecan’trunnow.”“What’syourplan?”Benshouted.Hehadtoshout.Theroarofthechoppersmasheddownanything

softer—bytheangleoflightandthesound,directlyoverthehotelnow.Evanwrappedhisfingersaroundthesplintereddoorjambandheavedhimself tohisfeet—ortohis

foot;hecouldn’tputanyweightontheotherone.Ishoutedinhisear,“Justtellmeonething,andforonceinyourten-thousand-year-oldlifebehonest.Youneverintendedtorigabombandescapewithus.YouknewGracewascomingandyouwereplanningtoblowbothof—”At thatmoment,Sammybangedoutofhis room,onehandlockedaroundMegan’swrist.Atsome

point,thelittlegirlhadacquiredBear.Samsprobablygaveittoher—hewasalwayspassingthatbeartosomeoneinneed.“Cassie!”Hebarreledintome,hittingmehardinthegutwithhishead.Ihauledhimontomyhip,swayed,Jesus,he’sgettingheavy,andgrabbedMegan’shand.Amaelstromoficywindroaredthroughthebrokenwindow,andIheardDumboscream,“They’re

landingontheroof!”Iheardhimbecausehewaspracticallyclimbingintomybackpockettryingtogetintothehall.Ben

wasrightbehindhim,Poundcakeleaningagainsthisside,thebigkid’sarmdrapedaroundhisshoulder.“Sullivan!”Benshouted.“Moveit!”Evan locked his fingers around my elbow. “Wait.” He looked up at the ceiling. His lips moved

soundlessly,ormaybetherewassoundandIjustcouldn’thearit.“Wait?”Ihollered.Thegeneralsenseofpanichadbecomequitespecific.“Waitforwhat?”Eyesstillheavenward:“Grace.”Abansheehowlroseoverthethrummingoftherotors,increasinginvolumeandpitchuntilitbecame

an ear-piercing, unearthly scream. The whole building shook. A crack raced down the ceiling. Thehorrible hotel prints in their cheap frames toppled from the walls. The spotlight winked out, and asecondlater,theexplosion,andasuperheatedblastofairrumbledintotheroom.“Shegotthepilot,”Evansaidwithanod.Hepulledme,Sams,andMeganintothehallandsaidover

hisshouldertoBen,“Nowyougo.”Thentome:“Thehouseonthemap.It’sGrace’snow,butitwon’tbe after tonight. Don’t leave it. There’s food and water and plenty of supplies to last through thewinter.”Speakingveryquicklynow,almostoutoftime—the5thWavemightnotbecoming,butGracewas.“You’llbesafethere,Cassie.Attheequinox...”Ben,Dumbo,andPoundcakehadreachedthestairs.Benwasfranticallywavingatus,Comeon!“Cassie!Areyoulistening?Attheequinox,themothershipwillsendapodtoextractGracefromthe

safehouse...”“Sullivan!Now!”Benbellowed.

“Ifyoucanfigureoutawaytorigit...”Hewaspressingsomethingintomystomach,butmyhandswerefull.Iwatchedwide-eyedasmylittlebrothersnatchedtheplasticbaggieholdingthebombfromEvan’shand.ThenEvanWalkercuppedmyfaceinhishandsandkissedmehardonthemouth.“Youcanendit,Cassie.You.Andthat’sthewayitshouldbe.Itshouldbeyou.You.”Kissingmeagain,andmybloodmarkinghisface,histearsmarkingmine.“Ican’tmakeanypromisesthistime,”hehurriedon.“Butyoucan.Promiseme,Cassie.Promiseme

you’llendit.”Inodded.“I’llendit.”Andthepromiseasentencehandeddown,acelldoorslammingshut,astone

aroundmynecktocarrymedowntothebottomofaninfinitesea.

48

IPAUSEDFORahalfsecondatthestairwaydoor,knowingImightbeseeinghimforthelasttimeor,moreaccurately,forthesecondlasttime.Thentheplungeintopitchdark,notunlikethefirst lasttime,andwhisperingtoMegantowatchoutforratguts,andthenintothelobby,wheretheboyswhobroughtmetothispartyhungbythefrontdoors,theirbodiessilhouettedintheduskyorangeglowoftheburningchopper.Fleeing through themain entrancewas a brilliantly counterintuitivemove, I thought.GraceprobablyassumedwewerebarricadedinaroomupstairsandwouldMatrix-hopherwayupawalltothebusted-outwindowontheothersideofthebuilding.“Cassie,”Samsaidinmyear.“Yournoseisreallybig.”“That’sbecauseit’sbroken.”Likemyheart,kid.It’saset.PoundcakewasnolongerleaningagainstBenwithhisarmaroundhisneck.Hiswholebigbodywas

drapedoverBen’sinafireman’scarry.AndBendidnotlooklikehewasenjoyingit.“Thatisn’tgoingtowork,youknow,”Iinformedhim.“Youwon’tgetahundredyards.”Benignoredme.“Bo,you’vegotMeganduty.Sam,you’regonnahavetoclimbdown;yoursister’s

takingthepoint.I’vegottherear.”“Ineedagun!”Sammysaid.Benignoredhim,too.“Stages.StageOne:theoverpass.StageTwo:thetreesontheothersideofthe

overpass.StageThree—”“East,”Isaid. IsetSammyonthegroundandpulled thecrumpledmapfrommypocket.Benwas

looking at me like I’d lost my mind. “We’re going here.” Pointing at the tiny square representingGrace’ssafehouse.“Noooo,Sullivan.We’regoingtothecavernstomeetupwithRingerandTeacup.”“Idon’tcarewherewego,aslongasit’snotDubuque!”Dumbocried.Benshookhishead.“You’rekillingit,Dumbo.Justkillingit.Okay,herewego.”Wewent.A light snowwas falling, the tiny crystals ignited in the orange light spinning, and you

couldsmelltheoilystenchofthefuelburningandfeeltheheatpressingdownonyourhead,andItooktheleadasBensuggested—well,ordered—SammyhangingontoabeltloopandDumborightbehindwith Megan, who hadn’t spoken a word, and who could blame her? She was in shock, probably.Halfwayacrosstheparkinglot,nearingthestripofdirtthatseparateditfromtheinterstateon-ramp,IglancedbehindmeintimetoseeBengodownundertheweightofhisburden.IslungSammytowardDumboandskiddedacrosstheslickpavementtoBen.Ontheroofofthehotel,IcouldseethemangledmetalremainsoftheBlackHawk.“Itoldyouthiswouldn’twork!”Iwhisper-yelledathim.“I’mnot leaving him . . .”Benwas on all fours, gasping, retching.His lips shone crimson in the

firelight;hewascoughingupblood.ThenDumbowasstandingbesideme.“Sarge.Hey,Sarge...?”Something inDumbo’s voice grabbed his attention.He lookedup atDumbo,who shookhis head

slowly:He’snotgoingtomakeit.And Ben Parish slammed his open hand onto the frozen ground, arching his back and yelling

incoherently,andI’mthinking,OhGod,ohGod,notthetimeforanexistentialcrisis.We’redoneifhelosesit.Wearesodone.I knelt beside Ben. His face was contorted by pain and fear and rage, the anger rooted in the

unchangeable,ever-presentpast,wherehissistercriedforhimandhestillabandonedhertodeath.Heabandonedherbutshewouldnotabandonhim.Shewouldalwaysbewithhim.Shewouldbewithhimuntilhetookhislastbreath.Shewaswithhimnow,bleedingoutafootaway,andtherewasnothinghecoulddotosaveher.“Ben,”Isaid,runningmyfingersoverthebackofhishead.Hishairshimmered,dottedincrystalline

snow.“It’sover.”A shadow flitted past us, racing toward the hotel. I jumped up and took off after it, because the

shadowwasattachedtomybabybrotherandhewashaulingasstowardthefrontdoors.Icaughthimandyankedhimofftheground,andhecommencedkickingandsquirmingandgenerallygoingberserk,and Iwas sureDumbowas going to pop next, and three lunaticswere toomany for any person tomanage.Iwasworriedfornothing,though.DumbohadBenonhisfeetandMeganbythehand,urgingboth

towardtheroad,havinganeasiertimeofitthanIwaswithSammyhookedundermyarmfacedown,armsandlegsflailing,yelling,“Wegottagoback,Cassie!Wegottagoback!”Acrosstheon-ramp,downthesteephill to theoverpass,StageOnecomplete,andthenIdeposited

Sammyonthegroundandwhackedhimhardonthebuttandtoldhimtoknockitofforhe’dgetusallkilled.“What’sthematterwithyou,anyway?”Iasked.“Iwastryingtotellyou!”hesobbed.“Butyouwouldn’tlisten.Youneverlisten!Idroppedit!”“Youdropped—?”“Thebag,Cassie.Runningout,I...Idroppedit!”IlookedoveratBen.Hunchedover,headdown,forearmsrestingonhisupraisedknees.Ilookedat

Dumbo.Slump-shouldered,wide-eyed,handholdingMegan’s.“Ihaveabadfeelingaboutthis,”hewhispered.Theworldwentbreathless.Eventhesnowseemedtohangsuspendedintheair.Thehotelblewapartinablindingfireballofneongreen.Thegroundshuddered.Airrushedintothe

vacuum,knockingthefourofusoffourfeet.Thenthedebrisroaringtowardus,andIthrewmyselfoverSammy.Awaveofconcrete,glass,wood,andmetalparticles(and—yes—bitsofBen’seffingrats)nolargerthangrainsofsandbarreleddownthehill,agrayboilingmassthatengulfedus.WelcometoDubuque.

49

HEDIDN’TLIKEbeingaroundthesmallestkidsatthecamp.Theyremindedhimofhisbabybrother,theonehelost.Theonethatwastherethemorninghewentoutlookingforfoodandwasn’ttherewhenhereturned.Theoneheneverfound.Atcamp,whenhewasn’ttrainingoreatingorsleepingorwashingdownthebarracksorshininghisbootsorcleaninghisrifleorpullingKPdutyorworkingintheP&Dhangar,hewasvolunteeringinthechildren’shousingorworkingthebusesastheycamein.Hedidn’tlikebeingaroundthelittlekids,buthediditanyway.Heneverlosthopethatonedayhe’dfindhisbabybrother.Thatonedayhewouldwalkintothereceivinghangarandfindhimsittinginoneofthebigredcirclespaintedonthefloor,orseehimswingingfromtheoldtirehungfromthetreeinthemakeshiftplaygroundnexttotheparadegrounds.Butheneverfoundhim.At thehotel,whenhediscoveredtheenemywasplantingbombsinchildren,hewonderedif that’s

whathappenedtohisbrother.Iftheyfoundhimandtookhimandmadehimswallowthegreencapsuleandsenthimoutagain tobefoundbysomeoneelse.Probablynot.Mostchildrenweredead.Onlyahandfulweresavedandbroughttothecamp.Hisbrotherprobablydidn’tlivemanydayspastthedayhedisappeared.Buthecouldhavebeen taken.Hecouldhavebeen forced to swallow thegreencapsule.Hecould

havebeenthrownbackoutintotheworldandlefttowanderuntilhestumbledontoagroupofsurvivorswhowouldtakehiminandfeedhimandfill theroomwiththeirbreath.Itcouldhavehappenedthatway.What’sbotheringyou?Zombiewantedtoknow.TheyhadgoneacrosstheparkinglottofindaCO2

canisterintheolddiner.Zombiehadgivenuptalkingtohimunlesshewasgivinganorder,andhe’dgivenuptryingtogethimtotalk.Whenheaskedthequestion,Zombiereallydidn’texpectananswer.I can always tellwhen something’s botheringyou.Youget like this constipated look.Likeyou’re

tryingtocrapabrick.Thecanisterwasn’tthatheavy,butZombiewashurtandtookthepointonthewayback.Zombiewas

nervous,jumpingateveryshadow.Hekeptsayingtherewassomethingwrong.SomethingwrongaboutthisEvanWalkerandsomethingwrongaboutthesituationingeneral.Zombiethoughttheywerebeingtricked.Backinthehotel,ZombiesentDumboupstairstogetEvan.Thentheywaitedinsidetheelevatorfor

Evantocomedown.See,Cake,thisgoesbacktomypoint,rightbacktoit.EMPsandtsunamisandplaguesandaliensin

disguise and brainwashed kids and nowkidswith bombs inside them.Why are theymaking this sodamncomplicated?It’sliketheywantafight.Orwantthefighttobeinteresting.Hey.Maybethat’sit.Maybe you reach a certain point in evolutionwhere boredom is the greatest threat to your survival.Maybethisisn’taplanetarytakeoveratall,butagame.Likeakidpullingwingsoffflies.Astheminutespassed,Zombiegotmorenervous.Whatnow?Wherethehell ishe?OhChrist,youdon’tthink. . .?Bettergetupthere,Poundcake.

Throwhisassoveryourshoulderandcarryhimdownhereifyouhaveto.

Halfwayupthestairs,heheardaheavythumpoverhishead,thenasecond,softerthump,andthenheheardsomeonescream.Hegot to thedoor in time toseeCassie’sbodyflypastandhit thefloor.Hefollowedher trajectorybackwardandsawthetallgirlstandingbesidetheroomwiththebusteddoor.Andhedidn’thesitate,heburstintothehallandheknewthetallgirlwouldnotsurvive.Hewasagoodshot,thebestinhissquaduntilRingercame,andheknewthathewouldnotmiss.ExceptCassietackledhimandthetallgirlslippedfromhissights.HewouldhavekilledherifCassie

hadn’tdonethat.Hewassureofit.Thenthetallgirlshothimthroughthewall.Dumbotoreopenhisshirtandpressedawadded-upsheetintothewound.Hetoldhimthatitwasn’t

bad,thathewasgoingtomakeit,butheknewhewasn’t.He’dbeenaroundtoomuchdeath.Heknewwhatitsmelledlike,tastedlike,feltlike.Hecarrieddeathinsidehiminthememoriesofhismotherandtheten-footpyresandthebonesalongtheroadandtheconveyorbeltcarryinghundredsintothefurnaceofthepowerplantatcamp,thedeadburnedtolighttheirbarracksandheattheirwaterandkeepthemwarm.Dyingdidn’tbotherhim.Dyingwithoutknowingwhathappenedtohisbrotherbotheredhim.Dying, hewas takendownstairs.Dying, hewas thrownoverZombie’s shoulders.And then in the

parkinglotZombiefellandtheothersgatheredaroundandZombiepoundedthefrozenpavementuntiltheskinonhispalmsburstopen.Theylefthimafterthat.Hewasn’tangry.Heunderstood.Hewasdying.Andthenhegotup.Notatfirst.Atfirst,hecrawled.Thetallgirlwasstandinginthelobbywhenhedraggedhimselfinside.Shewasbesidethedoorthat

opened to the stairs, holding a pistol in both hands, bowing her head as if she were listening forsomething.That’swhenhestoodup.Thetallgirlstiffened.Sheturned.Sheraisedthegunandthenshelowereditwhenshesawhewas

dying.She smiled and saidhello.Shewaswatchinghimbeside the frontdoors and couldn’t see theelevatororEvandroppingdownintoitfromtheescapehatch.Evansawhimandfroze,likehedidn’tknowwhattodo.Iknowyou.Thetallgirlwaswalkingtowardhim.Ifsheturnednow,ifsheglancedbehindher,she

wouldseeEvan,sohedrewhissidearmtodistracther,butthegunslippedfromhishandandlandedonthe floor.Hehad losta lotofblood.Hisbloodpressurewasdropping.Hisheartcouldn’tpumphardenoughandhewaslosingfeelinginhishandsandfeet.Hedropped tohiskneesand reached for thegun.She shothim in thehand.He fellontohisbutt,

jammingthewoundedhandintohispocketasifthatmightprotectit.Gosh,you’reabig,strongboy,aren’tyou?Howoldareyou?Shewaitedforhimtoanswer.What’sthematter?Catgotyourtongue?Sheshothimintheleg.Thenshewaitedforhimtoscreamorcryorsaysomething.Whenhedidn’t,

sheshothimintheotherleg.Behindher,Evandropped tohis stomach and started to crawl toward them.He shookhis head at

Evan,gulpingair.Hefeltnumballover.Therewasnopain,butagraycurtainhaddrawndownoverhiseyes.The tall girl camecloser.ShewasnowhalfwaybetweenhimandEvan.She aimed thegunat the

middleofhisforehead.SaysomethingorIwillblowyourbrainsout.Where’sEvan?Shestartedtoturn.ShemighthaveheardEvancrawlingtowardher.Sohestoodupforthenextto

last time todistracther.Hedidn’t standup fast. It tookoveraminute,bootsslippingon the tilewet

frommeltedsnow,risingup,floppingbackdown,thefactthathekepthishandinhispocketmakingittwiceashard.Thetallgirlsmiledandchuckled,smirkingthewaythekidsdidatschool.Hewasfat.Hewasclumsy.Hewasstupid.Hewaspiglard.Whenhefinallygottohisfeet,sheshothimagain.Pleasehurryup.I’mwastingammo.Theplasticofthecakewrapperhadbeenstiffandcrinklyandalwaysmadeanoisewhenheplayed

withitinhispocket.That’showhismomknewhehaditthedayhisbrotherdisappeared.That’showthe soldierson thebusknew, too.And thedrill sergeantcalledhimPoundcakebecausehe loved thestoryofthefatkidcomingintocampwithjusttheclothesonhisbackandawrapperfullofstalecakecrumbsinhispocket.Theplasticsandwichbagthathefoundjustoutsidethehoteldoorsdidn’tcrinkle.Itwasmuchsofter.

Therewasnonoisewhenhepulleditfromhispocket.Thebagslidoutsilently,assilentashehadbeenafterhewastoldtoshutup,shutup,shutUP.Thetallgirl’ssmilewentaway.AndPoundcake startedmovingagain.Not towardher andnot toward the elevator, but toward the

sidedoorattheendofthehall.Hey,whathaveyougotthere,bigfella?Huh?Whatisthat?I’mguessingitisn’taTylenol.Thetallgirl’ssmilecameback.Adifferentkindofsmile,though.Anicesmile.Shewasverypretty

whenshesmiledlikethat.Shewasprobablytheprettiestgirlhehadeverseen.You’vegottobeverycarefulwiththat.Doyouunderstand?Hey.Hey,youknowwhat?I’llmakea

dealwithyou.I’llputmygundownifyouputthatdown,okay?How’sthatsound?Andthenshedid.Shelaidhergunonthefloor.Shetooktherifleoffhershoulderandlaidthatdown,

too.Thensheheldupherhands.Icanhelpyou.PutthatdownandI’llhelpyou.Youdon’thavetodie.Iknowhowtofixyou.I’m—

I’mnotlikeyou.I’mdefinitelynotasbraveandstrongasyou,that’sforsure.Ican’tbelieveyou’restillstandinglikethat.Shewasgoingtowait.Shewouldwaituntilhepassedoutorfelloverdead.Allshehadtodowas

keeptalkingandsmilingandpretendingshelikedhim.Heunzippedthebag.Thetallgirlwasn’tsmilingnow.Shewasrunningtowardhim,fasterthanhe’dseenanyoneruninhis

life.Thegrayveil shimmeredas shecameon.Whenshewasclose,her feet left thegroundand shejavelinedintothespotwherethefirstbullethithim,hurlinghimbackwardandsmashinghimintothemetaldoorframe.Thebaggieflewfromhisnumbfingersandslidlikeahockeypuckacrossthetile.Thegrayveilturnedblackforasecond.Thetallgirlpivotedasgracefullyasaballerinatowardthebag.Hehookedheranklewithhislegandsenthersprawling.Shewastooquickandhewastoohurt.She’dgettherebeforehim.Sohepickedupthegunthathe

haddroppedandshotherintheback.Thenhegotup for the last time.He tossed thegunaway.Hesteppedoverherwrithingbody,and

that’sasfarashegotbeforefallingforthelasttime.Hecrawledtowardthebag.Shecrawledafterhim.Shecouldn’tstandup.Thebullethadshattered

herspinalcord.Shewasparalyzedfromthewaistdown.Butshewasstrongerthanhimandhadn’tlostasmuchblood.Hescoopedtheplasticbagfromthefloor.Herhandfellonhisarmandyankedhimtowardherasif

heweighednothingatall.Shewouldfinishhimwithasinglepunchtohisdyingheart.Butallhehadtodowasbreathe.Heslappedtheopeningofthebagoverhismouth.Andbreathed.

BOOKTWO

50

I’M SITTING ALONE in a windowless classroom. Blue carpet, white walls, long white tables. Whitecomputermonitorswithwhite keyboards. I’mwearing thewhite jumpsuit of new recruits.Differentcamp,samedrill,downtotheimplantinmyneckandatriptoWonderland.I’mstillpayingforthattrip.You don’t feel empty after they drain your memories. You’re sore as hell all over. Muscles retainmemory,too.That’swhytheyhavetostrapyoudownfortheride.ThedooropensandCommanderAlexanderVoschstepsintotheroom.Hecarriesawoodenboxthat

hesetsdownonthetableinfrontofme.“You’relookingwell,Marika,”hesays.“MuchbetterthanIexpected.”“MynameisRinger.”He nods. He understands exactlywhat Imean.More than once I’vewondered if the information

gatheredbyWonderlandflowsbothways. Ifyoucandownloadhumanexperience,whycouldn’tyouupload it? It’s possible the personwho is smiling atme now contains thememories of every singlehumanbeingwho’sbeenthroughtheprogram.Hemaynotbehuman—andIhavemydoubtsaboutthat—buthemayalsobethesumofallhumanswhohavepassedthroughWonderland’sgates.“Yes.Marikaisdead.”Hesitsdownacrossfromme.“Andnowhereyouare,risingphoenixlikefrom

herashes.”HeknowswhatI’mgoingtosay.Icantellbythetwinklinginhisbaby-blueeyes.Whycan’thejust

tellme?WhydoIhavetoask?“IsTeacupalive?”“Whichanswerareyoumorelikelytotrust?Yesorno?”Thinkbeforeyourespond.Chessteachesthat.“No.”“Why?”“Yescouldbealietomanipulateme.”He’snoddingappreciatively.“Togiveyoufalsehope.”“Togainleverage.”Hecockedhisheadand lookeddownhisnarrownoseatme. “Whywould someone likemeneed

leverageoversomeonelikeyou?”“Idon’tknow.Theremustbesomethingyouwant.”“Otherwise...?”“OtherwiseI’dbedead.”Hedoesn’tsayanythingforalongmoment.Hisstarepiercesdowntomybones.Hegesturesatthe

woodenbox.“Ibroughtyousomething.Openit.”Ilookatthebox.Lookbackathim.“I’mnotgoingtodoit.”“It’sjustabox.”“Whateveryouwantmetodo,Iwon’t.You’rewastingyourtime.”“Andtimeis theonlycurrencywehaveleft, isn’t it?Time—andpromises.”Tappingthe lidof the

box. “I spent agreatdealof that first precious commodity to findoneof these.”Henudges thebox

towardme.“Openit.”I open it.He goes on. “Benwouldn’t playwith you.Or littleAllison—ImeanTeacup;Allison is

dead,too.Youhaven’tplayedagameofchesssinceyourfatherdied.”I shakemyhead.Not inanswer tohisquestion. I shakemyheadbecause Idon’tget it.Thechief

architectofthegenocidewantstoplaychesswithme?I’mshiveringinthepaper-thinjumpsuit.Theroomisverycold.Smiling,Voschiswatchingme.No.

Not justwatching.This isn’t likeWonderland. It isn’t just yourmemories he knows.He knowswhatyou’rethinking,too.Wonderlandisadevice.Itrecords,butVoschreads.“They’regone,”Iblurtout.“They’renotatthehotel.Andyoudon’tknowwheretheyare.”Thathas

tobeit.Icanthinkofnootherreasonwhyhehasn’tkilledme.Acrappyreason,though.Inthisweatherandwithhisresources,howhardcoulditbetofindthem?I

clampmycoldhandsbetweenmykneesandforcemyselftobreatheslowlyanddeeply.Heopensthelid,removestheboard,andtakesoutthewhitequeen.“White?Youpreferwhite.”Long,nimblefingerssetuptheboard.Thefingersofamusician,asculptor,apainter.Herestshis

elbowsonthetableandlacesthosefingerstomakeashelfforhischin,likemyfatherdideverytimeheplayed.“Whatdoyouwant?”Iask.Heraisesaneyebrow.“Iwanttoplayagameofchess.”Staring at me silently. Five seconds becomes ten. Ten becomes twenty. After thirty seconds, an

eternity has passed. I think I know what he’s doing: playing a game within a game. I just don’tunderstandwhy.I openwith theRuyLopez.Not themost original opening in thehistoryof thegame; I’ma little

stressed.Asweplay,hehumssoftly,tunelessly,andnowIknowhe’sdeliberatelymockingmyfather.Mystomachrollswithrevulsion.TosurviveIbuiltwalls,anemotionalfortressthatprotectedmeandkeptmesaneinaworldgonedangerouslyinsane,buteventhemostopenpersonhasaprivate,sacredplacewherenooneelsemaygo.Iunderstandthegamewithinthegamenow:Thereisnothingprivate,nothingsacred.Thereisnopart

ofmehiddenfromhim.Mystomachchurnswithrevulsion.He’sviolatedmorethanmymemories.He’smolestingmysoul.Themouseandkeyboardtomyrightarewireless.Butthemonitorbesidehimisn’t.Alungeacross

thetable,awallopupsidehishead,andawrapofthecordaroundhisneck.Executedinfourseconds,overinfourminutes.Unlesswe’rebeingwatched,andweprobablyare.Voschwilllive,TeacupandIwilldie.AndevenifImanagetotakehimoutfirst,thevictorywillbePyrrhic,assumingEvanWalker’sclaimistrue.Atthehotel,IpointedthisouttoSullivanwhenshesaidEvanhadsacrificedhimselftoblowup thebase: If theycandownload themselves intohumanbodies, theycanalsomakecopiesofthemselves.The setof “Evans”and“Voschs”wouldbe infinite.Evancouldkillhimself. I couldkillVosch.Wouldn’tmatter.Bydefinition,theentitiesinsidethemareimmortal.You need to pay close attention to what I’m telling you, Sullivan said with exaggerated patience.

There’sahumanEvanwhomergedwiththealienconsciousness.He’snotoneortheother;he’sboth.Sohecandie.Nottheimportantpart.Right,shesnapped.Justtheinsignificanthumanpart.Voschisleaningovertheboard.Hisbreathsmellslikeapples.Ipressmyhandsintomylap.Heraises

aneyebrow.Problem?“I’mgoingtolose,”Itellhim.Hefeignssurprise.“Whatmakesyouthinkso?”“YouknowmymovesbeforeImakethem.”

“You’rereferringtotheWonderlandprogram.Butyou’reforgettingthatwearemorethanthesumofourexperiences.Humanbeingscanbemarvelouslyunpredictable.YourrescueofBenParishduringthefallofCampHaven,forexample,defiedlogicandignoredthefirstprerogativeofalllivingthings:tocontinueliving.Oryourdecisionyesterdaytogiveyourselfupwhenyourealizedcapturewasthelittlegirl’sonlychancetosurvive.”“Didshe?”“You already know the answer to that question.” Impatiently, like a harsh teacher to a promising

student.Hegesturesattheboard:Play.I wrap a hand aroundmy fist and squeeze as hard as I can. Imaginingmy fist is his neck. Four

minutestochokethelifeoutofhim.Justfourminutes.“Teacup’salive,”Itellhim.“Youknowthethreattofrymybrainwon’tmakemedowhatyouwant

metodo.ButyouknowI’lldoitforher.”“Youbelongtoeachothernow,yes?Connectedasifbyasilvercord?”Smiling.“Anyway,besides

theseriousinjuriesfromwhichshemaynotrecover,you’vegivenherthepricelessgiftoftime.ThereisasayinginLatin.Vincitquipatitur.Doyouknowwhatitmeans?”I’mbeyondcold.I’vereachedabsolutezero.“YouknowIdon’t.”“‘Heconquerswhoendures.’RememberpoorTeacup’srats.Whatcantheyteachus?Itoldyouwhen

youfirstcametome;itisn’tsomuchaboutcrushingyourcapacitytofightasitisyourwilltofight.”Theratsagain.“Ahopelessratisadeadrat.”“Ratsdonotknowhope.Orfaith.Orlove.Youwererightaboutthosethings,PrivateRinger.They

will not deliver humanity through the storm. You were wrong, however, about rage. Rage isn’t theanswer,either.”“What’stheanswer?”Idon’twanttoask,don’twanttogivehimthesatisfaction,butIcan’thelpit.“You’reclosetoit,”hesays.“Ithinkyoumightbesurprisedhowcloseyouare.”“Closetowhat?”Myvoicesoundsassmallasarat’s.Heshakeshishead,impatientagain.“Play.”“It’spointless.”“AworldinwhichchessdoesnotmatterisnotaworldinwhichIwishtolive.”“Stopdoingthat.Stopmockingmyfather.”“Your fatherwas agoodman in thrall to a terrible disease.You shouldn’t judgehimharshly.Nor

yourselfforabandoninghim.”Pleasedon’tgo.Don’tleaveme,Marika.Long,nimblefingersclawingatmyshirt,thefingersofanartist.Facesculptedbythemercilessknife

ofhunger,theinfuriatedartistwiththehelplessclay,andredeyesrimmedinblack.I’llcomeback.Ipromise.You’regoingtodiewithoutit.Ipromise.I’llcomeback.Voschissmilingsoullessly,ashark’ssmileoraskull’ssneer,andifrageisnottheanswer,whatis?

I’m squeezingmy fist hard enough to forcemy nails intomy palm.Here’s how Evan described it,Sullivansaid,wrappingherfistinherhand.ThisisEvan.Thisisthebeinginside.Myhandistherage,butwhatismyfist?Whatisthethingwrappedupinrage?“Onemovefrommate,”Voschsayssoftly.“Whywon’tyoumakeit?”Mylipsbarelymove.“Idon’tliketolose.”Hepullsasilverdevicethesizeofacellphonefromhisbreastpocket.I’veseenonebefore.Iknow

whatitdoes.Theskinaroundthetinypatchofadhesivesealingtheinsertionpointonmyneckbeginstoitch.“We’realittlebeyondthatstage,”hesays.Bloodinsidethefistthat’swithinthehandclenchingthefist.“Pushthebutton.Idon’tgiveashit.”Henodsapprovingly.“Nowyou’reveryclosetotheanswer.Butitisnotyourimplantlinkedtothis

transmitter.Doyoustillwantmetopushit?”Teacup.Ilookdownattheboard.Onemovefrommate.Thematchwasoverbeforeitbegan.When

thegameisfixed,howdoyouavoidlosing?A seven-year-old knew the answer to that question. I slidemyhandbeneath the board andhurl it

towardhishead.Iguessthat’scheckmate,bitch!He sees it coming and ducks easily out of the way. Pieces clatter on the table, roll lazily on the

tabletopbeforefallingofftheedge.Heshouldn’thavetoldmethatthedeviceislinkedtoTeacup:Ifhepushesthebutton,heloseshisleverageoverme.Voschpushesthebutton.

51

MYREACTIONISmonthsinthemaking.Andinstantaneous.Ileapacrossthetable,drivemykneehardintohischest,andknockhimstraightbackontothefloor.I

land on top of him and smash the heel of my bloody hand into his aristocratic nose, rotating myshouldersintotheblowtomaximizetheimpact,textbookperfect,justlikemytrainersatCampHaventaughtme.Drillafterdrillafterdrilluntilthere’snoneedtothink:Musclesretainmemory,too.Hisnosebreaks with a satisfying crunch. This is the point, the instructors told me, when a wise soldierwithdraws. Hand-to-hand is unpredictable and every second you remain engaged increases the risk.GettingofftheXwastheexpression.Vincitquipatitur.Butthere’snogettingoffthisparticularX.Theclock’sdowntothefinaltick;I’moutoftime.The

doorfliesopenandsoldierspourintotheroom.I’mtakendownquickandhard,yankedoffVoschandthrownface-firstontothefloor,ashinpressedagainstmyneck.Ismellblood.Notmine,his.“Youdisappointme,”hewhispersinmyear.“Itoldyouragewasn’ttheanswer.”Theypullmetomyfeet.ThelowerhalfofVosch’sfaceiscoveredinblood.Itsmearshischeekslike

warpaint.Hiseyesarealreadyswelling,givinghimaweird,piglikeappearance.Heturnstothesquadleaderstandingbesidehim,aslender,fair-skinnedrecruitwithblondhairand

soulfuldarkeyes.“Prepher.”

52

HALLWAY:LOWCEILINGS,flickeringfluorescents,cinder-blockwalls.Thepressofbodiesaroundme,oneinfront,onebehind,twooneithersideholdingmyarms.Thesqueakofrubber-soledshoesagainstthegrayconcretefloorandthefaintodorofsweatandthebittersweetsmellofrecycledair.Stairwell:metalrailspaintedgraylikethefloors,cobwebsflutteringincorners,dustyyellowlightbulbsinwirecages,descendingintowarmer,mustierair.Anotherhall:unmarkeddoorsandlargeredstripesrunningdowneach gray wall and signs that read NO ACCESS and AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY. Room: small,windowless.Cabinetsononewall, ahospital bed in themiddle,vital signsmonitorbeside it, screendark.Oneithersideofthebed,twopeoplewearingwhitecoats.Amiddle-agedman,ayoungerwoman,forcingsmiles.Thedoorclangs shut. I’malonewith theWhiteCoats, except for theblond recruit standingat the

doorbehindme.“Easyorhard,”themaninthewhitecoatsays.“Yourchoice.”“Hard,”Isay.Iwhiparoundanddroptherecruitwithapunchtothethroat.Hissidearmclattersonto

thetile.IscoopitupandturnbacktotheWhiteCoats.“There’snoescape,”themansayscalmly.“Youknowthat.”Idoknowthat.Butescapingisn’tthereasonIneedthegun.Notescapinginthesensehemeansit.

I’mnottakinghostagesandI’mnotkillinganyone.Killinghumanbeingsistheenemy’sgoal.Behindme,thekidwrithesonthefloor,makinghiccupping,gurglingsounds.Imayhavefracturedhislarynx.I glance up at the camera mounted in the far corner of the room. Is he watching? Thanks to

Wonderland,heknowsmebetterthananyoneonEarth.HemustknowwhyItookthegun:I’mmated.Andit’stoolatetoresignthegame.Ipressthecoldmuzzleagainstmytemple.Thewoman’smouthcomesopen.Shetakesasteptoward

me.“Marika.”Kindeyes.Softvoice.“She’salivebecauseyouare.Ifyouaren’t,shewon’tbe.”Itclicksthen.Hetoldmerageisn’ttheanswer,andrageistheonlyexplanationforhimhittingthe

killswitchwhenIupendedtheboard.That’swhatIthoughtwhenithappened.Itneveroccurredtomethathemightbebluffing.And it shouldhave.There’snowayhe’dgiveuphis leverage.Whydidn’t I see that? I’m theone

blindedbyrage,nothim.I’mdizzy;theroomwon’tstaystill.Bluffsinsidebluffs,feintswithincounterfeints.I’minagamein

whichIdon’tknowtherulesoreventheobject.TeacupisalivebecauseIam.I’malivebecausesheis.“Takemetoher,”Isaytothewoman.Iwantproofthatthatonefundamentalassumptionistrue.“Notgoingtohappen,”themansays.“Sonowwhat?”Goodquestion.Buttheissuehastobepressedandpressedhard,ashardasIpressthegunagainstmy

temple.“TakemetoherorIsweartoGodI’lldoit.”“Youcan’t,”theyoungwomansays.Softvoice.Kindeyes.Handoutstretched.She’sright.Ican’t.Itcouldbealie;Teacupcouldbedead.Butachanceremainsthatshe’salive,and

ifI’mgone,there’snoreasontokeepherthatway.Theriskisunacceptable.

Thisisthebind.Thisisthetrap.Thisiswheretheroadofimpossiblepromisesdead-ends.Thisistheonly possible outcomeof the antiquated belief that the insignificant life of a seven-year-old kid stillmatters.I’msorry,Teacup.Ishouldhavefinishedthisbackinthewoods.Ilowerthegun.

53

THEMONITORFLICKERSon.Pulse,bloodpressure,breathing, temperature.ThekidI tookdownisbackup,leaningagainstthedoor,onehandmassaginghisthroat,theotherholdingthegun.Heglowersatmelyingonthebed.“Something to help you relax,” the woman with the soft voice and kind eyes murmurs. “A little

stick.”The bite of the needle. The walls disappear into colorless nothing. A thousand years pass. I am

groundtodustbeneaththeheeloftime.Theirvoiceslumber,theirfacesexpand.Thethinfoambeneathmedissolves.Iamfloatingonanunboundedoceanofwhite.Adisembodiedvoiceemergesfromthefog.“Andnowlet’sreturntotheproblemofrats,shallwe?”Vosch.Idon’tseehim.Hisvoicehasnosource.Itoriginatesfromeverywhereandnowhere,asifhe’s

insideme.“You’ve lost your home. And the lovely one—the only one—that you’ve found to replace it is

infestedwithvermin.Whatcanyoudo?Whatareyourchoices?Resignyourselftolivepeaceablywiththe destructive pests or exterminate them before they can destroy your new home? Do you say toyourself,‘Ratsaredisgustingcreatures,butneverthelesstheyarelivingthingswiththesamerightsasme’?Or doyou say, ‘We are incompatible, these rats and I. If I am to live here, these verminmustdie’?”From a thousandmiles away, I hear themonitor beeping,marking the beat ofmy heart. The sea

undulates.Iriseandfallwitheachrollofthesurface.“But it isn’t really about the rats.”His voice pounds, dense, thick as thunder. “It neverwas. The

necessity of exterminating them is a given. It’s the method that troubles you. The real issue, thefundamentalproblem,isrocks.”Thewhite curtain peels away. I’m still floating, but now I’m far above the Earth in a black void

awashwithstars,andthesunkissingthehorizonpaintstheplanet’ssurfacebeneathmeashimmeringgold.Themonitorbeepsfrantically,andavoicesays,“Oh,crap,”andthenVosch’s:“Breathe,Marika.You’reperfectlysafe.”Perfectlysafe.Sothat’swhytheysedatedme.Iftheyhadn’t,myheartprobablywouldhavestopped

from shock. The effect is three-dimensional, indistinguishable from reality, except I would not bebreathinginspace.OrhearingVosch’svoiceinaplacewheresounddoesnotexist.“This is theEarthas itwas sixty-sixmillionyearsago.Beautiful, isn’t it?Edenic.Unspoiled.The

atmospherebeforeyoupoisonedit.Thewaterbeforeyoufouledit.Thelandlushwithlifebeforeyou,rodentsthatyouare,shreddedittopiecestofeedyourvoraciousappetitesandbuildyourfilthynests.Itmayhaveremainedpristineforanothersixty-sixmillionyears,unsulliedbyyourmammaliangluttony,ifnotforachanceencounterwithanalienvisitorone-quarterthesizeofManhattan.”Itwhizzes pastme, pockmarked and craggy, blotting out the stars as it barrels toward the planet.

When itbreaks through theatmosphere, the lowerhalfof theasteroidbegins toglow.Brightyellow,thenwhite.“Andthusthefateoftheworldisdecided.Byarock.”

NowI’mstandingontheshoresofavast,shallowsea,watchingtheasteroidfall,atinydot,apebble,insignificant.“Whenthedustfromtheimpacthassettled,three-quartersofalllifeonEarthwillbegone.Theworld

ends.Theworldbegins again.Humanityowes its existence to abit of cosmicwhimsy.Toa rock. Itreallyisremarkablewhenyouthinkaboutit.”Thegroundshudders.Adistantboom,thenaneeriesilence.“Andthereinliestheconundrum,theriddleyou’vebeenavoiding,becauseconfrontingtheproblem

shakes apart the very foundation, doesn’t it? It defies explanation. It renders all that’s happenedimpossiblydiscordant,absurd,nonsensical.”The sea roils; steam whips and swirls. The water is boiling away. A massive wall of dust and

pulverizedstone roars towardme,blottingout thesky.Theair is filledwithhigh-pitchedscreeching,likethescreamsofadyinganimal.“Idon’thavetostatetheobvious,doI?Thequestionhasbeenbotheringyouforaverylongtime.”I can’tmove. I know it isn’t real, butmypanic is as the thunderingwall of steamanddust bears

down.Amillionyearsofevolutionhastaughtmetotrustmysenses,andtheprimitivepartofmybrainisdeaftotherationalpartthatscreamsinahighpitchlikeadyinganimal,Notrealnotrealnotrealnotreal.“Electromagneticpulses.Giantmetalrodsrainingfromthesky.Viralplague...”Hisvoiceriseswith

eachwordandthewordsarelikethunderclapsortheheelofabootslammingdown.“Sleeperagentsimplantedinhumanbodies.Armiesofbrainwashedchildren.Whatisthis?That’sthecentralquestion.Theonlyonethatreallymatters:Whybotherwithanyofitwhenallyouneedisavery,verybigrock?”Thewaverollsoverme,andIdrown.

54

I’MBURIEDFORMILLENNIA.Miles aboveme, theworldwakes. In the cool shadows pooling on the rain forest floor, a ratlike

creaturedigs for tender roots. Itsdescendantswill tamefire, invent thewheel,discovermathematics,createpoetry,rerouterivers,levelforests,buildcities,exploredeepspace.Fornow,theonlyimportantbusinessisfindingfoodandstayingalivelongenoughtomakemoreratlikecreatures.Annihilatedinfireanddust,theworldisreborninahungryrodentdigginginthedirt.Theclockticks.Nervously,thecreaturesniffsthewarm,moistair.Themetronomicbeatoftheclock

speedsup,andIrisetowardthesurface.WhenIemergefromthedust,thecreaturehastransformed:It’ssitting in a chair beside my bed, wearing a pair of jeans stiff with dirt and a torn T-shirt. Stoop-shouldered,unshaven,hollow-eyedinventorofthewheel,inheritor,caretaker,prodigal.Myfather.Thebeep-beepofthemonitor.ThedrippingIVandthestiffsheetsandthehardpillowandthelines

snaking frommy arms.And theman sitting beside the bed, sallow and sweaty, coveredwith grime,restless,nervouslypluckingathisshirt,bloodshoteyesandwet,swollenlips.“Marika.”Iclosemyeyes.It’snothim.It’sthedrugVoschpumpedintoyou.Again:“Marika.”“Shutup.You’renotreal.”“Marika,there’ssomethingIwanttotellyou.Somethingyoushouldknow.”“Idon’tunderstandwhyyou’redoingthistome,”IsaytoVosch.Iknowhe’swatching.“Iforgiveyou,”myfathersays.Ican’tcatchmybreath.There’sasharppaininmychest,likeaknifedrivinghome.“Please,”IbegVosch.“Pleasedon’tdothis.”“Youhad to leave,”myfather says.“Youdidn’thaveachoice,andanyway,whathappened ismy

owndamnfault.Youdidn’tmakemeadrunk.”Instinctively,Ipressmyhandsagainstmyears.Buthisvoiceisn’tintheroom;it’sinme.“Ididn’tlastlongafteryouleft,”myfathertriestoreassureme.“Onlyacouplehours.”WemadeitasfarasCincinnati.Alittleoverahundredmiles.Thenhisstashranout.Hebeggedme

nottoleavehim,butIknewifIdidn’tfindsomealcoholfast,he’ddie.Ifoundsome—abottleofvodkatuckedunderneathamattress—afterbreakingintosixteenhouses, ifyoucancall itbreakingin,sinceeveryhousewasabandonedandallIhadtodowasstepthroughabrokenwindow.Iwassohappytofindthatbottle,Iactuallykissedit.ButIwastoolate.HewasdeadbythetimeImadeitbacktoourcamp.“Iknowyoubeatyourselfupoverthat,butIwould’vediedeitherway,Marika.Eitherway.Youdid

whatyouthoughtyouhadtodo.”There’snohidingfromhisvoice.Norunningfromit,either.Iopenmyeyesandlookstraightinto

his.“Iknowthisisalie.Youaren’treal.”He smiles. The same smile as when I made a particularly goodmove in a match. The delighted

teacher.“That’swhatI’vecometotellyou!”Herubshislongfingersagainsthisthighs,andIcanseethedirt

encrustedbeneaththenails.“That’sthelesson,Marika.That’swhattheywantyoutounderstand.”Warmhandagainstcoolskin:He’s touchingmyarm.The last timeI felthishandwasagainstmy

cheek,inhard,stingingslapswhiletheotherhandheldmestill.Bitch!Don’tleaveme.Don’tyoueverleaveme,bitch!Eachbitch!punctuatedbyaslap.Hismindwasgone.Seeingthingsthatweren’ttherein the profound darkness that slammed down every night. Hearing things in the awful silence thatthreatenedtocrushyoueveryday.Onthenighthedied,hewokeupscreaming,clawingathiseyes.Hecouldfeelbugsinsidethem,crawling.Thosesameswolleneyesstaringatmenow.Andtheclawmarksbeneaththemstillfresh.Another

circle, another silver cord:Now I am theone seeing things,hearing things, feeling things that aren’tthereinawfulsilence.“First they taughtusnot to trust them,”hewhispers. “Then they taughtusnot to trust eachother.

Nowthey’reteachinguswecan’teventrustourselves.”AndIwhisperback,“Idon’tunderstand.”He’s fading away.As I drop deeper into lightless depths,my father fades into depthless light.He

kissesmeontheforehead.Abenediction.Acurse.“Youbelongtothemnow.”

55

THECHAIRISEMPTYAGAIN.I’malone.ThenIremindmyselfIwasalonewhenthechairwasn’tempty.Iwaitforthepoundingofmyhearttosubside.Iwillmyselftostaycalm,tocontrolmybreathing.ThedrugwillworkitswaythroughmysystemandI’llbefine.You’resafe,Itellmyself.Perfectlysafe.The blond recruit I punched in the throat comes in. He’s carrying a tray of food: a slab of gray

mysterymeat,potatoes,amushypileofbeans,andatallglassoforangejuice.Hesetsthetraybythebed,pushesthebuttontoraisemetoasittingposition,rotatesthetrayinfrontofme,thenstandsthere,armscrossed,asifhe’swaitingforsomething.“Letmeknowhowittastes,”hewhispershoarsely.“Ican’teatsolidfoodforthreemoreweeks.”Hisskinisfair,whichmakeshisbrown,deep-seteyesseemevendarker.Heisn’tbig,notbufflike

ZombieorblockylikePoundcake.He’stallandlean,aswimmer’sbody.There’saquietintensityabouthim, in theway he carries himself but especially in the eyes, a carefully contained force coiled justbeneaththesurface.I’mnotsurewhatheexpectsmetosay.“Sorry.”“Suckerpunch.”Drumminghisfingersonhisforearm.“You’renotgoingtoeat?”Ishakemyhead.“Nothungry.”Is the food real? Is the kid who brings the food real? The uncertainty of my own experience is

crushing.Iamdrowninginaninfinitesea.Sinkingslowly,theweightofthelightlessdepthsforcingmedown,forcingtheairfrommylungs,squeezingthebloodfrommyheart.“Drinkthejuice,”hescolds.“Theysaidyoushouldatleastdrinkthejuice.”“Why?”Imanagetochokeout.“What’sinthejuice?”“Alittleparanoid?”“Alittle.”“Theyjustdrainedaboutapintofbloodfromyou.Sotheysaidmakesureyoudrinkthejuice.”I havenomemoryof their takingmyblood.Did that happenwhile Iwas “talking” tomy father?

“Whyaretheydrainingmyblood?”Dead-eyedstare.“Let’sseeifIcanremember.Theytellmeeverything.”“Whatdidtheytellyou?WhyamIhere?”“I’m not supposed to talk to you,” he says. Then: “They told us you’re a VIP. Very important

prisoner.”Shakinghishead.“Idon’tgetit.Inthegoodolddays,Dorothysjust...disappeared.”“I’mnotaDorothy.”Heshrugs.“Idon’taskquestions.”ButIneedhimtoanswersome.“DoyouknowwhathappenedtoTeacup?”“Ranawaywiththespoon,whatIheard.”“Thatwasthedish.”“Iwasmakingajoke.”“Idon’tgetit.”“Well.Fuckyou.”“Thelittlegirlwhochopperedinwithme.Badlywounded.Ineedtoknowifshe’salive.”

Noddingseriously.“I’llgetrightonthat.”I’mgoingaboutthiswrong.Iwasnevergoodwithpeople.MynicknameinmiddleschoolwasHer

MajestyMarikaandadozenvariationsofthesame.MaybeIshouldestablisharapportbeyondeff-you.“Myname’sRinger.”“That’swonderful.Youmustbeverysatisfiedwiththat.”“Youlookfamiliar.WereyouatCampHaven?”Hestartstosaysomething.Stopshimself.“Ihaveordersnottotalktoyou.”IalmostsayThenwhyareyou?ButIcatchmyself.“It’sprobablyagoodidea.Theydon’twantyou

toknowwhatIknow.”“Oh,Iknowwhatyouknow:It’sallalie,we’vebeentrickedbytheenemy,they’reusingustowipe

outsurvivors,blah,blah,blah.TypicalDorothycrap.”“Iusedtothinkallthat,”Iadmit.“NowI’mnotsosure.”“You’llfigureitout.”“Iwill.”Rocksandratsandlife-formsevolvedbeyondtheneedforphysicalbodies.I’llfigureitout,

butprobablytoolate,thoughit’sprobablyalreadytoolate.Whydidtheytakemyblood?WhyisVoschkeepingmealive?WhatcouldIhavethathecouldpossiblyneed?Whydotheyneedme,thisblondkid,oranyhuman?Iftheycouldgeneticallyengineeravirusthatkillsnineoutoftenpeople,whynottenoutoften?Or,asVoschsaid,whybotherwithanyofit,whenallyouneedisaverybigrock?Myheadhurts.I’mdizzy.Nauseated.Imissbeingabletothinkclearly.Itusedtobemynumberone

favoritething.“DrinkyourdamnjuicesoIcango,”hesays.“TellmeyournameandI’lldrinkit.”Hehesitates,then:“Razor.”Idrinkthejuice.Hepicksupthetrayandleaves.Igothisnameatleast.Aminorvictory.

56

THEWOMANINthewhitelabcoatshowsup.ShesayshernameisDr.Claire.Dark,wavyhairpulledbackfromherface.Eyesthecolorofanautumnsky.Shesmellslikebitteralmonds,whichisalsotheodorofcyanide.“Whydidyoutakemyblood?”Shesmiles.“BecauseRingerissosweet,wedecidedtocloneahundredofher.”Thereisnotahintof

sarcasminhervoice.ShedisconnectstheIVandstepsbackquickly,asifshe’safraidI’llleapfromthebed and strangle her. Strangling herdidoccur tome, briefly, but I’d rather stab her to deathwith apocketknife.Idon’tknowhowmanystabsthatwouldtake.Alot,probably.“That’sanotherthingthatdoesn’tmakesense,”Itellher.“Whydownloadyourconsciousnessintoa

humanbodywhenyoucancloneasmanyasyoulikeinyourmothership?Zerorisk.”EspeciallysinceoneofyourdownloadscangoallEvanWalkeronyouandfallinlovewithahumangirl.“That’sagoodpoint.”Noddingseriously.“I’llbringthatupatthenextplanningmeeting.Maybewe

needtorethinkthiswholehostile-takeoverthingy.”Shemotionstowardthedoor.“March.”“Where?”“You’llfindout.Don’tworry.”Claireadds,“You’regoingtoenjoyit.”Wedon’tgofar.Twodoorsdown.Theroomisspare.Asinkandacabinet,atoiletandashowerstall.“Howlonghasitbeensinceyou’vehadadecentshower?”sheasks.“CampHaven.ThenightbeforeIshotmydrillsergeantintheheart.”“Didyou?”sheaskscasually,as if I’d toldherIused to live inSanFrancisco.“Towelright there.

Toothbrush, comb,deodorant in thecabinet. I’ll be righton theother sideof thedoor.Knock ifyouneedanything.”Alone, I open the cabinet. Roll-on antiperspirant. A comb. A travel-sized tube of toothpaste. A

toothbrush in a plastic wrapper. No floss. I’d hoped there’d be floss. I waste a couple of minuteswonderinghowlongitwouldtaketosharpentheendofthetoothbrushintoapropercuttinginstrument.ThenIslipoutofthejumpsuitandstepintotheshower,andIthinkofZombie,notbecauseI’mnakedin a shower, but remembering him talking about Facebook and drive-thrus and tardy bells and theendless list of all things lost, like greasy fries and musty bookstores and hot showers. I turn thetemperatureashighasIcanstanditandletthewaterrainovermeuntilmyfingertipspucker.Lavendersoap.Fruity shampoo.Thehard lumpof the tiny transmitter rollsbeneathmy fingers.Youbelong tothemnow.Ihurltheshampoobottleagainsttheshowerwall.Slammyfistintothetileagainandagainuntilthe

skinonmyknucklessplitsopen.Myangerisgreaterthanthesumofalllostthings.

•••

Vosch iswaiting forme back in the room two doors down.He says nothing asClaire bandagesmyhand,silentuntilwe’realone.“Whatdidyouaccomplish?”heasks.

“Ineededtoprovesomethingtomyself.”“Painbeingtheonlytrueproofoflife?”Ishakemyhead.“IknowI’malive.”Henodsthoughtfully.“Wouldyouliketoseeher?”“Teacupisdead.”“Whydoyouthinkthat?”“There’snoreasontoletherlive.”“That’s correct, if we proceed from the assumption that the only reason to keep her alive is to

manipulateyou.Really,thenarcissismoftoday’syouth!”Hepressesabuttononthewall.Ascreenlowersfromtheceiling.“You can’t force me to help you.” Fighting down a rising sense of panic, of losing control of

somethingIneverhadcontrolover.Voschholdsouthishand.Inhispalmisashinygreenobjectthesizeandshapeofalargegelcapsule.

Ahair-thinwireprotrudesfromoneend.“Thisisthemessage.”Thelightsdim.Thescreenflickerstolife.Thecamerasoarsoverawinter-killedfieldofwheat.Inthe

distance,afarmhouseandacoupleofoutbuildings,arustysilo.Atinyfigurestumblesfromastandoftreesborderingthefieldandlurchesthroughthedryandbrokenstalkstowardtheclusterofbuildings.“Thatisthemessenger.”Fromthisheight,Ican’ttellifit’saboyorgirl,onlythatit’sasmallchild.Nugget’sage?Younger?“CentralKansas,”Voschgoeson.“Yesterdayatapproximatelythirteenhundredhours.”Another figure comes intoviewon theporch steps.After aminute, someone else comesout.The

childbeginstoruntowardthem.“Thatisn’tTeacup,”Iwhisper.“No.”Crashingthroughthebrittlechafftowardtheadultswhowatchmotionlessly,andoneofthemholdsa

gun,andthereisnosound,whichsomehowmakesitmoreterrible.“It’s theancient instinct: In timesofgreatdanger,bewaryof strangers.Trustnooneoutsideyour

circle.”Mybody tenses. I knowhow this ends; I lived it. Themanwith the gun:me.The child crashing

towardhim:Teacup.Thechildfalls.Getsup.Runs.Fallsagain.“Butthere’sanotherinstinct,farolder,asoldaslifeitself,nearlyimpossibleforthehumanmindto

override:Protecttheyoungatallcosts.Preservethefuture.”Thechildbreaks through thewheat into theyardand falls for the last time.Theonewith thegun

doesn’t lower it,buthiscompanionraces to the fallenchildandscoops itoff thefrozenground.Thegunmanblockstheirwaybackintothehouse.Thetableauholdsforseveralseconds.“It’sallaboutrisk,”Voschobserves.“Yourealizedthat longago.Soofcourseyouknowwhowill

win the argument.After all, howmuch riskdoes a little childpose?Protect the young.Preserve thefuture.”Thepersoncarryingthechildsidestepstheonewiththegunandrushesupthestepsintothehouse.

Thegunmandropshisheadasifinprayer,thenliftshisheadasifinsupplication.Thenheturnsandgoesinside.Theminutesspinout.Besideme,Voschmurmurs,“Theworldisaclock.”The farmhouse, the outbuildings, the silo, the brown fields, and the blur of numbers as the time

displayatthebottomofthescreenticksoffthesecondsbythehundredths.Iknowwhat’scomingbutstill I flinch when the silent flash whites out the scene. Then roiling dust and debris and billowingsmoke:Thewheatisburning,consumedinamatterofseconds,tenderfodderforthefire,andwherethe

buildings used to be, a crater, a black hole bored into the Earth. The feed goes black. The screenretracts.Thelightsstaydim.“Iwantyou tounderstand,”Voschsaysgently.“You’vewonderedwhywekept the littleones, the

onestooyoungtofight.”“I don’t understand.” Tiny figure in acres of brown, dressed in denim overalls, barefoot, running

throughthewheat.He misreads my confusion. “The device inside the child’s body is calibrated to detect minute

fluctuationsincarbondioxide,thechiefcomponentofhumanbreath.WhentheCO2reachesacertainthreshold,indicatingthepresenceofmultipletargets,thedevicedetonates.”“No,” I whisper. They brought him inside, wrapped him in a warm blanket, brought him water,

washedhisface.Thegroupgatheredaroundhim,bathinghimintheirbreath.“They’dbejustasdeadifyoudroppedabomb.”“Itisn’taboutthedead,”hesnapsimpatiently.“Itneverwas.”Thelightscomeup,thedoorcomesopen,andClairecomesinwheelingametalcart,followedbyher

white-coatedbuddyandRazor,wholooksatmeandthenlooksaway.Thatgottomemorethanthecartwithitsarrayofsyringes:Hecouldn’tbringhimselftolookatme.“Itdoesn’t changeanything.”Myvoice rising. “Idon’t carewhatyoudo. I don’t evencare about

Teacupanymore.I’llkillmyselfbeforeIhelpyou.”Heshakeshishead.“You’renothelpingme.”

57

CLAIRETIES a rubber straparoundmyarmand taps the insideofmyelbow tobringupavein.Razorstandsontheothersideofthebed.Themaninthewhitecoat—Inevergothisname—isbythemonitor,holdingastopwatch.Voschleansagainstthesink,watchingmewithbright,flintyeyesglittering,likethe crows’ in the woods on the day I shot Teacup, curious but curiously indifferent, and then IunderstandthatVoschisright:Theanswertotheirarrivalisnotrage.Theanswerisrage’sopposite.Theonlypossibleansweristheoppositeofallthings,likethepitwherethefarmhouseoncestood:simplynothing.Nothate,notanger,notfear,notanythingatall.Emptyspace.Thesoullessindifferenceoftheshark’seye.“Toohigh,”murmuredMr.WhiteCoat,lookingatthemonitor.“Firstsomethingtorelaxyou.”Claireslidestheneedleintomyarm.IlookatRazor.Helooksaway.“Better,”WhiteCoatsays.“Idon’tcarewhatyoudotome,”ItellVosch.Mytonguefeelsbloated,clumsy.“Itdoesn’tmatter.”HenodsatClaire,whopicksupthesecondsyringe.“Insertingthehubonmymark,”shesays.Thehub?“Uh-oh,”WhiteCoatsays.“Careful.”Eyeingthemonitorasmyheartratekicksupanotch.“Don’t be afraid,”Vosch says. “It won’t harm you.” Claire gives him a startled look. He shrugs.

“Well.Werantests.”Heflickshisfingerather:Getonwithit.Iweigh tenmillion tons.Mybonesare iron; therest isstone. Idon’t feel theneedleslide intomy

arm.Clairesays,“Mark,”andWhiteCoatclicksthestopwatch.Theworldisaclock.“Thedeadhavetheirreward,”Voschsays.“Itistheliving—youandI—whostillhaveworktodo.

Call it what you like, fate, luck, providence. You have been delivered into my hands to be myinstrument.”“Appendingtothecerebralcortex.”FromClaire.Hervoicesoundsmuffled,asifmyearshavebeen

stuffedwithcotton.Irollmyheadtowardher.Athousandyearsgoby.“You’veseenonebefore,”Voschsays,athousandmilesaway.“Inthetestingroom,onthedayyou

arrivedatCampHaven.Wetoldyouitwasaninfestationofanalienlife-formattachedtothehumanbrain.Thatwasalie.”IcanhearRazorbreathing,loud,likeadiver’sbreaththrougharegulator.“Itisactuallyamicroscopiccommandhubaffixedtotheprefrontallobeofyourbrain,”Voschsays.

“ACPU,ifyouwill.”“Bootingup,”Clairesays.“Lookinggood.”“Nottocontrolyou...,”Voschsays.“Introducingfirstarray.”Needleglintinginfluorescentlight.Blackspeckssuspendedinamberfluid.

Ifeelnothingassheinjectsitintomyvein.“Buttocoordinatethefortythousandorsomechanizedgueststowhichyouwillplayhost.”“Tempninety-ninepointsix,”WhiteCoatsays.Razorbesidemebreathing.

“Ittooktheprehistoricratsmillionsofyearsandathousandgenerationstoreachthecurrentstageinhumanevolution,”Voschsays.“Itwilltakeyoudaystoachievethenext.”“Link with the first array complete,” Claire says, bending over me again. Bitter almond breath.

“Introducingsecondarray.”Theroomisfurnace-hot.I’mdrenchedinsweat.WhiteCoatannouncesthatmytemperatureisone

hundredandtwo.“It’samessybusiness,evolution,”Voschsays.“Manyfalsestartsandblindalleys.Somecandidates

aren’tsuitablehosts.Theirimmunesystemscrashortheysufferfrompermanentcognitivedissonance.Inlayman’sterms,theygomad.”I’mburning.Myveins are filledwith fire.Water flows frommy eyes, trickles downmy temples,

poolsinmyears.IseeVosch’sfaceleaningoverthesurfaceoftheundulatingseaofmytears.“ButIhavefaithinyou,Marika.Youdidnotcomethroughfireandbloodonlytofallnow.Youwill

bethebridgethatconnectswhat-wastowhat-will-be.”“We’relosingher,”WhiteCoatcallsout,tremble-voiced.“No,”Voschmurmurs,coolhandonmywetcheek.“Wehavesavedher.”

58

THEREISNODAYornightanymore,onlythesterileglowofthefluorescentlights,andthoselightsnevergoout.ImeasurethehoursbyRazor’svisits,threetimesadaytodelivermealsIcan’tkeepdown.Theycan’tcontrolmyfever.Can’tstabilizemybloodpressure.Can’tsubduemynausea.Mybodyis

rejectingtheelevenarraysdesignedtoaugmenteachofmybiologicalsystems,eacharrayconsistingoffourthousandunits,whichmakesatotalofforty-fourthousandmicroscopicroboticinvaderscoursingthroughmybloodstream.Ifeellikeshit.After every breakfast, Claire comes in to examine me, tinker with my meds, and make cryptic

remarkslike,Youbetterstartfeelingbetter.Thewindowofopportunityisclosing.Orsnideones like,I’mstartingtothinkthewholevery-big-rockideawastherightwaytogo.SheseemstoresentthatI’vereactedbadlytoherpumpingmefulloffortythousandalienmechanisms.“It’snotlikethere’sanythingyoucandoaboutit,”shetoldmeonce.“Theprocedureisirreversible.”“Thereisonething.”“What? Oh. Sure. Ringer the irreplaceable.” She pulled the kill switch device from her lab coat

pocketandhelditup.“Gotyoukeyedin.I’llpushthebutton.Goahead.Tellmetopushthebutton.”Smirking.“Pushthebutton.”She laughed softly. “It’s amazing. Whenever I start wondering what he sees in you, you say

somethinglikethat.”“Who?Vosch?”Her smile faded. Her eyes went shark-eyed blank. “We will terminate the upgrade if you can’t

adjust.”Terminatetheupgrade.She peeled the bandages away frommy knuckles.No scabs, no bruises, no scars.As if it hadn’t

happened.AsifI’dneverpoundedmyfistintothewalluntiltheskinsplitdowntothebone.IthoughtofVoschappearing inmy roomcompletelyhealed,days after I smashedhisnose andgavehim twoblackeyes.AndSullivan,whotoldthestoryofEvanWalkertornapartbyshrapnelandyet,somehow,hourslater,abletoinfiltrateandtakeoutanentiremilitaryinstallationbyhimself.First they tookMarika andmade her Ringer. Now they’ve takenRinger and “upgraded” her into

someonecompletelydifferent.Someonelikethem.Orsomething.Thereisnodayornightanymore,onlyaconstantsterileglow.

59

“WHATHAVETHEYdone tome?” I askRazor one daywhenhe carts in another inediblemeal. I don’texpectananswer,buthe’sexpectingmetoaskthequestion.ItmuststrikehimasweirdthatIhaven’t.Heshrugs,avoidingmygaze.“Let’sseewhat’sonthemenutoday.Oooh.Meatloaf!Luckyduck.”“I’mgoingtovomit.”Hiseyeswiden.“Really?”Helooksaroundfortheplasticupchuckcontainer,desperate.“Please,takethetrayaway.Ican’t.”Hefrowns.“They’llpulltheplugonyouifyoudon’tgetyourshittogether.”“Theycouldhavedonethistoanyone,”Isay.“Whydidtheydoittome?”“Maybeyou’respecial.”Ishakemyheadandanswerasifhewereserious.“No.Ithinkit’sbecausesomeoneelseis.Doyou

playchess?”Startled:“Playwhat?”“Maybewecouldplay.WhenI’mfeelingbetter.”“I’mmoreofabaseballguy.”“Really?Iwouldhaveguessedswimming.Ortennis.”Hecockshishead.Hiseyebrowscometogether.“Youmustbefeelingbad.Makingconversationlike

you’rehalfwayhuman.”“Iamhalfwayhuman.Literally.Theotherhalf...”Ishrug.Itcoaxesoutagrin.“Oh,the12thSystemisdefinitelytheirs,”hesays.The 12th System?What did thatmean exactly? I’mnot sure, but I suspect it’s in reference to the

elevennormalsystemsofthehumanbody.“Wefoundaway toyank themoutofTeds’bodiesand . . .”Razor trailsoff,gives thecameraan

abashedlook.“Anyway,youhavetoeat.Ioverheardthemtalkingaboutafeedingtube.”“Sothat’stheofficialstory?LikeWonderland:We’reusingtheirtechnologyagainstthem.Andyou

believethat.”Heleansagainstthewall,crosseshisarmsoverhischest,andhums“FollowtheYellowBrickRoad.”

Ishakemyhead.Amazing.Itisn’tthattheliesaretoobeautifultoresist.It’sthatthetruthistoohideoustoface.“CommanderVoschisimplantingbombsinsidechildren.He’sturningkidsintoIEDs,”Itellhim.He

hums louder. “Littlekids.Toddlers.They’re separatedwhen theycome in,aren’t they?TheywereatCampHaven.Anyoneyounger than five is cartedoff andyounever see themagain.Haveyou seenany?Wherearethechildren,Razor?Wherearethey?”Hestopshumminglongenoughtosay,“Shutup,Dorothy.”“And does that make sense: loading up a Dorothy with superior alien technology? If command

decidedto‘enhance’peopleforthewar,doyoureallythinkitwouldpickthecrazyones?”“Idon’tknow.Theypickedyou,didn’tthey?”Hegrabsthetrayofuntouchedfoodandheadsforthe

door.“Don’tgo.”

Heturns,surprised.Myfaceishot.Thefevermustbespiking.Thathastobeit.“Why?”heasks.“You’retheonlyhonestpersonIhavelefttotalkto.”Helaughs.It’sagoodlaugh,authentic,unforced;Ilikeit,butIamfeverish.“WhosaysI’mhonest?”

heasks.“We’reallenemiesindisguise,right?”“Myfatherusedtotellthisstoryaboutsixblindmenandanelephant.Onemanfelttheelephant’sleg

andsaidanelephantmustlooklikeapillar.Anotherfeltthetrunkandsaidanelephantmustlooklikeatreebranch.Blindguynumberthreefeltthetailandsaidanelephantislikearope.Fourthguyfeelsthebelly:Theelephantislikeawall.Fifthguy,ear:Theelephantisshapedlikeafan.Sixthguy,atusk,soanelephantmustbelikeapipe.”Razorstaresatmestone-facedforalongmoment,thensmiles.It’sagoodsmile;Ilikeit,too.“That’sabeautifulstory.Youshouldtellitatparties.”“Thepointis,”Itellhim,“fromthemomenttheirshipappeared,we’veallbeenblindmenpattingan

elephant.”

60

INTHECONSTANTsterileglow,Imeasurethedaysbytheuneatenmealshebrings.Threemeals,oneday.Six,twodays.Onthetenthday,afterhesetsthetrayinfrontofme,Iaskhim,“Whydoyoubother?”Myvoicelikehisnow,athroatycroak.I’msoakedinsweat,feverspiking,headpounding,heartracing.Hedoesn’t answer.Razorhasn’t spoken tome in seventeenmeals.He seems jittery,distracted, evenangry.Claire’sgonesilent,too.ShecomestwiceadaytochangemyIVbag,lookintomyeyeswithanotoscope,testmyreflexes,changeoutthecatheterbag,andemptythebedpan.Everysixthmeal,Igetaspongebath.Oneday, shebringsa tapemeasureandwraps it aroundmybiceps, Iguess to seehowmuchmuscleI’velost.Idon’tseeanyoneelse.NoMr.WhiteCoat.NoVoschordeadfatherspumpedintomyheadbyVosch.I’mnotsooutofitthatIdon’tknowwhatthey’redoing:holdingvigil,waitingtoseeifthe“enhancement”killsme.She’s rinsing out the bedpan onemorningwhenRazor comes inwithmy breakfast, and hewaits

silentlyuntilshe’sfinished,andthenIhearhimwhisper,“Isshedying?”Claireshakesherhead.Ambivalent:couldbeno,couldbeyourguessisasgoodasmine.Iwaittill

she’sgonetosay,“You’rewastingyourtime.”Heglancesatthecameramountedintheceiling.“Ijustdowhattheytellme.”Ipickupthetrayandhurlitontothefloor.Hislipstighten,buthedoesn’tsayanything.Silently,he

cleansupthemesswhileIliepanting,exhaustedfromtheeffort,sweatpouringoffme.“Yeah,pickthatup.Makeyourselfuseful.”Whenmy fever shoots up, something inmymind loosens, and I imagine I can feel the forty-four

thousandmicrobotsswarminginmybloodstreamandthehubwithitsdelicatelaceoftendrilsburrowedinto every lobe, and I understandwhatmy father felt in his dying hours as he clawed at himself tosubduetheimaginaryinsectscrawlingbeneathhisskin.“Bitch,”Igasp.Fromthefloor,Razorlooksupatme,startled.“Leaveme,bitch.”“Noproblem,”hemutters.Onhishandsandknees,usingawetragtomopupthemess,andthetart

smellofdisinfectant.“FastasIcan.”He stands up. His ivory cheeks are flushed. Deliriously, I think the color brings out the auburn

highlights in his blond hair. “Itwon’twork,” he tellsme. “Starving yourself. So you better think ofsomethingelse.”I’ve tried.But there’snoalternative. Icanbarely liftmyhead.Youbelong to themnow.Vosch the

sculptor,mybodytheclay,butnotmyspirit,nevermysoul.Unconquered.Uncrushed.Uncontained.Iamnotbound;theyare.Languish,die,orrecover,thegame’sover,thegrandmasterVoschmated.“Myfatherhada favoritesaying,” I tellRazor.“Wecallchess thegameofkingsbecause, through

chess,welearnhowtorulekings.”“Againwiththechess.”He drops the dirty rag into the sink and slams out the door.When he returnswith the nextmeal,

there’safamiliarwoodenboxbesidethetray.Withoutaword,Razorpicksupthefoodanddumpsitinto the trash, tosses themetal tray into the sink, where it lands with a loud clang. The bed hums,maneuveringmybodyintoasittingposition,andheslidestheboxinfrontofme.

“Yousaidyoudidn’tplay,”Iwhisper.“Soteachme.”Ishakemyheadandsaytothecamerabehindhim,“Nicetry.Butstuffitupyourass.”Razorlaughs.“Nottheiridea.Butspeakingofasses,youcanbetyoursIgotpermissionfirst.”Heopensthebox,pullsouttheboard,fumbleswiththepieces.“Yougotyourqueensandkingsand

theprawnsandtheseguard-tower-lookingthings.Howcomeeverypieceislikeapersonexceptthose?”“Pawns,notprawns.Aprawnisabigshrimp.”Henods.“That’sthenameofaguyinmyunit.”“Shrimp?”“Prawn.Neverknewwhatthehellitmeant.”“You’resettingitupwrong.”“ThatcouldbebecauseIdon’tknowhowtofreakingplay.Youdoit.”“Idon’twanttodoit.”“Thenyou’reconcedingdefeat?”“Resigning.It’scalledresigning.”“That’sgoodtoknow.Ihaveafeelingthat’llcomeinhandy.”Smiling.NottheZombiehigh-voltage

type.Smaller,subtler,moreironic.HesitsbesidethebedandIcatchawhiffofbubblegum.“Whiteorblack?”“Razor,I’mtooweaktoevenlift—”“ThenyoupointwhereyouwanttogoandI’llmoveyou.”He’s not giving up. I didn’t really expect him to. By this point, wafflers and wusses have been

winnowedout.Therearenopussiesleft.Itellhimwheretoplacethepiecesandhoweachonemoves.Describethebasicrules.Lotsofnoddinganduh-huhs,butIgetthefeelingthere’salotofagreeingandnotmuch grasping. Then we play and I slaughter him in fourmoves. The next game, he falls intoarguinganddenying:Youcan’tdothat!Tellmethatisn’tthestupidestdamnruleever.GamethreeandI’msurehe’sregrettingthewholeidea.Myspiritsaren’tbeingliftedandhisarebeingtotallycrushed.“Thisisthedumbest-assedgameeverinvented,”hepouts.“Chesswasn’tinvented.Itwasdiscovered.”“LikeAmerica?”“Likemathematics.”“Iknewgirlsjustlikeyouinschool.”Heleavesthepointthereandstartstosetuptheboardagain.“That’sallright,Razor.I’mtired.”“TomorrowI’mbringingsomecheckers.”Spokenlikeathreat.Hedoesn’t,though.Tray,box,board.Thistimehesetsupthepiecesinastrangeconfiguration:the

blackkinginthecenterfacinghim,thequeenontheedgefacingtheking,threepawnsbehindthekingat ten, twelve, and twoo’clock, oneknight on theking’s right, another onhis left, a bishopdirectlybehindhimand,nexttothebishop,anotherpawn.ThenRazorlooksatme,wearingthatseraphicgrin.“Okay.”I’mnodding,notsurewhy.“I’veinventedagame.Areyouready?It’scalled...”Hetapsonthebedrailtoproduceadrumroll.

“Chaseball!”“Chaseball?”“Chess-baseball.Chaseball.Getit?”Heplopsacoinbesidetheboard.“What’sthat?”Iask.“It’saquarter.”“Iknowit’saquarter.”“Forthepurposesofthegame,it’stheball.Well,notreallytheball,butitrepresentstheball.Orwhat

happenswiththeball.Ifyou’dbequietasecond,Icouldexplainalltherules.”

“Iwasn’ttalking.”“Good. You give me a headache when you talk. Name-calling and Yoda quotes about chess and

crypticelephantstories.Youwanttoplayornot?”Hedoesn’twaitforananswer.Heplacesawhitepawnjustinfrontoftheblackqueen,sayingthat’s

him,thebatter.“Youshouldleadoffwithyourqueen.She’sthemostpowerful.”“That’s why she bats cleanup.” He shakes his head. My ignorance is astounding. “Real simple:

Defense,that’syou,flipsfirst.Heads,it’sastrike.Tails,aball.”“Acoinwon’twork,”Ipointout.“Therearethreepossibilities:strike,ball,orahit.”“Actually,therearefour,countingfouls.Yousticktochess;I’llhandlebaseball.”“Chaseball,”Icorrecthim.“Anyway.Ifyouflipaball,that’saball,andyouflipagain.Comesupheads,though,andthenIget

thecoin.See,thatgivesmeachancetogetahit.HeadsIconnect,tailsImiss.IfImiss,strikeone.Andsoon.”“Igetit.Andifyouflipheads,IgetthecoinbacktoseeifIcanfieldit.HeadsIthrowyouout...”“Wrong!Sowrong!No.FirstIflip,threetimes.FourtimesifIgetaTT.”“TT?”“Twotails.That’satriple.WithaTTyougetonemoreflip:headsisahomerun;tails,justatriple.

Heads-headsisasingle;heads-tailsisadouble.”“Maybeweshouldjuststartplayingandyoucan—”“Thenyou get the coin back to see if you can fieldmypotentialsingle, double, triple, or homer.

Heads,I’mout.Tails,I’monbase.”Hetakesadeepbreath.“Unlessit’sahomerun,ofcourse.”“Ofcourse.”“Areyoumakingfunofme?BecauseIdon’tknow—”“I’mjusttryingtoabsorb—”“Itkindofsoundslikeyouare.Youhavenoideahowlongittookmetocomeupwiththis.It’spretty

complicated.Imean,notlikethegameofkings,butyouknowwhattheycallbaseball,don’tyou?Thenationalpastime.Baseballiscalledthenationalpastimebecause,byplayingit,welearnhowtomastertime.Orthepast.Oneof’em.”“Nowyou’retheonemakingfunofme.”“Actually,I’mtheonlyonemakingfunofyourightnow.”Hewaits.Iknowwhathe’swaitingfor.

“Youneversmile.”“Doesitmatter?”“Once,when Iwas a kid, I laughed so hard, I peedmy pants.Wewere at Six Flags. The Ferris

wheel.”“Whatmadeyoulaugh?”“Ican’tremembernow.”Heslideshishandbeneathmywristandliftsmyarmtopressthequarter

intomyupturnedpalm.“Flipthedamncoinsowecanplay.”Idon’twanttohurthisfeelings,butthegameisn’tthatcomplicated.Hegetsveryexcitedonhisfirst

hit, triumphantly fist pumping, then proceeding tomove the black pieces around the boardwhile hecallstheplayinahoarse,high-pitchedimitationofanannouncer’svoice,likeakidplayingwithactionfigures.“It’s a deep drive into center field!” The center-field pawn slides toward second base, the bishop

secondbasemanand thepawnshortstopdropback,and the left-fieldpawnrunsup, thencuts towardcenter.That’swithonehandwhiletheothermanipulatesthequarter,turningitinhisfingerslikeaballspinning in flight, lowering it as if in slowmotion to land in center-left field. It’s so ridiculous andchildishthatIwouldhavesmiledifIstillsmiled.

“He’ssafe!”Razorbellows.No. Not childish. Childlike. Eyes fever bright, voice rising in excitement, he’s ten again. Not all

thingsarelost,nottheimportantthings.Hisnexthitisablooperthatdropsbetweenfirstbaseandrightfield.Hecreatesadramaticcollision

between my fielder and baseman, first base sliding back, right field sliding up, then smack! Razorcacklesattheimpact.“Wouldn’tthatbeanerror?”Iask.“It’sacatchableball.”“Catchable ball? Ringer, it’s just a dorky game Imade up in fiveminuteswith a bunch of chess

piecesandaquarter.”Twomore hits; he’s three runs up at the top of the first. I’ve always sucked at games of chance.

Always hated them for that reason. Razor must sense my enthusiasm waning. He amps up thecommentarywhileslidingthepiecesaround(despitemypointingoutthey’remypieces,sinceI’mondefense). Another drive deep center-left. Another floater behind first base. Another impact of firstbasemanandoutfielder.Idon’tknowifhe’srepeatinghimselfbecausehethinksit’sfunnyorbecausehehasaseriousdeficitinimagination.There’sapartofmethatfeelsasifIshouldbedeeplyaffrontedonbehalfofchessplayerseverywhere.Bythethirdinning,I’mexhausted.“Let’spickitupagaintonight,”Isuggest.“Ortomorrow.Tomorrowwouldbebetter.”“What?Youdon’tlikeit?”“No.It’sfun.I’mjusttired.Reallytired.”Heshrugslikeitdoesn’tmatter,whichitdoes,orhewouldn’tshrug.Heslipsthequarterbackinto

hispocketandpacksupthebox,mutteringunderhisbreath.Icatchthewordchess.“Whatdidyousay?”“Nothing.”Cuttinghiseyesaway.“Somethingaboutchess.”“Chess, chess, chess. Chess on the brain. Sorry chaseball has nothing on chess in the sheer thrill

category.”He shoves theboxunderhis armand stomps to thedoor.One lastparting shotbeforehegoes: “I

thoughtmaybeI’dcheeryouupalittle,that’sall.Thanks.Wedon’thavetoplayanymore.”“Areyouangryatme?”“Igavechessachance,didn’tI?Youdidn’tseemebitching.”“Youdidn’t.Andyoudid.Alot.”“Justthinkaboutit.”“Thinkaboutwhat?”Heshoutsacrosstheroom:“Justthinkaboutit!”Heslamsoutthedoor.I’moutofbreath,shaky,andcan’tfigureoutwhy.

61

I’MREADYWITHanapologywhenthedooropensthatnight.ThemoreIthinkaboutitwithmyfeverishmind,themoreIfeellikethebullyatthebeachwhokicksoversomelittlekid’ssandcastle.“Hey,Razor,I’m—”Mymouthdropsopen.There’sastrangerholdingthetray,akidaroundtwelveorthirteen.“Where’sRazor?”Iask.Well,morelikedemand.“Idon’tknow,”thekidsqueaks.“Theyhandedmethetrayandsaidtakeit.”“Takeit,”Iechostupidly.“Yeah.Takeit.Takethetray.”TheypulledRazoroffRingerduty.Maybechaseball’sagainstregs.MaybeVoschgotticked,twokids

acting like kids for a couple of hours. Despair is addictive, for the one watching it and the oneexperiencingit.OrmaybeRazor’s the tickedpartyhere.Maybehe asked to be reassigned, tookhis chaseball and

wenthome.Idon’tsleepwellthatnight,ifyoucancallitnightundertheconstantsterileglow.Myfevershoots

uptoahundredandthreeasmyimmunesystemlaunchesitsfinal,desperateassaultonthearrays.Icanseetheblurrygreennumbersonthemonitorinchingupward.Islipintoasemi-deliriousdoze.Bitch!Leaveme.Youknowwhytheycallitbaseball,don’tyou?It’sadeepdriveintocenterfield!I’m

done.Takecareofyourself.Thegrungysilver turning inRazor’s fingers. It’sadeepdrive.Adeepdrive.Lowering toward the

boardinslowmotion,wherethefielderscomeup,secondbaseandshortstopgoback,leftgoesright.Blooperonthefirst-baseline!Fielderracesup,basemanback,boom.Fieldersup,infieldback,cuttotheright.Firstbasemanback,rightfielderup,boom.Up,back,cut.Back,up.Boom.Overandover,let’sgototheinstantreplay,up,back,cut.Back,up.Boom.NowI’mwide-awake,staringattheceiling.No.Can’tseeitaswell.Betterwithmyeyesclosed.Centerandleftslashdown.Leftcutsacross:HRightstepsup.Firstbaserunsback:IOh,comeon.Ridiculous.You’redelusional.WhenIgotback toourcampthatnightwith thevodka, I foundmydeadfathercurled intoafetal

position, his face covered in bloodwhere he had clawed at the bugs born inside hismind.Bitch,hecalledmebeforeIlefttofindthepoisonthatwouldsavehim.Hecalledmeanothername,too,thenameofthewomanwholeftuswhenIwasthree.HethoughtIwasmymother,whichwasironic.FromthetimeIwasfourteen, Iwasmore likehismother, feedinghim,washinghisclothes, takingcareof thehouse,makingsurehedidn’tdosomethingcatastrophicallystupidtohimself.AndeverydayIwenttoschoolinmyperfectlypresseduniformandtheycalledmeHerMajestyMarikaandsaidIthoughtIwasbetterthaneverybodyelsebecausemyfatherwasasemi-famousartist,thereclusivegeniustype,when

thetruthwasthatmostdaysmyfatherdidn’tknowwhatplanethewason.BythetimeIgothomefromschool,he’dbefull-ondelusional.AndIletpeopleontheoutsideholdtheirdelusions,too.IletthemthinkIthoughtIwasbetter,thewayIletSullivanthinkshewasrightaboutme.Ididn’tjustfosterthedelusions.Ilivedthem.Evenaftertheworldcrashedaroundus,Iclungtothem.Butafterhedied,Itoldmyselfnomore.Nomorebravefrontsorfalsehopesorpretendingeverything’sokaywhennothingis.Ithought I was being tough by pretending, calling it being optimistic, brave, keepingmy head up orwhateverbullshitseemedtofitthemoment.That’snottough.That’stheverydefinitionofsoft.Iwasashamedofhisdiseaseandangryathim,butIwasjustasguilty.Iplayedrightintotheliesrightuptotheend:Whenhecalledmemymother’sname,Ididn’tcorrecthim.Delusional.Inthecorner,thecamera’sblank,soullesseyestaring.WhatdidRazorsay?Justthinkaboutit!That’s not all you said, is it? I ask him, looking blankly back at the blank, black eye.That isn’t

everything.

62

IHOLDMYBREATHwhenthedooropensthenextmorning.AllnightIseesawedbetweenbeliefanddoubt.Iwallowedineveryaspectofthenewreality.First option: Razor didn’t invent chaseball anymore than I invented chess. The game is Vosch’s

creationforreasonstoomurkytoseeclearly.Secondoption:Razor,forreasonsonlycleartoRazor,hasdecidedtoseriouslymesswithmyhead.It

wasn’t just the hardhearted and resilient who survived the winnowing of the human race. A lot ofsadistic assholespersisted, too.That’s thewayof everyhumancatastrophe.Thedouchebag isnearlyindestructible.Thirdoption:Allofitisentirelyinmyhead.Chaseballisasillygamemadeupbyakidtotakemy

mindoffthefactthatImaybedying.There’snootherpoint,nosecretmessagestracedonachessboard.Myseeingletterswheretherearenolettersisthehumanbrain’stendencytofindpatterns,evenwheretherearenopatterns.AndIholdmybreathforanotherreason:Whatifit’sthesqueaky-voicedkidagain?WhatifRazor

doesn’tcomeback,evercomeback?There’sa realpossibility thatRazor isdead. Ifhewas trying tosecretlycommunicatewithmeandVoschfigureditout,I’msureVosch’sresponsewouldbeonethingandonlyonething.Iletoutmybreathslowandsteadywhenhestepsintotheroom.Thebeepingofthemonitorkicksup

anotch.“What?”Razorasks,narrowinghiseyesatme.Hesensessomething’suprightaway.Isayit.“Hi.”Hiseyescutright,cutleft.“Hi.”Drawingthetinywordoutslowly,asifhe’snotsureifhe’switha

lunatic.“Hungry?”Ishakemyhead.“Notreally.”“Youshouldtrytoeatthis.YoulooklikemycousinStacey.Shewasamethaddict.Idon’tmeanyou

literallylooklikeamethaddict.Just . . .”Faceturningred.“Youknow,likesomethingiseatingyoufromtheinside.”Hepushesthebuttonbesidethebed.Irise.Hesays,“YouknowwhatI’maddictedto?SourPatch

Kids.Raspberry.Notsocrazyaboutthelemon.Ihaveastash.I’llbringyousomeifyouwant.”Hesets the tray in frontofme.Coldscrambledeggs, friedpotatoes,ablackened,crusty thing that

mayormaynotbebacon.Mystomachclenches.Ilookupathim.“Trytheeggs,”hesuggests.“They’refresh.Freerange,organic,chemicalfree.Weraisethemright

hereincamp.Thechickens,nottheeggs.”Dark,soulfuleyesandthatsmall,mysterious,beatificsmile.WhatdidhisreactionmeanwhenIsaid

hi?WashestartledIofferedhimahalfwayhumangreetingorwashestartledbecauseIhadfiguredouttherealpointofchaseball?OrwashenotstartledatallandI’mpickingupcuesthataren’tthere?“Idon’tseethebox.”“Whatbox?Oh. Itwaskindofastupidgame.”He looksawayandsayssoftly tohimself,“Imiss

baseball.”

He’s quiet for the next couple of minutes while I move the cold eggs around the plate. I missbaseball.Auniverseoflossinfoursyllables.“No,Ilikedit,”Itellhim.“Itwasfun.”“Really?”Alook:Areyouserious?Hedoesn’tknowthatIam99.99999percentofthetime.“You

didn’tseemtoodownwithitatthetime.”“IguessI’mjustnotfeelingwelllately.”He laughs and then seems surprised at his own reaction. “Okay.Well, I left it inmyquarters. I’ll

bringitsomedayifnobodyswipesit.”Theconversationmeandersoffthegame.IdiscoverRazorwastheyoungestoffivekids,grewupin

AnnArbor,wherehisdadworkedasanelectricianandhismomasamiddleschool librarian,playedbaseballandsoccerandlovedMichiganfootball.Untilhewastwelve,hisgreatambitionwastobethestartingquarterbackfortheWolverines.Buthegrewtall,notbig,andbaseballbecamehispassion.“Momwantedmetobeadoctororalawyer,buttheoldmandidn’tthinkIwassmartenough...”“Wait.Yourdaddidn’tthinkyouweresmart?”“Smartenough.There’sadifference.”Defendinghisfatherevenindeath.Peopledie;loveendures.

“Hewantedmetobeanelectricianlikehim.Dadwasabigunionguy,presidentofhislocal,stufflikethat.Thatwastherealreasonhedidn’twantmetobealawyer.Suits,hecalledthem.”“Hehadaproblemwithauthority.”Razorshrugs.“‘Beyourownman,’healwayssaid.‘Don’tbetheMan’sman.’”Heshuffleshisfeet,

embarrassed,likehe’stalkingtoomuch.“Whataboutyouroldman?”“Hewasanartist.”“That’scool.”“Hewasalsoadrunk.Didmoredrinkingthanpainting.”Thoughnotalways.Yellowedphotographs

ofshowingshangingcrookedindustyframesandthestudentsbuzzinginhisstudionervouslycleaningbrushesandthecathedralhushthatfellwhenhewalkedintoacrowdedroom.“Whatkindofshitdidhepaint?”Razorasks.“Mostlythat.Shit.”Notalways,though.NotwhenhewasyoungerandIwassmallandthehandthat

heldminewasstainedwithrainbowcolors.Helaughs.“Thewayyoujoke.Likeyoudon’tevenknowit’sajoke,andit’syourownjoke.”Ishakemyhead.“Iwasn’tjoking.”Henods.“Maybethat’swhyyoudon’tknowit.”

63

AFTERTHEEVENINGmealIdon’teatandtheforcedbanterandtheminusculeawkwardsilencesthatdropbetweenoursentences,andaftertheboardcomesoutofthewoodenboxandhe’ssetupthepiecesandwefliptoseewho’sthehometeamandhewins,ItellhimIthinkIcanhandlemyownfielding,andhesmirks,Yeah,right,let’sgo,girl,afterhe’ssittingbesidemeontheedgeofthebedandafterweeksoflearning to letgoofmy rageandembrace thehowlingemptinessandafteryearsoferecting fortresswallsaroundpainandlossandthefeelingthatIwillneverfeelagain,afterlosingmyfatherandlosingTeacupandlosingZombieandlosingeverythingbutthehowlingemptinessandthatisnothing,nothingatall,Isilentlysaytheword:HIRazornods.“Yeah.”Hetapshisfingerontheblanket.Ifeelthetapagainstmythigh.“Yeah.”Tap.

“Notbad,thoughit’scoolerwhenyoudoitinslo-mo.”Hedemonstrates.“Getitnow?”“Ifyouinsist.”Isigh.“Yeah.”Itapmyfingeronthebedrail.“Well,tobehonestIdon’treallyseethe

point.”“No?”Tap-tapontheblanket.“No.”Tap-tapontherail.Thenextwordtakesovertwentyminutestotrace:HLPTap.“DidIevertellyouaboutmysummerjobbeforetherewerenomoresummerjobs?”heasks.

“Doggrooming.Worstpartofthejob?Expressingtheanalglands...”He’sonaroll.Fourrunsandnotasingleout.HOWIwon’tgetananswer foranother fortyminutes. I’ma little tiredandmore thana little frustrated.

Thisisliketextingwithsomeoneathousandmilesawayusingone-leggedrunners.Timeslowsdown;eventsspeedup.PLNIhavenoideawhatthatmeans.Ilookathimbuthe’slookingattheboard,movingthepiecesback

intoposition,talking,fillinginthetinysilencesthatdrop,stuffingtheemptyspacewithchatter.“That’s what they actually called it: expressing,” he says, still on the dogs. “Rinse, wash, rinse,

express,repeat.Sofreakingboring.”Andtheblack,soulless,unblinkingeyeofthecamera,staringdown.“Ididn’tunderstandthatlastplay,”Itellhim.“Chaseballisn’tsomelame-assgamelikechess,”hesayspatiently.“Thereareintricacies.Intricacies.

Towin,yougottahaveaplan.”“Andthat’syou,Iguess.Themanwiththeplan.”“Yes,that’sme.”Tap.

64

IHADN’TSEENVoschindays.Thatchangesthenextmorning.“Let’shearit,”hetellsClaire,who’sstandingbesideMr.WhiteCoatlookinglikeamiddle-schooler

draggedintotheprincipal’sofficeforbullyingthescrawnykid.“She’slosteightpoundsandtwentypercentofhermusclemass.She’sonDiovanforthehighblood

pressure,Phenerganforthenausea,amoxicillinandstreptomycintokeepherlymphaticsystemtampeddown,butwe’restillstrugglingwiththefever,”Clairereports.“‘Strugglingwiththefever’?”Claire’seyescutaway.“Ontheupside,herliverandkidneysarestillfunctioningnormally.Abitof

fluidinherlungs,butwe’re—”Voschwavesheroffandstepsuptomybedside.Brightbirdeyesglittering.“Doyouwanttolive?”Ianswerwithouthesitating.“Yes.”“Why?”Thequestiontakesmeoffguardforsomereason.“Idon’tunderstand.”“Youcannotovercomeus.Noonecan.Notifyounumberedseventimessevenbillionwhenitbegan.

Theworldisaclockandtheclockhaswoundtoitsfinalsecond—whywouldyouwanttolive?”“Idon’twanttosavetheworld,”Itellhim.“I’mjusthopingImightgettheopportunitytokillyou.”Hisexpressiondoesn’tchange,buthiseyesglitteranddance.Iknowyou,hiseyessay.Iknowyou.“Hope,”hewhispers.“Yes.”Nodding:He’spleasedwithme.“Hope,Marika.Clingtoyourhope.”

HeturnstoClaireandMr.WhiteCoat.“Pullheroffthemeds.”Mr.WhiteCoat’sfaceturnsthecolorofhissmock.Clairestartstosaysomething,thenlooksaway.

Voschturnsbacktome.“Whatistheanswer?”hedemands.“Itisn’trage.Whatisit?”“Indifference.”“Tryagain.”“Detachment.”“Again.”“Hope.Despair.Love.Hate.Anger.Sorrow.”I’mshaking;myfevermustbespiking.“Idon’tknow.I

don’tknow.Idon’tknow.”“Better,”hesays.

65

ITGETSSOBADthatnight,Icanbarelymakeitthroughfourinningsofchaseball.XMEDS“Heardarumorgoingaroundtheytookyouoffyourmeds,”Razorsays,shakingthequarterinhis

closedfist.“True?”“TheonlythingleftinmyIVbagissalinetokeepmykidneysfromshuttingdown.”Heglancesatmyvitalsonthemonitor.Frowning.WhenRazorfrowns,heremindsmeofalittleboy

who’sstubbedhistoeandthinkshe’stoobigtocry.“Soyoumustbegettingbetter.”“Guessso.”Tap-taponthebedrail.“Okay,”hebreathes.“Myqueenisup.Lookout.”Mybackstiffens.Myvisionblurs.Ileantothesideandemptymystomach,whatlittleisinsidemy

stomach,ontothewhitetile.Razorleapsupwithadisgustedcry,topplingtheboard.“Hey!”heshouts.Notatme.Attheblackeyeaboveus.“Hey,alittlehelphere!”Nohelpcomes.Helooksatthemonitor,looksatme,andsays,“Idon’tknowwhattodo.”“I’mokay.”“Sure.You’refine,justfine!”Hegoestothesink,wetsacleantowel,andlaysitacrossmyforehead.

“Fine,myass!Whythehelldidtheytakeyouoffthemeds?”“Whynot?”I’mfightingtheurgetohurlagain.“Oh,Idon’tknow.Maybebecauseyou’lldiewithoutthem.”Heglaresatthecamera.“Maybeyoushouldhandmethatcontaineroverthere.”Hedabsatthecrudstickingonmychin,refoldsthecloth,grabsthecontainer,andplacesitonmy

lap.“Razor.”“Yeah?”“Pleasedon’tputthatbackonmyface.”“Huh?Oh.Shit.Yeah.Hangon.”Hegrabsacleantowelandrunsitunderthewater.Hishandsare

shaking.“Youknowwhatitis?Iknowwhatitis.Whydidn’tIthinkofit?Whydidn’tyouthinkofit?Themedsmustbeinterferingwiththesystem.”“Whatsystem?”“The12thSystem.Theone they injected intoyou,Sherlock.Thehubandhis forty thousand little

friends to supercharge the other eleven.”Heputs the cool towel onmy forehead. “You’re cold.Youwantmetofindanotherblanket?”“No,I’mburningup.”“It’sawar,”hesays.Hetapshischest.“Inhere.Yougottadeclareatruce,Ringer.”Ishakemyhead.“Nopeace.”Henods,squeezingmywristbeneaththethinblanket.Squatsonthefloortogatherthefallenchess

pieces.Curseswhenhecan’tfindthequarter.Decideshecan’tleavethevomitjustlyingthere.Grabsthedirtytowelheusedtowipemychinandswabsthedeckonhishandsandknees.He’sstillcursing

whenthedooropensandClairecomesintotheroom.“Goodtiming!”Razorbarksather.“Hey,can’tyouatleastgivehertheanti-pukeserum?”Clairejerksherheadtowardthedoor.“Getout.”Shepointsatthebox.“Andtakethatwithyou.”Razor glowers at her, but he does it. I see again the tightly contained force behind his angelic

features.Careful,Razor.That’snottheanswer.Thenwe’realone,andClairestudiesthemonitorforalong,silentmoment.“Wereyoutellingthetruthearlier?”sheasks.“YouwanttolivesoyoucankillCommanderVosch?

You’resmarterthanthat.”Inthetoneofamotherscoldingaveryyoungchild.“You’re right,” I answer. “I’llneverget that chance.But I’mgoing tohave theopportunity tokill

you.”Shelooksstartled.“Killme?Whywouldyouwant tokillme?”WhenIdon’tanswer,shesays,“I

don’tthinkyou’regoingtolivethroughthenight.”Inod.“Andyou’renotgoingtoliveoutthemonth.”Shelaughs.Thesoundofherlaughtercausesbiletoriseintomythroat.Burning.Burning.“Whatareyougoingtodo?”shesayssoftly.Sheyanksthetowelfrommyforehead.“Smotherme

withthis?”“No. I’mgoing toovercome theguardbysmashinghishead inwithaheavyobject,and then I’m

goingtotakehisgunandshootyouintheface.”Shelaughsthroughthewholething.“Well,goodluckwiththat.”“Itwon’tbeluck.”

66

CLAIRETURNSOUTtobewrongaboutmebeingdeadbymorning.Nearlyamonthlater,bymyreckoningofthreemealsperday,andI’mstillhere.Idon’tremembermuch.AtsomepointtheydisconnectedmefromtheIVandthemonitor,andthe

silencethatslammeddownafter theconstantbeepingwasloudenoughtocrackmountains.Theonlyperson I saw during that time was Razor. He’s my full-time caretaker now. Feeds me, empties mybedpan,washesmyfaceandhands,turnsmesoIdon’tdevelopbedsores,playschaseballinthehourswhenI’mnotdelirious,andtalksnonstop.Hetalksabouteverything,whichisanotherwayofsayinghetalksaboutnothing.Hisdeadfamily,hisdeadfriends,hissquadmates,thedrudgeryofwintercamp,thefightsborneofboredomandfatigueandfear(butmostlyfear),therumorsthatwhenspringcomestheTedsarelaunchingamajoroffensive,alast-ditchefforttopurgetheworldofthehumannoise,ofwhichRazorisverymuchanactivepart.Hetalksandtalksandtalks.Hehadagirlfriend,hernamewasOliviaandherskinwasdarklikeamuddyriverandsheplayedclarinetintheschoolbandandwasgoingtobeadoctorandhatedRazor’sdadbecausehedidn’tthinkRazorcouldbeadoctor.HeletsitslipthathisgivennameisAlexlikeA-RodandhisdrillsergeantnamedhimRazornotbecausehewasslenderbutbecause he cut himself shaving one morning. I have very sensitive skin.His sentences are withoutperiods,without commas,without paragraphs, or, to be accurate, it’s all one long paragraphwith nomargins.Heshutsupjustonetimeafternearlyamonthof theverbaldiarrhea.He’sgoingonabouthowhe

wonfirstplaceinthefifth-gradesciencefairwithhisprojectabouthowtoturnapotatointoabatterywhenhestopsinmidsentence.Hissilenceisjarring,likethestillnessafterabuildingimplodes.“Whatisthat?”heasks,staringintentlyintomyface,andnobodystaresmoreintentlythanRazor,not

evenVosch.“Nothing.”Iturnmyheadawayfromhim.“Areyoucrying,Ringer?”“Myeyesarewatering.”“No.”“Don’ttellmeno,Razor.Idon’tcry.”“Bullshit.”Atapontheblanket.Tap-tapontherailing.“Diditwork?”Iask,turningbacktohim.Whatdoesitmatterifheseesme

cry?“Thepotatobattery.”“Sureitworked.It’sscience.Neveradoubtaboutitworking.Youplanitallout,followthesteps,and

itcan’tgowrong.”Squeezingmyhandthroughtheblanket:Don’tbescared.Everything’sset.Iwon’tletyoudown.It’stoolatetogobacknowanyway:Hiseyeswandertothefoodtraybesidethebed.“Youateallthe

pudding tonight.Youknowhow theymakechocolatepuddingwithout chocolate?Youdon’twant toknow.”“Letmeguess.Ex-Lax.”“What’sEx-Lax?”

“Seriously?Youdon’tknow?”“Oh,sosorryIdon’tknowwhatEx-Lax-who-gives-a-shitis.”“It’sachocolate-flavoredlaxative.”Hemakesaface.“That’ssick.”“That’sthepoint.”Hegrins.“Thepoint?OhGod,didyoujustmakeajoke?”“HowwouldIknow?JustpromisemenobodyslippedEx-Laxintomypudding.”“Promise.”Tap.Ilastforafewhoursafterheleaves,longafterlights-outineveryotherpartofthecamp,deepinto

thebellyof thewinternight, before thepressurebecomesunbearable, and then,when I can’t take itanymore,Istartshoutingforhelp,wavingatthecameraandthenrollingovertopressmychestagainstthecoldmetal railings,poundingmy fist into thepillow in frustrationand fury,until thedoorburstsopenandClairechargesin,followedcloselybyabigbearofarecruit,whosehandimmediatelyfliestocoverhisnose.“Whathappened?”Clairesays,thoughthesmellshouldtellherallsheneedstoknow.“Oh,crap!”therecruitburblesbehindhishand.“Exactly,”Igasp.“Great.Justgreat,”Clairesays,throwingtheblanketandsheetontothefloorandmotioningforthe

recruittohelpher.“Finejob,missy.Ihopeyou’reproudofyourself.”“Notyet,”Iwhimper.“Whatareyoudoing?”Claireshoutsattherecruit.Goneisthesoftvoice.Vanishedarethekindeyes.

“Helpmewiththis.”“Help youwithwhat,ma’am?”He has a flattened nose and very small eyes and a forehead that

bulgesinthemiddle.Hisbellyhangsoverhisbeltandhispantsareaninchtooshort.He’shuge;he’sgotaboutahundredpoundsormoreonme.Itwon’tmatter.“Getup,”Clairesnapsatme.“Comeon.Getyour legsunderyou.”She takesonearmandJumbo

Recruit takes the other and together they haul me out of the bed. Big Recruit’s smushed-in face istwistedwithrevulsion.“Ah,God.It’severywhere!”hesoftlywails.“Idon’tthinkIcanwalk,”ItellClaire.“Then I’ll make you crawl,” she snarls. “I should just leave you like this. It’s so perfectly

metaphorical.”Theyhaulmetwodoorsdownandintotheshowerroom.BigRecruitiscoughingandgaggingand

ClaireisbitchingandI’mapologizingwhileshestripsoffthejumpsuitandthrowsitatJumboRecruit,tellinghim towait outside. “Don’t leanonme.Leanon thewall,” she orders harshly.Myknees arebuckling.Ihangontotheshowercurtaintokeepupright;Ihaven’tusedmylegsinamonth.Withonehandlockedaroundmyleftarm,Clairepushesmeunderthewater,bendingatthewaistto

staydry.Thesprayisicy.Shedidn’tbothertoadjustthetemperature.Theslapofcoldwateragainstmybodyislikeanalarmgoingoff,snappingmefromalongwinter’shibernation,andIreachupandgrabtheshowerheadpipecomingfromthewallandtellClaireIthinkI’vegotit;IthinkIcanstand;shecanletgo.“Areyousure?”sheasks,holdingon.“Prettysure.”IwrenchthepipedownwardwithalltheforceIhave.Thepipebreaksoffatthejointwithametallic

squealand thecoldwatergushesout ina ropeysnarl.Leftarmup,slipping throughClaire’s fingers,thenI’vegotherbythewristandIswingmybodytowardher,rotatingmyhipstomaximizetheblow,

andslamthejaggededgeofthebrokenpipeintoherneck.Iwasn’tsureIcouldbreakasteelpipewithmybarehands,butIwasprettysure.Ihavebeenenhanced.

67

CLAIRESTAGGERSAWAY,bloodpouring from the two-inchpuncturewound inherneck.The fact that Ididn’tdropherdoesn’tsurpriseme;I’dassumedshewouldbeenhanced,too,butI’dhopedtogetluckyandseverhercarotidartery.Shefumblesinthepocketofherlabcoatforthekillswitch.Ianticipatedthat.I tossthebrokenpipeaway,grabthebolted-inshowerrod,breakitfromitsbracketsandsmashoneendintothesideofherhead.Theimpactbarelyrocksher.Inamillisecond,fasterthanmyeyescanfollowthemotion,shehasthe

endoftherodinhergrip.Iletgoinhalfamillisecond,sowhensheyanksthere’snothingholdingtheother end, and she stumbles back into thewall, hittingwith enough force to crack the tiles. I barreltoward her. She swings the rod towardmy head, but I anticipated that, too—counted on it, when Irehearsedthisinthethousandsilenthoursbeneaththeconstantglow.Igrabtheotherendoftherodasitarcstowardme,firstwithmyrighthand,thenwiththeleft,hands

shoulder-widthapart,andpowertherodintoherneck,spreadingmylegsforthebalanceandleveragenecessarytocrushherwindpipe.Ourfacesareinchesapart.I’mcloseenoughtosmellthecyanidebreathtricklingoutofherparted

lips.Her hands are on either side ofmine, pushing backwhile I push forward. The floor is slick; I’m

barefoot,sheisn’t;I’mgoingtolosetheadvantagebeforesheblacksout.Ihavetodropher—fast.Islidemyfoottotheinsideofherankleandkickout.Perfect:ShefallstothefloorandIfollowher

down.Shelandsonherback.Ilandonherstomach.Iclampmykneestightlyagainsthersidesandshove

theroddownhardintoherneck.ThenthedoorbehindusfliesopenandJumboRecruitlumbersin,gundrawn,shoutingincoherently.

ThreeminutesinandthelightinClaire’seyesisfading,butit’snotallthewayout,andIknowIhavetotakearisk.Idon’tlikerisk,neverdid;Ijustlearnedtoacceptit.Somethingsyoucanchooseandsomeyoucan’t, likeSullivan’sCrucifixSoldier, likeTeacup,likegoingbackforZombieandNuggetbecausenotgoingbackmeantthere’snovaluetoanythinganymore,notlife,nottime,notpromises.AndIhaveapromisetokeep.Jumbo’s gun: The 12th System locks in on it and thousands of microscopic droids go to work

augmentingthemuscles,tendons,andnervesinmyhands,eyes,andbraintoneutralizethethreat.Inamicrosecond,objectiveidentified,informationprocessed,methoddetermined.Jumbodoesn’thaveaprayer.Theattackhappensfasterthanhisunenhancedbraincanprocessit.Idoubtheevenseesthecurtain

rodwhizzingtowardhishand.Thegunfliesacrosstheroom.Hegoesoneway—forthegun—whileIgotheother—forthetoilet.Thetanklidissolidceramic.Andheavy.Icouldkillhim;Idon’t.ButIsmackhimhardenoughin

thebackofheadtoputhimoutforalongtime.Jumbo falls down. Claire rises up. I sling the lid toward her head. Her arm rises to block the

projectile.Myenrichedhearingpicksup the soundofabonesnapping from thecollision.Thesilver

device in her hand clatters to the floor. She dives for it as I step forward. I slam one foot on heroutstretchedhandandwiththeotherkickthedevicetotheothersideoftheroom.Done.Andsheknowsit.Shelookspastthebarrelofthegunleveledatherface—beyondthetinyholefilled

withimmensenothingness—intomyeyes,andhersarekindagainandhervoiceissoftagain,thebitch.“Marika...”No.Marika was slow, weak, sentimental, dimwitted.Marika was a little girl clinging to rainbow

fingers,helplesslywatchingthetimewinddown,teeteringontherazor’sedgeofthebottomlessabyss,exposedbehindherfortresswallsbypromisesshecouldneverkeep.ButIwillkeepherfinalpromisetoClaire,thebeastwhostrippedhernakedandbaptizedherinthecoldwaterthatstillroarsinthebrokenshower.IwillkeepMarika’spromise.Marikaisdead,andIwillkeepherpromise.“MynameisRinger.”Ipullthetrigger.

68

JUMBOSHOULDHAVEaknifeonhim.Standardissueforallrecruits.Ikneelbesidehisunconsciousbody,sliptheknifefromitssheath,andcarefullycutoutthepelletembeddednearthespinalcordatthebaseofhisskull.Islipitbetweenmycheekandgums.Nowmine.NopainwhenIcut itout,andonlyasmallamountofbloodtricklesfromtheincision.

Botstodeadensensation.Botstorepairdamage.That’swhyClairedidn’tdiewhenIrammedabrokenpipeintoherneckandwhy,aftertheinitialgush,thebleedingquicklystopped.Also why, after six weeks flat on my back with very little food and a burst of intense physical

activity,I’mnotevenoutofbreath.IinsertthetinypelletfrommyneckintoJumbo’s.Trackmenow,CommanderAsshole.Freshjumpsuitfromthestackunderthesink.Shoes:Claire’sfeetaretoosmall;Jumbo’smuchtoo

large. I’llworkon shoes later.Thebigkid’s leather jacketmight come inhandy, though.The jackethangsonmelikeablanket,butIliketheextraroominthesleeves.There’s something I’m forgetting. I glance around the small room. The kill switch, that’s it. The

screengotcrackedinthemelee,but thedevicestillworks.Anumberglowsabovetheflashinggreenbutton.Mynumber.Iswipemythumboverthedisplayandthescreenfillswithnumbers,hundredsofsequencesrepresentingeveryrecruitonthebase.Iswipeagaintoreturntomynumber,taponit,andamappopsupshowingmyimplant’spreciselocation.Izoomoutandthescreenfillswithtiny,glowinggreendots:thelocationofeveryimplantedsoldierintheentirebase.Jackpot.Andcheckmate.Withaswipeofmythumbandatapofmyfinger,Icanhighlightallthenumbers.

Thebuttononthebottomofthedevicewilllightup.Afinaltapandeveryrecruitneutralized,gone.Icanpracticallystrollout.Ican—ifI’mwillingtostepoverseveralhundredcorpsesofinnocenthumanbeings,kidswhoareno

lessvictimsthanIam,whosesolecrimeisthesinofhope.Ifthewageofsinisdeath,thenvirtueisavicenow:Adefenseless,starvingchildlostinawheatfieldisgivenshelter.Awoundedsoldiercriesoutforhelpbehindarowofbeercoolers.Alittlegirlshotbymistakeisdeliveredtoherenemiesinordertosaveher.AndIdon’tknowwhichismoreinhuman:thealienbeingsthatcreatedthisnewworldorthehuman

beingwhoconsiders,ifonlyforaninstant,pressingthegreenbutton.Three large clumpsof stationarydots hover on the right side of the screen: the sleeping.Adozen

isolated individuals on the periphery: sentries. Two in themiddle:mine in Jumbo’s neck, his inmymouth.Anotherthreeorfourveryclose,onthesamefloor:thesickandinjured.Onefloordown,theICU,where only one green sphere glows. So: barracks, observation posts, hospital.A couple of thesentrydotsaremanning themagazinebuilding. Iwon’thave toguesswhich two. I’llknow ina fewminutes.Comeon,Razor,let’sgo.I’vegotonelastpromisetokeep.Watchingthegusherpourfromthebrokenpipe.

69

“DOYOUPRAY?”Razoraskedmeafteranexhaustingnightofchaseball,whilehepackedup thegameboardandpieces.Ishookmyhead.“Doyou?”“DamnrightIdo.”Noddinghisheademphatically.“Noatheistsinfoxholes.”“Myfatherwasone.”“Afoxhole?”“Anatheist.”“Iknowthat,Ringer.”“Howdidyouknowmyfatherwasanatheist?”“Ididn’t.”“Thenwhydidyouaskifhewasafoxhole?”“Ididn’t. Itwasa freaking—”Hesmiled.“Oh, Iget it. Iknowwhatyou’redoing.Thedisturbing

thingtomeiswhy.Likeyou’renottryingtobefunnybuttryingtoprovehowsuperioryouare.Orthinkyouare.You’renoteither.Funnyorsuperior.Whydon’tyoupray?”“Idon’tlikeputtingGodonthespot.”Hepickedupthequeenandexaminedherface.“Youevercheckedherout?Sheisonescary-looking

she-bitch.”“Ithinkshelooksregal.”“Shelookslikemythird-gradeteacher,alotofmanandverylittlewo.”“What?”“Youknow:heavyonthemale,lightonthefe.”“She’sjustfierce.Awarriorqueen.”“Mythird-grade teacher?”Hestudiedmyface.Waiting.Waiting.“Sorry, tried that jokeonce.Epic

fail.”Heplacedthepieceinthebox.“Mygrandmabelongedtoaprayercircle.Youknowwhataprayercircleis?”“Yes.”“Really?Ithoughtyouwereanatheist.”“My father was an atheist. Andwhy couldn’t an atheist knowwhat a prayer circle is? Religious

peopleknowaboutevolution.”“Iknowwhatitis.I’vegotit,”hesaidthoughtfully,dark,intenseeyesstillonmyface.“Youwere,

like,fiveorsixandsomerelativeremarkedinaverypositivewaywhataseriouslittlegirlyouwere,andfromthenon,youthoughtseriousnesswasattractive.”“Whathappenedintheprayercircle?”Attemptingtogethimbackontrack.“Ha!Soyoudon’tknowwhatitis!”Hesettheboxdownandscoochedfartherontothebed.Hisbutt

now touching my thigh. I eased my leg away. Subtly, I hoped. “I’ll tell you what happened. Mygrandma’sdoggotsick.Oneofthosepursedogsthatbiteseverybodyandlivesabouttwenty-fiveyears,biting people. So her petition had to dowithGod saving thatmean little dog so it could bitemorepeople.Andhalftheoldladiesinhergroupagreedandhalfdidn’t,I’mnotsurewhy,ImeanaGodwho

doesn’tlikedogswouldn’tbeGod,butanyway,therewasthisbigdebateaboutwastedprayer,whichbecameanargumentabout if therecouldbesucha thingaswastedprayer,which turned intoa fightabouttheHolocaust.SoinfiveminutesitwentfromanippyoldpursedogtotheHolocaust.”“Sowhathappened?Didtheyprayforthedog?”“No,theyprayedforthesoulsoftheHolocaust.Thenthenextdaythedogdied.”Andnowhewas

noddingthoughtfully.“Grandmaprayedforhim.Prayedeverynight.Toldallusgrandkidstopray,too.SoIprayedforadogthatterrorizedandhatedmeandgavemethis.”Heswunghislegontothebedandpulleduphispantstoexposehiscalf.“Seethescar?”Ishookmyhead.“No.”“Well,it’sthere.”Hepusheddownthepantslegbutkepthisfootonthebed.“Soafteritdied,Isaid

toGrandma,‘IprayedreallyhardandFlubbystilldied.DoesGodhateme?’”“Whatdidshesay?”“SomeBSaboutGodwantingFlubbyinheaven,whichwasimpossibleformysix-year-oldbrainto

process. There are nippy old purse dogs in heaven? Isn’t heaven supposed to be a nice place? Itbotheredmeforalongtime.Like,everynight,whileIsaidmyprayers,Icouldn’thelpbutwonderifIevenwantedtogotoheavenandspendeternitywithFlubby.SoIdecidedhemustbeinhell.Otherwise,theologyfallsapart.”Hewrappedhislongarmsaroundhisupraisedknee,whereherestedhischinandstaredintospace.

Hewasbackinatimewhenalittleboy’squestionsaboutprayerandGodandheavenstillmattered.“Ibrokeacuponce,”hewenton.“PlayingaroundinMom’schinacabinet,partofherweddingset,

thisdaintylittlecupfromateaset.Didn’ttotallybreakit.Droppeditontheflooranditcracked.”“Thefloor?”“No,notthefloor.Thecu—”Hiseyeswidenedinshock.“Didyoujustmakethesame...?”Ishookmyhead.Hepointedhisfingeratme.“Naw,Icaughtyou!Amomentoflightheartedlevity

fromRingerthewarriorqueen!”“Ijokeallthetime.”“Right.Butthey’resosubtlethatonlysmartpeoplegetthem.”“Thecup,”Iproddedhim.“SoI’vecrackedMom’spreciouschina.Iputitbackinthecabinet,turningitscrackedsidetoward

thebacksomaybeshewon’tnotice,eventhoughIknowit’sonlyamatteroftimebeforeshedoesandI’mdeadmeat.KnowwhereIturnforhelp?”Ididn’thavetothinkhard.Iknewwherethestorywasgoing.“God.”“God.IprayedforGodtokeepMomawayfromthatcup.Like,for therestofher life.Orat least

untilImovedawaytocollege.ThenIprayedthathecouldhealthecup.He’sGod,right?Hecanhealpeople—what’satinyfreakingmade-in-Chinacup?Thatwastheoptimalsolutionandthat’swhathe’sallabout,optimalsolutions.”“Shefoundthecup.”“Youbetyourassshefoundthecup.”“I’msurprisedyoustillpray.AfterFlubbyandthecup.”Heshookhishead.“Notthepoint.”“There’sapoint?”“Ifyou’dletmefinishthestory—yes,thereisapoint.Hereitis:AftershefoundthecupandbeforeI

knewshe’dfoundit,shereplacedit.Sheorderedanewcupandthrewawaytheoldone.OneSaturdaymorning—IguessI’dbeenprayingforaboutamonth—Iwenttothecabinettoprovetheprayercirclewrongaboutwastedprayer,andIsawit.”“Thenewcup,”Isaid.Razornodded.“Butyoudidn’tknowyourmomreplacedit.”He threwhis hands into the air. “It’s a fuckingmiracle!What’s cracked has been uncracked!The

brokenmadewhole!Godexists!Inearlycrappedmypants.”“Thecupwashealed,”Isaidslowly.Hisdarkeyesdugdeepintomine.Hishandfelltomyknee.Asqueeze.Thenatap.Yes.

70

IN THE BATHROOM, the gush becomes a stream, the stream becomes a trickle, the trickle becomes ananemicdribble.Thewaterslowsandmyheartquickens.Myparanoiawasgettingthebetterofme.AdecadepassedwhileIwaitedforthewatertobecutoff:thegosignalfromRazor.The hall outside is deserted. I already know that thanks to Claire’s tracking device. I also know

exactlywhereI’mgoing.Stairs. One flight down. One last promise. I pause long enough on the landing to slip Jumbo’s

sidearmintothejacketpocket.ThenIslamthroughthedoorandhit thehallrunning.Straightaheadisthenurses’station.Isprint

straighttowardit.Thenursepopsoutofherchair.“Takecover!”Ishout.“It’sgoingtoblow!”Iswervepastthecounterandracetowardtheswingingdoorsthatleadtotheward.“Hey!”sheshouts.“Youcan’tgobackthere!”Anydaynow,Razor.Shehitsthelockdownbuttononherdesk.Itdoesn’tmatter.Ihurtleintothedoorsatfullspeedand

smashbothofftheirhinges.“Freeze!”shescreams.Theentirelengthofthehallwayremains;Iwon’tmakeit.I’vebeenenhanced,butIcan’toutruna

bullet.Iskittertoahalt.Razor,I’mserious.Nowwouldbeaverygoodtime.“Hands on your head!Now.” Struggling to catch her breath. “Good job. Now walk toward me,

backward.Slow.Veryslow,orIsweartoGodI’llshootyou.”I obey, shuffling toward the sound of her voice. She orders me to stop. I stop. I’m still, but the

mechanismsinsidemearen’t.Herpositionisfixed:Idon’thavetoseehertoknowexactlywhereshe’sstanding. The hub’s dispatched the managers of my muscular and nervous systems to execute thedirectivewhencalledupon.Iwon’thavetothinkwhenthetimecomes.Thehubwilltakeover.ButIwon’towemylifeentirelytothe12thSystem:ItwasmyideatograbJumbo’sjacket.Andthatremindsme:“Shoes,”Imurmur.“Whatdidyousay?”Hervoiceisquivering.“Ineedshoes.Whatsizeareyou?”“Huh?”At the speed of light the hub’s signal fires.Mybodydoesn’tmove quite that fast, but double the

speedthatisprobablynecessary.RighthandjamsintoJumbo’sbaggysleeve,whereIslippedtheten-inchknife,pivottotheleft,then

throw.Anddownshegoes.Ipulltheknifefromherneck,slidethebloodybladebackintotheleftsleeveofthejacket,andcheck

outhershoes.Apairofthosewhite,thick-solednurse’sshoes.Ahalfsizetoobig,butthey’llwork.

At theendof thehallway, I step into the last roomon the right. It’sdark,butmyeyeshavebeenenhanced:Icanseeherclearlyinthebed,fastasleep.Ordoped.I’llhavetodeterminewhich.“Teacup?It’sme.Ringer.”The thick, dark lashes flutter. I’m so jacked up by this point, I swear I can hear the tiny hairs

thrummingtheair.She whispers something without opening her eyes. Too soft for the unenhanced to hear, but the

auditorybotstransmittheinformationtothehub,whichrelaysittotheinferiorcolliculus,thehearingcenterofmybrain.“You’redead.”“Notanymore.Andneitherareyou.”

71

THEWINDOWBESIDEthebedjigglesinitsframe.Thefloorquivers.Brightorangelightfloodstheroom,winks out, then an earsplitting roar and a fine mist of plaster floating down from the ceiling. Thesequencerepeats.Thenagain.Thenagain.Razor’shitthemagazinebuilding.“Teacup,wehavetogo.”Islideonehandbehindherheadandliftgently.“Gowhere?”“Asfaraswecan.”Bracingthebackofherheadwithonehand,Ihitherintheforeheadwiththeheeloftheother.The

preciseamountofforce,nomore,noless.Herbodygoeslimp.Iheaveheroutofthebed.Anotherblastastheordnanceinthemagazinecontinuestodetonate.Ikickoutthewindow.Bittercoldaircrashesintotheroom.Isitonthesillfacingthebed,cradlingTeacupagainstmychest.Myintentalertsthehub:I’mtwostoriesabovetheground.Reinforcementsracetothebonesandtendonsinmyfeet,ankles,shins,knees,andpelvis.Wedeploy.Iflipaswedrop,likeacatfallingoffacountertop.Welandsafely,likeacat,exceptTeacup’shead

bouncesupon impactandsmacksmehardunder thechin. In frontofus thehospital.Behindus theblazing ammunition storehouse. And to our right, exactly where Razor said it would be, the blackDodgeM882.I throwopen thedoor, shoveTeacup into thepassenger seat, jumpbehind thewheel, and takeoff

across the parking lot, cutting hard to the left to make the turn north toward the airfield. A sirenscreams. Floodlights blare. In the rearview mirrors, emergency vehicles race toward the burningmagazine. The fire brigade will have a hard time of it since someone has shut down the pumpingstation.Anotherhardleft,andnowstraightaheadarethehulkingbodiesoftheBlackHawks,glisteninglike

thebodiesofblackbeetlesintheharshlightofthefloods.Igripthewheelhardandtakeadeepbreath.Thisisthetrickiestpart.IfRazorcouldn’tkidnapapilot,we’reallscrewed.Ahundredyardsaway,Iseesomeonejumpfromoneofthechoppers’holds.He’swearingaheavy

parka and toting an assault rifle.His face is partially obscuredby thehood, but I’dknow that smileanywhere.IhopfromtheM882.AndRazorsays,“Hi.”“Where’sthepilot?”Iask.Hejerkshisheadtowardthecockpit.“Igotmine.Where’syours?”IpullTeacupfromthetruckandjumpinsidethechopper.AguywearingnothingbutadrabgreenT-

shirt and amatching pair of boxer shorts sits behind the controls. Razor slides into the copilot seatbesidehim.“Fire her up, Lieutenant Bob.” Razor grins at the pilot. “Oh. Manners. Ringer, Lieutenant Bob.

LieutenantBob,Ringer.”

“There’snowaythisisgoingtowork,”LieutenantBobsays.“They’llcomeafterushard.”“Yeah?What’sthis?”Razorholdsupamassoftangledelectricalwire.Thepilotshakeshishead.Socold,hislipsareturningblue.“Idon’tknow.”“NeitherdoI,butI’mguessingthey’reveryimportantfortheproperoperationofahelicopter.”“Youdon’tunderstand...”Razorleanstowardhimandallhisplayfulnessisgone.Hisdeep-seteyesburnasifbacklitandthe

coiledforceIsensedfromthebeginningspringsfreewithsuchferocity,Iactuallyflinch.“Listentome,youaliensonofabitch,youfirethismother-effingstickbuddyupASAPorI’m—”Thepilotshoveshishandsintohislapandstaresstraightahead.Aftergettingoneintothechopper

undetected,mybiggestconcernwasgettingapilottocooperate.Ileanforward,grabBobbythewrist,andbendhispinkyfingerbackward.“I’llbreakit,”Ipromisehim.“Goahead!”I break it.His teeth clampdownon his bottom lip.His legs jerk.His eyes swimwith tears.That

shouldn’thappen.Ipressmyfingersagainstthebackofhisneck,thenturntoRazor.“He’simplanted.Heisn’toneofthem.”“Yeah,well,whothehellareyou?”thepilotsqueals.Ipull the trackingdevice frommypocket.There’s thehospital and themagazine surroundedbya

swarmofgreendots.Andtherearethreedotsglowingontheairstrip.“Youcutyoursout,”IsaytoRazor.He’snodding.“Andleft itundermypillow.Thatwas theplan.Orwas that theplan?Shit,Ringer,

wasn’tthattheplan?”Alittlepanicky.Idroptheknifeintomyhand.“Holdhim.”Razorunderstands immediately.HegrabsLieutenantBobandputshiminaheadlock.Bobdoesn’t

putupmuchresistance.Iworrynowthathemightgointoshock.Ifhedoes,it’sover.Thereisn’tmuchlightandRazorcan’tholdhimperfectlystill,soItellBobtochillorImightsever

hisspinalcord,addingparalysistotheproblemofabrokenfinger.Ipulloutthepellet,tossitontothetarmac,yankBob’sheadback,andwhisperinhisear,“I’mnottheenemyandIhaven’tgoneDorothy.I’mjustlikeyou—”“Onlybetter,”Razorfinishes.Heglancesthroughthewindowandsays,“Uh,Ringer...”Iseethem:Theglowofheadlightsexpandinglikeapairofstarsgoingsupernova.“They’recoming,

andwhentheygethere,theywillkillus,”ItellBob.“Youtoo.Theywon’tbelieveyouandtheywillkillyou.”Bobstaresintomyface,tearsofpainstreamingdownhis.“Youhavetotrustme,”Isay.“Orshe’llbreakanotherfinger,”Razoradds.Adeep,shudderingbreath,shakinguncontrollably,cradlinghiswoundedhand,bloodtricklingdown

hisneckandsoakingintothecollarofhisT-shirt.“It’shopeless,”hewhispers.“They’ll justshootusdown.”On impulse, I reach forwardandpressmyhandagainsthis cheek.Hedoesn’t recoil.Hebecomes

verystill.Idon’tunderstandwhyItouchedhimorwhat’shappeningnowthatIam,butIfeelsomethingopeninginsideme,likeabudspreadingitsdelicatepetalstowardthesun.I’mfreezingcold.Myneckisonfire.Andthelittlefingeronmyrighthandthrobstothebeatofmyheart.Thepainbringstearstomyeyes.Hispain.“Ringer!”Razorbarks.“Whatthehellareyoudoing?”IpourmywarmthintothemanItouch.Idousethefire.Icaressthepain.Isoothehisfear.Hisbreath

evensout.Hisbodyrelaxes.

“Bob,wereallyhavetogo,”Itellhim.Andtwominuteslater,wedo.

72

ASWEASCEND, the truck screeches to a stopanda tallman stepsout, andhis face is a study indeepshadowsthrownbythefloods,butIseehiseyeswitheyesenhanced,brightandhardlikethecrows’inthewoods,polishedbluewhile the crows’wereblack, and itmustbe a trickof lightor shadow, thesmall,tightsmileheseemstowear.“Keepuslow,”IorderBob.“Wherearewegoing?”“South.”Thechopperbanks;thegroundrushestowardus.Iseethemagazineburningandthespinninglights

ofthefiretrucksandrecruitsswarmingaroundlikeants.Wepassoverariver,blackwatersparkinginthespillover light fromthefloods.Behindusnow, thecampisanoasisof light inadesertofwinterdark.Weplungeintothatdark,skimmingsixfeetabovethetreetops.IslideintotheseatnexttoTeacup,leanherintomychest,andpullherhairtooneside.Ihopethisis

thelasttimeIhavetodothis.WhenI’mdone,Icrushtheimplantwiththeheeloftheknife.Razor’svoicesquawksinmyheadset:“How’sshedoing?”“Okay,Ithink.”“How’reyoudoing?”“Good.”“Glitches?”“Minor.You?”“Smoothasanewbornbaby’sass.”I ease Teacup back into the seat, stand up, and open compartments until I find the chutes. Razor

rattlesonasIchecktheassemblies.“Anythingyouwanttosaytome?Like,Idon’tknow,Thankyou,Razor, forsavingmyassfroma

lifetime of alien servitude after I punched you in the throat and generally acted like a douchebag?Somethingalongthoselines?Youknow,itwasn’texactlyliketakingawalkinbaseball,secretcodesembeddedinbogusgamesandslippinglaxativeinpuddingandriggingexplosivesandstealingtrucksandkidnappingpilotswithfingersforyoutobreak.MaybeHey,Razor,Icouldn’thavedoneitwithoutyou.You rock.Something like that.Doesn’t have to beword-for-word, just something to capture thegeneralspirit.”“Whydidyou?”Iask.“Whatmadeyoudecidetotrustme?”“Whatyousaid thatdayabout thekids—turningkids intobombs. Ididsomeaskingaround.Next

thingIknow,I’mintheWonderlandchairandthentheytakemetothecommanderandhe’salldownonmyassaboutsomethingyousaid,andheordersmetostoptalkingtoyoubecausehecan’tordermetostoplistening,andthemoreIthinkaboutit,thestinkieritgets.TheytrainustoterminateTedsandthenloaddowntoddlerswithalienordnance?Who’rethegoodguyshere?AndthenI’mlike,whoamIhere?Itgotreallyangsty,arealexistentialcrisis.Whattippeditforme,though,wasthemath.”“Math?”“Yeah,math.Aren’tallyouAsiansreallygoodatmath?”

“Don’tberacist.AndI’mthree-quartersAsian.”“‘Three-quarters.’See?Math. It comesdown tosimpleaddition.As in itdoesn’taddup.Okay, so

maybe we get lucky and seize theWonderland program from them. Even super-superior aliens canscrewup,nobody’sperfect.Butwedon’tjustsnatchWonderland.Wehavetheirbombs,wehavetheirtrack-and-kill implants, their super-sophisticated nanobot system—shit,we even have the technologycapableofdetectingthem.Whaduhfuh?We’vegotmoreoftheirweaponsthantheydo!Buttherealkickercamethatdaytheyjackedyouup,whenVoschsaidtheyliedtousabouttheorganismattachedtohumanbrains.Unbelievable!”“Becauseifthat’salie...”“Theneverything’salie.”Belowus the land is covered in a blanket ofwhite.The horizon is indiscernible in the dark, lost.

Everythingisalie.IthoughtofmydeadfathertellingmethatIbelongedtothemnow.Instinctively,IgatherTeacup’slittlehandintomine:truth.IhearBobsayintheheadset,“I’mconfused.”“Relax,Bob,”Razorsays.“Hey,Bob.Wasn’tthatthemajor’snameatCampHaven?What’sitwith

officersandthenameBob?”Analarmsounds.IreturnTeacup’shandtoherlapandshuffleforward.“Whatisit?”“Company,”Bobsays.“Sixo’clock.”“Choppers?”“Negative.F-15s.Threeofthem.”“Howmuchtimebeforethey’reinrange?”Heshakeshishead.Despite thecold,hisshirt issoaked insweat.Hisfaceshineswith it.“Five to

seven.”“Bringusup,”Itellhim.“Maximumaltitude.”IgrabacoupleparachuterigsanddroponeintoRazor’slap.“We’rebailing?”heasks.“Wecan’tengageandwecan’toutrun.You’rewithTeacup.Tandemjump.”“I’mwithTeacup?Whoareyouwith?”Bobglancesat theotherrig inmyhand.“I’mnotbailing,”hesays.Andthen, just incaseIdidn’t

hearordon’tunderstand:“I’m.Not.Bailing.”Noplanisperfect.I’dplannedforaSilencerBob,whichmeantmyplanentailedkillinghimbefore

webailedfromthechopper.Nowit’scomplicated.Ididn’tkillJumboforthesamereasonIdon’twanttokillBob.KillenoughJumbos,murderenoughBobs,andyou’veplungedtothesamedepthsastheoneswhoshoveabombdownatoddler’sthroat.Ishrugtohidemyuncertainty.Tosstherigintohislap.“ThenIguessyougetincinerated.”We’reatfivethousandfeet.Darksky,darkground,nohorizon,alldark.Thebottomofthelightless

sea.Razorislookingattheradarscreen,buthesaystome,“Where’syourchute,Ringer?”I ignore thequestion.“Canyougivemeasixty-secondETAon their range?” IaskBob.Henods.

Razorasksthequestionagain.“It’smath,”Itellhim.“WhichI’mthree-quartersreallygoodat.Iftherearefourofusandtheymarktwochutes,thatleavesatleastoneofusonboard.One,maybetwoofthemwillstaywiththechopper,atleastuntiltheycantakeitdown.It’llbuytime.”“Whatmakesyouthinkthey’llstaywiththechopper?”Ishrug.“It’swhatI’ddo.”“Stilldoesn’tanswermyquestionaboutyourchute.”“They’rehailingus,”Bobannounces.“Orderingustosetitdown.”“Tell them to suck it,”Razor says.He stuffs a piece of bubble gum into hismouth. Taps his ear.

“Popping’s bad.” Jams the gum wrapper into his pocket. Notices I’m watching and smiles. “Never

noticedallthecrapintheworlduntiltherewasnobodylefttopickitup,”heexplains.“TheEarthismycharge.”ThenBobcallsout,“Sixtyseconds!”ItugonRazor’sparka.Now.Helooksupatmeandsaysslowlyanddistinctly,“Where’syourfreakingchute?”Ihaulhimoutoftheseatone-handed.Hechirpsinsurprise,stumblingtowardtheback.Ifollowhim,

squatinfrontofTeacuptoremoveherharness.“Fortyseconds!”“Howarewegoingtofindyou?”Razoryells,standingrightnexttome.“Headforthefire.”“Whatfire?”“Thirtyseconds!”Ihaulopen thehatchdoor.Theblastof air thatpunches into theholdblowsRazor’shoodoffhis

head.IscoopupTeacupandpressherintohischest.“Don’tletherdie.”Henods.“Promise.”Nodsagain:“Ipromise.”“Thankyou,Razor,”Isay.“Foreverything.”Heleansforwardandkissesmehardonthemouth.“Don’teverdothatagain,”Itellhim.“Why?Becauseyoulikeditorbecauseyoudidn’t?”“Both.”“Fifteenseconds!”RazormaneuversTeacupoverhisshoulder,grabsthesafetycable,andshufflesbackuntilhisheels

touchthejumppad.Silhouettedintheopening,theboyandthechildovertheboy’sshoulder,andfivethousandfeetbeneaththem,thelimitlessdark.TheEarthismycharge.Razorreleasesthecable.Hedoesn’tseemtofall.Heissuckedoutintotheravenousvoid.

73

IHEADBACKtothecockpit,whereIfindthepilot’sdoorunlatched,theseatempty,andnoBob.Iwonderedwhythecountdownstopped;nowIknow:Hechangedhismindaboutthewholebailing

issue.Wemustbeinrange,whichmeanstheydon’tintendtoshootusdown.They’vemarkedthelocation

ofRazor’sdrop,andthey’llstaywiththechopperuntilIbailoritrunsoutoffuelandI’mforcedtobail.Bythispoint,VoschhasfiguredoutwhyJumbo’s implant isonthisaircraftwhile itsowner is in theinfirmarybeingtreatedforaverybadheadache.Withthetipofmytongue,Ipushthepelletfrommymouthandlickitontomypalm.Doyouwanttolive?Yes,andyouwantthat,too,ItellVosch.Idon’tknowwhyand,hopefully,Ineverwill.Iflickthepelletfrommyhand.The hub’s response is instantaneous.My intent alerted the central processor,which calculated the

overwhelming probability of terminal failure and shut down all but the essential functions of mymuscularsystem.The12thSystemhasthesameorderIgaveRazor:Don’tletherdie.Likeaparasite’s,thesystem’slifedependsonthecontinuationofmine.The instantmy intentchanges—Okay, fine. I’llparachuteout—thehubwill releaseme.Then and

onlythen.Ican’tlietoitorbargainwithit.Can’tpersuadeit.Can’tforceit.UnlessIchangemymind,itcan’tletmego.Unlessitletsmego,Ican’tchangemymind.Heartonfire.Bodyofstone.There’snothingthatthehubcandoaboutmysnowballingpanic.Itcanrespondtoemotions;itcan’t

controlthem.Endorphinsrelease.Neuronsandmastocytesdumpserotoninintomybloodstream.Otherthanthesephysiologicaladjustments,it’sasparalyzedasIam.Theremustbeananswer.Theremustbeananswer.Theremustbeananswer.Whatistheanswer?

AndIseeVosch’spolished,birdlikebrighteyesboringintomine.What is theanswer?Notrage,nothope,notfaith,notlove,notdetachment,notholdingon,notlettinggo,notfighting,notrunning,nothiding,notgivingup,notgivingin,notnotnot,knot,knot,knot,naughtnaughtnaught.Naught.Whatistheanswer?heasked.AndIanswered,Nothing.

74

ISTILLCAN’TMOVE—notevenmyeyes—butI’vegotaprettygoodangleontheinstruments,includingthe altimeter and fuel gauge.We’re five thousand feet up and the fuel won’t last forever. Inducingparalysismightstopmefromjumping,butitwon’tkeepmefromfalling.Theprobabilityofterminalfailureinthatscenarioisabsolute.Ithasnootheroption:Thehub releasesme, and the sensation is likebeinghurled the lengthof a

footballfield.I’mshovedbackintomybody,hard.Okay,Ringer2.0.Let’sseehowgoodyouare.Igrabthehandleofthepilot’sdoorandkilltheengines.Analarmsounds.Ikillthat,too.Thereisthewindnowandonlythewind.Forafewseconds,momentumkeepsthechopperlevel,thenfreefall.I’mthrowntotheceiling;myheadsmacksagainstthewindshield.Whitestarsexplodeinmyvision.

Thechopperbeginstospinasitdrops,andIlosemygriponthedoor.I’mtossedaroundlikeadieinaYahtzeecup,graspingatemptyspace,searchingforahandhold.Thechopper flips,noseup,andI’mflungtwelvefeetintotherearoftheaircraft,thenslungbackasitflipsagain,smashingchest-firstintothebackofthepilot’sseat.Ahotkniferipsacrossmyside:I’vebrokenarib.Theloosenylonstrapofthepilot’sharnesssmacksmeinthefaceandIsnatchitbeforeI’mthrownagain.Anotherflip,andthecentrifugalforcewhipsmebackintothecockpit,whereIsmashintothedoor.ItfliesopenandIjammywhite-solednurse’sshoeagainsttheseatforleverageandheavemyselfhalfwayout.Releasethestrap,lockmyfingersaroundthehandle,andpushhard.Roll, pitch, flip, somersault, flashes of gray andblack and sparklingwhite. I’mhangingon to the

handleasthechopperrollspilotsideupandthedoorslamsclosedonmywrist,snappingtheboneandtearingmyfingersfromthehandle.MybodybouncesandtwistsalongthelengthoftheBlackHawkuntil itwhacks into therearwheel, rocketingstraightup,andwhenthe tail rotatesskyward, I’mshottowardthehorizonlikearockfromaslingshot.Ihavenosensationoffalling.I’msuspendedontheupdraftofwarmerairpressingagainstthecolder,

ahawk sailing in thenight skyonoutstretchedwings,behindandbelowme the tumblinghelicopterprisoner to thegravity that I deny. I don’t hear the explosionwhen it crashes. Just thewind and theblood roaring inmyears, and there is nopain from thebeating inside the chopper. I amdeliriously,exhilaratinglyempty.Iamnothing.Thewindismoresubstantialthanmybones.TheEarthrushestowardme.Iamnotafraid.I’vekeptmypromises.I’veredeemedthetime.Istretchoutmyarms.Ispreadmyfingerswide.Iliftmyfacetowardthelinewheretheskymeetsthe

Earth.Myhome.Mycharge.

75

I AM FALLING at terminal velocity toward a featureless landscape of white, a vast nothingness thatgobblesupeverythinginitspath,explodingtowardthehorizoninalldirections.It’salake.Averybiglake.Afrozen-oververybiglake.Going in feet-first ismyonlyoption. If the ice ismore thana foot thick, I’mdone.Noamountof

alienenhancementwillprotectme.Thebonesinmylegswillshatter.Myspleenwillrupture.Mylungswillcollapse.Ihavefaithinyou,Marika.Youdidnotcomethroughfireandbloodonlytofallnow.Actually,Commander,Idid.Thewhiteworldbeneathmeshineslikepearls,ablankcanvas,analabasterabyss.Ascreamingwall

ofwindpushesagainstmylegsasIdrawmykneestomychesttoexecutetherotation.Ihavetogoinatninetydegrees.Straightentoosoonandthewindwillknockmeoff-kilter.ToolateandI’llhitwithmyassormychest.Iclosemyeyes;Idon’tneedthem.Thehub’sperformedperfectlysofar;timeformetogiveitallmy

trust.Mymindempties:blankcanvas,alabasterabyss.Iamthevessel,thehubthepilot.Whatistheanswer?AndIsaid,Nothing.Nothingistheanswer.Bothlegskickouthard.Mybodyswivelsupright.Myarmscomeup,foldthemselvesovermychest.

Myhead fallsback,my face to the sky.Mymouthopens.Deepbreath, exhale.Deepbreath, exhale.Deepbreath,hold.Verticalnow,releasedbythewind,Ifallfaster.Ihittheicestraighton,feet-first,atahundredmiles

anhour.Idon’tfeeltheimpact.Orthecoldwaterclosingoverme.OrthepressureofthatwaterasIplummetintoinkydarkness.Ifeelnothing.Mynerveshavebeenshutdownorthepainreceptorsinmybrainturnedoff.Hundredsoffeetaboveme,atinypointoflight,apinprick,faintasthefartheststar:theentrypoint.

Also the exit point. I kick toward the star. My body is numb.My mind is empty. I’ve completelysurrenderedtothe12thSystem.Itisn’tpartofmeanymore.The12thSystemisme.Weareone.Iamhuman.AndIamnot.Risingtowardthestarthatshinesintheice-encrustedvault,aprotogod

ascending from the primordial deep, fully human, wholly alien, and I understand now; I know theanswertotheimpossibleriddleofEvanWalker.Ishootintotheheartofthestarandhurlmyselfovertheedgeontotheicecap.Acoupleofbroken

ribs,afracturedwrist,adeepgashinmyforeheadfromthepilot’sharness,totallynumb,completelyoutofbreath,empty,whole,aware.Alive.

76

I REACH THE SMOLDERINGwreckage of the chopper by dawn.The crash sitewasn’t hard to find: TheBlackHawkwentdowninthemiddleofanopenfieldcoveredinafreshfallofsnow.Youcouldseethefire’sglowformiles.Iapproachslowlyfromthesouth.Tomyright,thesunbreaksthehorizonandlightshootsacrossthe

winterscape,settingablazeacrystallineinferno,asifabilliondiamondshadfallenfromthesky.Mywater-soaked clothes are frozen, crackling like kindlingwhen Imove, and sensation has been

returned tome.The12thSystemperpetuatesmyexistence toperpetuate itsown. It’scalling for rest,food,helpwiththehealingprocess;that’sthepurposeofgivingmebackmypain.No.NorestuntilIfindthem.Theskyisempty.Thereisnowind.Smokecurlsfromthemangledremainsofthechopper,blackand

gray,likethesmokethatroseoverCampHavencarryingtheincineratedremainsoftheslaughtered.Whereareyou,Razor?The sunclimbsand theglare comingoff the snowbecomesblinding.Thevisual arrayadjustsmy

eyes:Adarkfilterwithnodiscernabledifferencefromsunglassesdropsovermyvision,andthenIseeablotintheperfectionofwhiteaboutamiletothewest.Ilieflatonmystomach,usingabreaststrokemotiontodigmyselfasmalltrench.Atitdrawscloser,thedarkimperfectiontakesonahumanshape.Tall and thin,wearing a heavy parka and carrying a rifle,moving slowly against the ankle-grippingsnow.Thirtyminutescrawlby.Whenhe’sahundredyardsaway,Irise.Hedropsasifshot.Icallhisname,notloudly,though;soundcarriesfartherinwinterair.Hisvoicefloatsbacktome,highpitchedwithanxiety.“Holyshit!”Heslogsforafewsteps,thentakesoffrunning,liftinghiskneeshighandpumpinghisarmslikea

determinedcardiofiendonatreadmill.Hestopsanarm’slengthfromme,warmbreathexplodingfromhisopenmouth.“You’realive,”hewhispers.Iseeitinhiseyes:Impossible.“Where’sTeacup?”Hejerkshisheadbehindhim.“She’sokay.Well,Ithinkherlegmightbebroken...”Isteparoundhimandstartwalking thewayhecame.He trudgesafterme, fussingforme toslow

down.“Iwasabout togiveuponyou,”hepuffs.“Nochute!What,youcan flynow?Whathappened to

yourhead?”“Ihitit.”“Oh.Well,youlooklikeanApache.Youknow,warpaint.”“That’stheotherquarter:Apache.”“Seriously?”“Whatdoyoumean,youthinkshebrokeherleg?”“Well,whatImeanisIthinkherlegmightbebroken.Withthehelpofyourx-rayvision,maybeyou

candefinitivelydiagnose—”“Thisisstrange.”I’mstudyingtheskyaswewalk.“Where’sthepursuit?Theywouldhavemarked

thelocation.”“I’veseennothing.Liketheyjustgaveup.”Ishakemyhead.“Theydon’tgiveup.Howmuchfarther,Razor?”“Anothermile?Don’tworry,Igothertuckedawayniceandsafe.”“Why’dyouleaveher?”He looks at me sharply, dumbstruck for a second. But only for a second. Razor doesn’t stay

speechlessforlong.“Tolookforyou.Youtoldmetomeetyoubythefire.Sortofgenericdirections.Youcouldhavesaid,‘MeetmeatthecrashsitewhereIputthischopperdown.Thatfire.’”Wewalkforafewminutesinsilence.Razorisoutofbreath.I’mnot.Thearrayswillsustainmeuntil

Ireachher,butIhaveafeelingthatwhenIcrash,I’llcrashhard.“Sowhatnow?”heasks.“Restupafewdays—oraslongaswecan.”“Then?”“South.”“South.That’stheplan?South.Alittleelaborate,isn’tit?”“WehavetogetbacktoOhio.”Hestopsasifhe’drunintoaninvisiblewall.Itrudgeonforafewsteps,thenturn.Razorisshaking

hisheadatme.“Ringer,doyouhaveanyideawhereyouare?”Inod.“AbouttwentymilesnorthofoneoftheGreatLakes.I’mguessingErie.”“Whatareyou—Howarewe—YoudorealizeOhioisoverahundredmilesfromhere,”hesputters.“Wherewe’regoing,moreliketwohundred.Asthecrowflies.”“‘Asthe...’Well,toofuckingbad,wearen’tcrows!What’sinOhio?”“Myfriends.”Icontinuewalking,followingtheimprintofhisbootsinthesnow.“Ringer,Idon’twanttoburstyourbubble,but—”“Youdon’twanttoburstmybubblebutt?”“Thatsoundedsuspiciouslylikeajoke.”“Iknowthey’reprobablydead.AndIknowI’llprobablydielongbeforeIreachthem,evenifthey’re

not.ButImadeapromise,Razor. Ididn’t think itwasapromiseat the time.I toldmyself itwasn’t.Toldhimitwasn’t.Butthere’rethethingswetellourselvesaboutthetruth,andthere’rethethingsthetruthtellsaboutus.”“What you just saidmakes no sense.You know that, right?Must be the head injury.You usually

makealot.”“Headinjuries?”“Now,thatdefinitelywasajoke!”Hefrowns.“Madeapromisetowho?”“A naïve, thick-headed, stereotypical jock who thinks he’s God’s gift to the world when he isn’t

thinkingtheworldisGod’sgifttohim.”“Oh.Okay.”Hedoesn’t sayanything fora fewshufflingsteps, then:“Sohow longhasMr.Naïve

Thick-headedStereotypicalJockbeenyourboyfriend?”Istop.Iturn.Igrabhisfacewithbothhandsandkisshimhardonthemouth.Hiseyesarewideand

filledwithsomethingthatcloselyresemblesfear.“Whatwasthatfor?”Ikisshimagain.Ourbodiespressedclose.Hiscoldfacecradledinmycolderhands.Icansmellthe

bubblegumonhisbreath.TheEarthismycharge.Wearetwopillarsrisingfromanundulatingseaofdazzlingwhite.Limitless.Withoutborders,withoutboundaries.Hebroughtmefromthetomb.Heraisedmefromthedead.HeriskedhislifesoImighthavemine.

Easiertoturnaside.Easiertoletmego.Easiertobelievethebeautifulliethanthehideoustruth.Aftermy father died, I built a fortress safe and strong to last a thousand years.Amighty stronghold thatcrumbleswithakiss.“Nowwe’reeven,”Iwhisper.“Notexactly,”hesayshoarsely.“Ionlykissedyouonce.”

77

AS WE APPROACH, the complex seems to rise from the snow like a leviathan from the deep. Silos,conveyors, bins, mixers, storage and office buildings, an enormous warehouse twice the size of anairplanehangar,allsurroundedbyarustychain-linkfence.Itseemscreepilysymbolic,fittingsomehow,for this toendataconcreteplant.Concrete is theomnipresenthumansignature,ourprincipalartisticmediumontheworld’sblankcanvas:Whereverwewent,theEarthslowlydisappearedbeneathit.Razorpullsasideasectionoftherottingfenceformetoduckthrough.Colorhighinhischeeks,nose

brightredfromthecold,soft,soulfuleyesdartingabout.MaybehefeelsasexposedasIdointheopen,dwarfedbythetoweringsilosandmassiveequipment,beneaththebright,cloudlesssky.Maybe,thoughIdoubtit.“Givemeyourrifle,”Itellhim.“Huh?”He’sclutchingtheweaponagainsthischest,triggerfingernervouslytapping.“I’mabettershot.”“Ringer,I’vecheckeditallout.There’snobodyhere.It’sperfectly—”“Safe,”Ifinishforhim.“Right.”Iholdoutmyhand.“Comeon,she’srightoverthereinthewarehouse...”Idon’tmove.Herollshiseyes,tipshisheadbacktoconsidertheemptysky,looksbackatme.“Iftheywerehere,youknowwe’dalreadybedead.”“Therifle.”“Fine.”Heshovesitatme.Ipulltheriflefromhishandsandsmashthestockagainstthesideofhis

head.Hedropstohisknees,eyesonmyface,butthere’snothinginthoseeyes,nothingatall.“Fall,”Itellhim.Hepitchesforwardandliesstill.Idon’tthinkshe’sinthewarehouse.There’sareasonhewantedmetogointhere,butIdon’tbelieve

thatreasonhadanythingtodowithTeacup.Idoubtshe’swithinahundredmilesofthisplace.Ihavenochoice,though.AslightadvantagewiththerifleandRazorneutralized,andthat’sall.Heopenedup tomewhen I kissedhim. I don’t knowhow the enhancement opens an empathetic

pathway into another human being. Maybe it turns the carrier into a kind of human lie detector,gathering and collating data from a myriad of sensory inputs and funneling it through the hub forinterpretation and analysis. However it works, I felt the blank spot insideRazor, a nullity, a hiddenroom,andIknewsomethingwasterriblywrong.Lieswithinlieswithinlies.Feintsandcounterfeints.Likeadesertmirage,nomatterhowhardyou

rantowardit,itstayedforeverinthedistance.Findingthetruthwaslikechasingthehorizon.AsIentertheshadowofthebuilding,somethingloosensinside.Mykneesbegintoshake.Mychest

acheslikeI’vebeenhitwithabatteringram.Ican’tcatchmybreath.The12thSystemcansustainandstrengthenme, superchargemy reflexes, enhancemysenses tenfold,healme,andprotectmeagainsteveryphysicalhazard,but there’snothingmy forty thousanduninvitedguestscandoaboutabrokenheart.Can’t,can’t.Can’tgosoftnow.Whathappenswhenwegosoft?Whathappens?Ican’tgoinside.Imustgoinside.

I leanagainst the coldmetalwall of thewarehouse,beside theopendoor,wheredarknessdwells,profoundasthegrave.

78

ROTTENMILK.ThestenchoftheplagueissointensewhenIstepinsidethatIgag.Theolfactoryarrayimmediately

suppressesmysenseofsmell.Mystomachsettles.Myeyesclear.Thewarehouseistwicethesizeofafootballfieldandsectionedintothreeascendingtiers.Thebottomsection,inwhichI’mstanding,hadbeen converted into a field hospital. Hundreds of cots, wads of bedding, and tipped-over carts ofmedicalsupplies.Bloodeverywhere.Glisteninginthelightstreamingthroughtheholesinthepartiallycollapsedceilingthreestoriesovermyhead.Frozensheetsofbloodonthefloor.Bloodsmearedonthewalls.Blood-soakedsheetsandpillows.Blood,blood,bloodeverywhere,butnobodies.Iclimbthefirstsetofstairstothesecondtier.Supplylevel:bagsofflourandotherdrygoods,ripped

open,contents strewnby ratsandother scavengers, stacksofcannedgoods, jugsofwater,barrelsofkerosene.Stockpiledinanticipationofwinter,buttheRedTsunamicaughtthemfirstanddrownedthemintheirownblood.Iclimbthesecondsetofstairstothethirdtier.Acolumnofsunlightcutsthroughthedustyairlikea

spotlight.I’vereachedtheend.Thefinallevel.Theplatformislitteredwithcorpses,stackedsixhighinsome places, the ones on the bottomwrapped carefully in sheets, the ones closer to the top hastilytossed there, a discordant jumble of arms and legs, a twistedmass of bone and desiccated skin andskeletalfingersgraspinguselesslyattheemptyair.Themiddleof thefloorhasbeencleared.Awooden tablesits in thecenterof thecolumnof light.

Andonthetable,awoodenboxand,besidethewoodenbox,achessboard,setupinanendgamethatIinstantlyrecognize.And then his voice, coming from everywhere and nowhere, like the whisper of distant thunder,

impossibletoplace.“Weneverfinishedourgame.”Ireachforwardandtopplethewhiteking.Ihearasighlikeahighwindinthetrees.“Whyareyouhere,Marika?”“Itwasatest,”Iwhisper.Thewhitekingonhisback,blankstare,theeyesanalabasterabysslooking

backatme.“Youneededtotestthe12thSystemwithoutmeknowingitwasatest.Ihadtobelieveitwasreal.ItwastheonlywayI’dcooperate.”“Anddidyoupass?”“Yes.Ipassed.”I turnmyback to the light.He’s standing at the topof the stairs, alone, face in shadow, though I

swearIcanseehisbrightblue,birdlikeeyesglitteringinthecharneldark.“Notquiteyet,”hesays.Iaimtherifleatthespacebetweenthoseglitteringeyesandpullthetrigger.Theclicksechofromthe

emptychamber:Click,click,click,click,click,click.“You’ve come so far,Marika. Don’t disappoint me now,” Vosch says. “Youmust have known it

wouldn’tbeloaded.”IdroptherifleandshufflebackwarduntilIknockagainstthetable.Ipressmyhandsonthetopto

steadymyself.“Askthequestion,”heordersme.“Whatdidyoumean,‘Notquiteyet’?”“Youknowtheanswertothat.”Ipickupthetableandhurlitathim.Heslapsitawaywithonearm,andbythattimeI’vereached

him, launching myself from six feet away, hitting him square in the chest with my shoulder andwrappingmyarmsaroundhiminabearhug.Weflyoffthethirdlevelandsmashontothesecond.Theboardsbeneathusgiveathunderouscrack.Theimpactloosensmygrip.Hewrapsthelongfingersofonehandaroundmyneckandslingsmetwentyfeetintoatowerofcannedgoods.I’monmyfeetinlessthanasecond,buthestillbeatsme,movingsofast,hisrisingtracesanafterimageinmyvision.“The poor recruit in thewashroom,” he says. “The nurse outside the ICU, the pilot,Razor—even

Claire,poorClaire,whowasatadistinctdisadvantagefromthebeginning.Notenough,notenough.Totrulypass,youmustovercomewhatcannotbeovercome.”Hespreadshisarmswide.Aninvitation.“Youwantedtheopportunity,Marika.Well.Hereitis.”

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THERE’SLITTLEDIFFERENCEbetweenwhathappensnextandourchessgame.HeknowshowIthink.Heknowsmystrengths,myweaknesses.KnowseverymovebeforeImakeit.Hepaysparticularattentiontomyinjuries:mywrist,myribs,myface.Bloodstreamsfromthereopenedwoundonmyforehead,steaminginthesubzeroair,runningintomymouth,myeyes;theworldturnscrimsonbehindabloodycurtain.AfterIfallathirdtime,hesays,“Enough.Staydown,Marika.”Igetup.Heputsmedownafourthtime.“You’lloverloadthesystem,”hecautionsme.I’monmyhandsandknees,watchingdumblyasblood

spattersfrommyfacetothefloor,arainofblood.“Itcouldcrash.Ifthathappens,yourinjuriesmightkillyou.”I’m screaming. Pouring from the very bottom of my soul: the death howls of seven billion

slaughteredhumanbeings.Thesoundricochetsaroundthecavernousspace.Then I’mupagain for the last time.Evenenhanced,myeyescan’t followhis fists.Likequantum

particles, they’reneitherherenor there, impossibletoplace, impossibletopredict.Heflingsmylimpbodyfromtheplatformtotheconcretefloorbelow,throughwhichIseemtofallforever,intodarknessthickerthanthatwhichengulfedtheuniversebeforethebeginningoftime.Irollontomystomachandpushmyselfup.Hisbootslamsintomyneckandstampsdown.“Whatistheanswer,Marika?”Hedoesn’thavetoexplain.Finally,Iunderstandthequestion.Finally,Igettheriddle:Heisn’tasking

aboutouranswertotheproblemofthem.Heneverwas.He’saskingabouttheiranswertotheproblemofus.SoIsay,“Nothing.Nothingistheanswer.They’renothere.Theyneverwere.”“Who?Who’snothere?”Mymouthisfullofblood.Iswallow.“Therisk...”“Yes.Verygood.Theriskisthekey.”“They’re not here. There are no entities downloaded into human bodies. No alien consciousness

insideanyone.Becauseoftherisk.Therisk.Theriskisunacceptable.It’sa...aprogram,adelusionalconstruct.Insertedintotheirmindsbeforetheywereborn,switchedonwhentheyreachedpuberty—alie,it’salie.They’rehuman.Enhancedlikeme,buthuman...humanlikeme.”“Andme?Ifyouarehuman,whatamI?”“Idon’tknow...”Thebootpressesdown,crushingmycheekagainsttheconcrete.“WhatamI?”“Idon’tknow.Thecontroller.Thedirector.Idon’tknow.Theonechosento...Idon’tknow,Idon’t

know.”“AmIhuman?”“Idon’tknow!”AndIdidn’t.We’dcometotheplaceIcouldnotgo.TheplacefromwhichIcould

notreturn.Above:theboot.Below:theabyss.“Butifyouarehuman...”“Yes.Finishit.IfIamhuman...what?”

Iamdrowninginblood.Notmine.Thebloodofthebillionswhodiedbeforeme,aninfiniteseaofbloodthatenvelopsmeandbearsmedowntothelightlessbottom.“Ifyouarehuman,thereisnohope.”

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HELIFTSMEfromthefloor.Hecarriesmetooneofthecotsandgentlylaysdownmybody.“Youarebent, but not broken. The steelmust bemelted before the sword can be forged.You are the sword,Marika.Iamtheblacksmithandyouarethesword.”Hecupsmyface.Hiseyesshinewiththefervorofareligiouszealot,thelookofastreet-cornercrazy

preacher,exceptthiscrazyholdsthefateoftheworldinhishands.Herunshisthumbovermybloodycheek.“Restnow,Marika.You’resafehere.Perfectlysafe.I’m

leavinghimtotakecareofyou.”Razor.Ican’ttakethat.Ishakemyhead.“Please.No.Please.”“Andinaweekortwo,you’llbeready.”Hewaitsforthequestion.He’sverypleasedwithhimself.Orwithme.Orwhathehasachievedin

me.Idon’task,though.Andthenhe’sgone.Later, Ihear thechoppercometo takehimaway.After that,Razorappears, lookingas ifsomeone

shovedanappleundertheskinthatcoveredhischeek.Hedoesn’tsayanything.Idon’tsayanything.Hewashesmyfacewithwarm,soapywater.Hebandagesmywounds.Hebindsmyfracturedribs.Hesplintsmybrokenwrist.Hedoesn’tbothertooffermewater,thoughhemustknowI’mthirsty.HejabsanIVintomyarmandhooksupasalinedrip.Thenheleavesmeandsitsinafoldingchairbytheopendoor,cocoonedintheheavyparka,rifleacrosshislap.Whenthesunsets,helightsakerosenelampandplacesitonthefloorbesidehim.Lightflowsupandbatheshisface,buthiseyesarehiddenfromme.“Where’sTeacup?”Myvoiceechoesinthevastspace.Hedoesn’tanswer.“Ihaveatheory,”Itellhim.“It’saboutrats.Doyouwanttohearit?”Silence.“Tokilloneratiseasy.Allyouneedisapieceofoldcheeseandaspring-loadedtrap.Buttokilla

thousandrats,amillionrats,abillion—orsevenbillion—that’salittlebitharder.Forthatyouneedbait.Poison.Youdon’thavetopoisonallsevenbillionofthem,justacertainpercentagethatwillcarrythepoisonbacktothecolony.”Hedoesn’tmove.Ihavenoideaifhe’slisteningorevenawake.“We’retherats.Theprogramdownloadedintohumanfetuses—that’sthebait.What’sthedifference

betweenahumanwhocarriesanalienconsciousnessandahumanwhobelievesthathedoes?Thereisno difference except one. Risk. Risk is the difference. Not our risk. Theirs. Why would they riskthemselveslikethat?Theansweristheydidn’t.Theyaren’there,Razor.Theyneverwere.It’sjustus.It’salwaysbeenjustus.”Hebendsforwardveryslowlyanddeliberatelyandextinguishesthelight.Isigh.“Butlikealltheories,thereareholes.Youcan’treconcileitwiththebigrockquestion.Why

botherwithanyofitwhenalltheyhadtodowasthrowaverybigrock?”Veryquietlynow,soquietlyIwouldn’thearhimwithouttheenhancementarray:“Shutup.”“Whydidyoudoit,Alex?”IfAlexisreallyhisname.Hisentirehistorycouldbealiedesignedby

Voschtomanipulateme.Theoddsareitis.“I’masoldier.”“Youwerejustfollowingorders.”“I’masoldier.”“It’snotyourstoreasonwhy.”“I.Am.A.SOLDIER!”Iclosemyeyes.“Chaseball.WasthatVosch’s,too?Sorry.Stupidquestion.”Silence.“It’sWalker,”Isay,myeyessnappingopen.“Ithastobe.It’s theonlythingthatmakessense.It’s

Evan,isn’tit,Razor?HewantsEvanandI’mtheonlypathtohim.”Silence.The implosion ofCampHaven and the disabled drones raining from the sky:Why did they need

drones?Thequestionalwaysbotheredme.Howhardcoulditbetofindpocketsofsurvivorswhenthereweresofewsurvivors leftandyouhadplentyofhumantechnologyinyourpossessiontofindthem?Survivorsclustered.Theycrowdedtogetherlikebeesinahive.Thedronesweren’tbeingusedtokeeptrackofus.Theywerebeingused tokeep trackof them, thehumans likeEvanWalker, solitary anddangerously enhanced, scattered over every continent, armed with knowledge that could bring thewholeedificecrashingdowniftheprogramdownloadedintothemmalfunctioned—asitclearlydidinhiscase.Evanisoff thegrid.Voschdoesn’tknowwherehe isor ifhe’saliveordead.But ifEvanisalive,

Voschneedssomeoneontheinside,someoneEvanwouldtrust.Iamtheblacksmith.Youarethesword.

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FORAWEEK,heismysolecompanion.Guard,nursemaid,watchman.WhenI’mhungry,hebringsmefood.WhenIhurt,heeasesmypain.WhenI’mdirty,hebathesme.Heisconstant.Heisfaithful.HeistherewhenIwakeandtherewhenIfallasleep.Inevercatchhimsleeping:Heisconstant,butmysleepneveris;Iwakeseveraltimesanight,andhe’salwayswatchingfromhisspotbythedoor.Heissilentandsullenandstrangelynervous,thisguywhoeffortlesslyconnedmeintobelievinghimand inhim.As if Imight try to escape,when he knows I can butwon’t,when he knows I am imprisoned by apromisemorebindingthanathousandchains.Ontheafternoonofthesixthday,Razortiesaragoverhisnoseandmouth,clumpsupthestairsto

thethirdlevel,andcomesbackcartingabody.Hecarriesitoutside.Thenbackupthestairs,histreadasheavyempty-handedasit isburdenedwithacorpse,andanotherbodydescendstothebottom.I losecountatonehundredtwenty-three.Heemptiesthewarehouseofthedead,pilingthemintheyard,andatdusk,hesetsthepileonfire.Thebodieshavemummifiedandthefirecatchesquicklyandburnsveryhot andbright.Thepyre canbe seen formiles, if there are any eyes to see it. Its light glows in thedoorway,lapsacrossthefloor,turnstheconcreteintoagolden,undulatingseabed.Razorloungesinthedoorway watching the fire, a lean shadow haloed like a lunar eclipse. He shrugs out of his jacket,removeshis shirt, rollsup the sleeveofhisundershirt toexposehis shoulder.Thebladeofhisknifeglimmersintheyellowglowasheetchessomethingintohisskinwiththetip.Thenightwearson; thefiredwindles; thewindshiftsandmyheartacheswithnostalgia—summer

campsandcatchinglightningbugsandAugustskiesaflamewithstars.Thewaythedesertsmellsandthelong,wistfulsighofwindrushingdownfromthemountainsasthesundipsbeneaththehorizon.Razorlightsthekerosenelampandwalksovertome.Hesmellslikethesmokeand,faintly,likethe

dead.“Whydidyoudothat?”Iask.Abovetherag,hiseyesswimwithtears.Idon’tknowifhe’stearyfromthesmokeorsomethingelse.

“Orders,”hesays.HepullstheIVfrommyarmandwrapsthetubingoverthehookonthestand.“Idon’tbelieveyou,”Isay.“Well,I’mshocked.”It’sthemosthe’sspokensinceVoschleft.I’msurprisedthatI’mrelievedtohearhisvoiceagain.He’s

examiningthewoundonmyforehead,faceveryclosebecausethelightisdim.“Teacup,”Iwhisper.“Whatdoyouthink?”hesayscrossly.“She’salive.She’stheonlyleveragehehas.”“Okay,then.She’salive.”He spreads antibacterial ointment over the cut. An unenhanced human being would have needed

severalstitches,butinafewdaysnoonewillbeabletotellthatIwasinjured.“Icouldcallhisbluff,”Isay.“Howcanhekillhernow?”Razorshrugs.“Becausehedoesn’tgiveashitaboutonelittlekidwhenthefateofthewholeworldis

atstake?Justaguess.”“Afterallthat’shappened,aftereverythingyouheardandeverythingyousaw,youstillbelievehim.”Helooksdownatmewithsomethingthatcloselyresemblespity.“Ihavetobelievehim,Ringer.Ilet

goofthatandI’mdone.I’mthem.”Henodstowardtheyardwheretheblackenedbonessmolder.Hesitsonthecotnexttomineandpullsdownthemakeshiftmask.Thelanternbetweenhisfeetand

thelightthatflowsoverhisfaceandtheshadowsthatpoolinhisdeep-seteyes.“Toolateforthat,”Itellhim.“Right.We’realldeadalready.Sothereisnoleverage,right?Killme,Ringer.Killmerightnowand

run.Run.”I’dbeoffthecotbeforehecouldblinkagain.Asinglepunchtohischestandtheaugmentedblow

would shove a shattered rib into his heart. And then I could walk out, walk away, walk into thewildernesswhere I canhide foryears, decades, until I amold andbeyond the capabilityof the12thSystemtosustainme.Imightoutliveeveryone.ImightwakeonedaythelastpersononEarth.Andthen.Andthen.Hemustbefreezing,sittingtherewithnothingbutaT-shirton.Icanseealineofdriedbloodacross

hisbiceps.“Whatdidyoudotoyourarm?”Iask.Hepullsuphissleeve.Thelettersarecrudelydrawn,bigandblockyandshaky,thewayalittlekid

makesthemwhenhe’sfirstlearning:VQP“Latin,”hewhispers.“Vincitquipatitur.Itmeans—”“Iknowwhatitmeans,”Iwhisperback.Heshakeshishead.“Ireallydon’tthinkthatyoudo.”Hedoesn’tsoundangry.Hesoundssad.Alexturnshisheadtowardthedoorway,beyondwhichthedeadarebornetowardtheindifferentsky.

Alex.“IsAlexreallyyourname?”Iask.HelooksatmeagainandIseetheplayfullyironicsmile.Likehearinghisvoiceagain,I’msurprised

atmyselfformissingit.“Ididn’tlieaboutanyofthat.Onlytheimportantstuff.”“DidyourgrandmotherhaveadognamedFlubby?”Helaughssoftly.“Yes.”“That’sgood.”“Whyisthatgood?”“Iwantedthatparttobetrue.”“Becauseyoulovemeanlittlenippypursedogs?”“BecauseIlikethatonceuponatimethereweremeanlittlenippypursedogsnamedFlubby.That’s

good.That’sworthremembering.”He’soffthecotbeforeIcanblinkagain,andhe’skissingme,andIplungeinsidehimwherenothing

ishidden.He’sopentomenow,theonewhosustainedmeandtheonewhobetrayedme,theonewhobroughtmebacktolifeandtheonewhodeliveredmebacktodeath.Rageisnottheanswer,no,andnothate.Layerbylayer,thatwhichseparatesusfallsaway,untilIreachthecenter,thenamelessregion,thedefenselessstronghold,anageless,bottomlessache,thelonelysingularityofhissoul,unspoiledbytimeorexperience,beyondthought,infinite.AndIamtherewithhim—Iamalreadythere.Withinthesingularity,Iamalreadythere.“That can’t be true,” I whisper. Within the center of everything, where nothing is, I found him

holdingme.“Idon’tbelieveallofyourbullshit,”hemurmurs.“Butyou’rerightaboutthis:Somethings,downto

thesmallestofthings,areworththesumofallthings.”

Outside,thebitterharvestburns.Inside,heslipsthesheetsdown,andthesearethehandsthatheldme,thehandsthatbathedandfedandliftedmewhenIcouldnotliftmyself.Hebroughtmetodeath;hebringsme to life.That’swhyheremoved thedeadfromtheupper tier.Hebanished them,consignedthemtothefire,nottodesecratethembuttosanctifyus.Theshadowthatwrestleswithlight.Thecoldthatcontendswithfire.It’sawar,hetoldmeonce,and

we are the conquerors of the undiscovered country, an island of life centered in a boundless sea ofblood.The piercing cold. The searing heat. His lips sliding over my neck and my fingers feeling his

shatteredcheek,thewoundIgavehim,andthewoundsonhisarm—VQP—thathegavehimself,thenmyhandsslidingdownhisback.Don’tleaveme.Pleasedon’tleaveme.Thesmellofbubblegumandthesmellofsmokeandthesmellofhisblood,andthewayhisbodyslidesovermineandthewayhissoulslicesintomine:Razor.Thebeatofourheartsandtherhythmofourbreathandthespinningstarswecouldnotsee,markingthetime,measuringtheshrinkingintervalsuntiltheendofus,himandmeandeverythingelse.Theworldisaclockandtheclockwindsdown,andtheircominghadnothingtodowiththat.The

worldhasalwaysbeenaclock.Eventhestarswillwinkoutonebyoneandtherewillbenolightorheat,andthisisthewar,theendless,futilewaragainstthelightless,heatlessvoidrushingtowardus.He entwines his fingers behindmy back and pulls me tightly against him. No space between us

anymore.NospotwhereheendsandIbegin.Theemptinessfilled.Thevoiddefied.

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HELINGERSBESIDEMEuntilourbreathevensandourheartsslow,runninghisfingersthroughmyhair,staringatmyfaceintentlyasifhecannotleaveuntilhe’smemorizedeveryaspect.Hetouchesmylips,mycheeks,myeyelids.Runsthetipofhisfingeralongthelengthofmynose,aroundthecurveofmyear.Hisfacemoreinshadow,minemoreinlight.“Run,”hewhispers.Ishakemyhead.“Ican’t.”Herisesfromthecot,butIhavethesensationoffallingasheremainsstill.Hepullsonhisclothes

quickly.Ican’treadhisexpression.Razorhasclosedhimselfofftome.Iamboundinsidetheemptinessagain. I can’t bear it. It will crush me, the absence I lived with for so long that I hardly noticed.Unnoticeduntilthismoment:Heshowedmehowenormoustheemptinesswasbyfillingit.“Theywon’tcatchyou,”hepresses.“Howcouldtheyevercatchyou?”“HeknowsIwon’trunaslongashehasher.”“OhChrist.Whatisshetoyou,anyway?Issheworthyourlife?Howcanonepersonbeworthyour

wholelife?”It’saquestionhealreadyknowstheanswerto.“Fine.Dowhatyouwant.LikeIcare.Likeitmatters.”“That’sthelessontheytaughtus,Razor.Whatmattersandwhatdoesn’t.Theonetruthatthecenter

ofallthelies.”Hepicksuphis rifle and slings it over his shoulder.Hekissesmeon the forehead.Ablessing.A

benediction. Then he picks up the lamp and walks unsteadily to the doorway, the watchman, thecaretaker,theonewhodoesnotrestorgrowwearyorfalter.Heleansagainsttheopendoor,facingthenight,andtheskyabovehimburnswiththecoldlightoftenthousandpyresmarkingthetimetickingdown.“Run,”Ihearhimsay.Idon’tthinkhe’sspeakingtome.“Run.”

83

ONTHEEIGHTHDAY,thechopperreturnsforus.IletRazorhelpwithmyclothes,butbesidesacoupleofsoreribsandapairofweaklegs,thetwelvearrayscollectivelyknownasRingerarefullyoperational.Myfacehascompletelyhealed;notevenascarremains.Ontheridebacktothebase,Razorsitsacrossfromme,studyingthefloor,lookingupatmeonlyonce.Run,hemouths.Run.Whiteland,darkriver,thehelicopterbankshard,swoopingaroundthecontroltowerattheairfield,

closeenoughformetoseeatall,solitaryfigurebehindthetintedwindows.Wesetdowninthesamespotfromwhichwetookoff,anothercirclecomplete,andRazorputshishandonmyelbowtoguidemeintothetower.Ontheridetothetop,hishandwrapsbrieflyaroundmine.“Iknowwhatmatters,”hesays.Voschstandsat theotherendof theroomwithhisback towardus,butIcanseehisfacereflected

dimlyintheglass.Besidehimstandsaburlyrecruitgrippingarifletohischestwiththedesperationofsomeonehangingover a ten-mile-deepgorgebya shoestring.Sittingnext to the recruit,wearing thestandard-issuewhitejumpsuit,isthereasonI’mhere,myvictim,mycross,mycharge.Teacupstartstogetupwhensheseesme.Thebigrecruitputshishandonhershoulderandpushes

herbackdown.Ishakemyheadandmouthtoher,No.Theroomisquiet.Razorisonmyrightside,standingslightlybehindme.Ican’tseehim,buthe’s

closeenoughthatIcanhearhimbreathing.“So.”Voschdrawsouttheword,aprelude.“Haveyousolvedtheriddleoftherocks?”“Yes.”Iseehimsmiletightlyinthedarkglass.“And?”“Throwingaverybigrockwoulddefeatthepurpose.”“Andwhatisthepurpose?”“Forsometolive.”“Thatbegsthequestion.You’rebetterthanthat.”“Youcouldhavekilledallofus.Butyoudidn’t.You’reburningthevillageinordertosaveit.”“Asavior.IsthatwhatIam?”Heturnstofaceme.“Refineyouranswer.Mustitbeallornothing?If

thegoalistosavethevillagefromthevillagers,asmallerrockwouldhaveachievedthesameresult.Whya seriesof attacks?Why the ruses anddeceit?Whyengineer-enhanced,delusionalpuppets likeEvanWalker?Arockissomuchmoresimpleanddirect.”“I’mnotsure,”Iconfess.“ButIthinkithassomethingtodowithluck.”Hestaresatmeforalongmoment.Thenhenods.Heseemspleased.“Whathappensnow,Marika?”“You’retakingmetohislastknownlocation,”Ianswer.“You’redroppingmeintotrackhimdown.

Heisananomaly,aflawinthesystemthatcan’tbetolerated.”“Really?Andhowcouldonepoorhumanpawnposeanydangerwhatsoever?”“Hefellinlove,andloveistheonlyweakness.”“Why?”Besideme,Razor’sbreath.Beforeme,Teacup’supliftedface.“Becauseloveisirrational,”ItellVosch.“Itdoesn’tfollowrules.Notevenitsownrules.Loveisthe

onethingintheuniversethat’sunpredictable.”“I would have to respectfully disagree with you on that point,” Vosch says. He looks at Teacup.

“Love’strajectoryisentirelypredictable.”Hestepsclose,loomingoverme,acolossuscutfromfleshandbonewitheyesclearasamountain

lakeboringallthewaydowntothebottomofmysoul.“WhywouldIneedyoutotrackhimoranyonedown?”“Youlostthedronesthatmonitorhimandalltheotherslikehim.He’soffthegrid.Hedoesn’tknow

thetruth,butheknowsenoughtocauseseriousdamageifheisn’tstopped.”Voschraiseshishand.Iflinch,buthishandcomesdownonmyshoulder,whichhesqueezeshard,his

faceglowingwithsatisfaction.“Verygood,Marika.Very,verygood.”Andbesideme,Razorwhispers,“Run.”Hissidearmexplodesbesidemyear.Voschbackpedalstowardthewindow,butheisn’thit.Thebig

recruitgoesdowntohisknees,rammingtherecoilpadofhisrifleagainsthisshoulder,butheisn’thit,either.Razor’stargetwasthesmallestthingthatisthesumofallthings,hisbullettheswordthatseversthe

chainthatboundme.TheimpacthurlsTeacupbackward.Herheadsmacksintothecounterbehindher;herstick-thinarms

flyintotheair.Iwhiptomyright,towardRazor,intimetoseehischestblownapartbythekneelingrecruit’sround.Hepitchesforwardandmyarmscomeupinstinctively,buthefallstoofast.Ican’tcatchhim.Andhissoft,soulfuleyesliftuptomine,attheendofatrajectorythatevenVoschfailedtopredict.“You’refree,”Alexwhispers.“Run.”Therecruitswingstherifletowardme.Voschstepsbetweenuswithanenraged,gutturalcry.Thehub lights up themuscular array as I sprint straight for thewindowsoverlooking the landing

field,leapingfromsixfeetawayandrotatingmyrightshouldertowardtheglass.AndthenI’mintheopenair,falling,falling,falling.You’refree.Falling.

84

COVEREDINASHanddust,fivegrayghostsoccupyingthewoodsatdawn.MeganandSamfinallydriftingofftosleep,thoughmoreofapassingoutthanadriftingoff.Shewas

clutchingBeartoherchest.Whereverthereissomeoneinneed,Bearsaidtome,Iwillgo.Benwatchingthesunrisewithhisrifleacrosshislap,silent,wrappedtightwithangerandgrief,but

mostlygrief.Dumbo,thepracticalone,digginginhisrucksackforsomethingtoeat.Andme,wrappedtight,too,withangerandgrief,butmostlyanger.Hello,good-bye.Hello,good-bye.Howmanytimesdo I have to relive this cycle?What happened wasn’t hard to figure out; it was just impossible tounderstand.Evan found the baggie that Samdropped and blew (literally) bothGrace and himself tolime-green oblivion.Which had beenEvan’s plan from the beginning, the self-sacrificing, idealistic,alien-humanhybridasshole.DumbocameoverandaskedifIwantedhimtotakealookatmynose.Iaskedhimhowhecould

missit.Helaughed.“TakecareofBen,”Itoldhim.“Hewon’tletme,”hesaid.“Well,”Isaid,“therealwoundyourmedicalmojocan’ttouch,Dumbo.”Hehearditfirst(thebigearsmaybe?),headcomingup,lookingovermyshoulderintothetrees:the

snapandcrackleofthefrozengroundbreakinganddeadleavescrunching.Istoodupandswungmyrifle toward the sound. In the deep shadows, a lighter shadowmoved. A survivor of the crashwhofollowedushere?AnotherEvanorGrace,aSilencerfindingusinhis territory?No.Couldn’tbe.NoSilencerwouldbecaughtdeadtrampingthroughthewoodswithallthestealthofabullinachinashop—ortheywouldbecaughtdeaddoingit.The shadowraised its armshigh in theair and Iknew—knewbefore Iheardmyname—thathe’d

foundmeagain,keeperofthepromisehecouldn’tmake,theoneIhadmarkedwithmybloodandwhohadmarkedmewithhistears,aSilencerallright,mySilencer,stumblingtowardmeintheimpossiblypurelightofalatewinter’ssunrisepromisingspring.IhandedmyrifletoDumbo.Ilefthim.Thegoldenlightandthedarktreesglisteningwithiceandthe

waytheairsmellsoncoldmornings.Thethingsweleavebehindandthethingsthatneverleaveus.Theworld endedonce. Itwill end again.Theworld ends, then theworld comesback.Theworld alwayscomesback.Istoppedafewstepsfromhim.Hestopped,too,andweregardedeachotheracrossanexpansewider

thantheuniverse,withinaspacethinnerthanarazor’sedge.“Mynoseisbroken,”Isaid.DamnthatDumbo.Mademeself-conscious.“Myankle’sbroken,”hesaid.“ThenI’llcometoyou.”

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Goingin,Ididn’tfullyappreciatethetollthisprojectmighttake.Oneofmyflawsasawriter(oneofmany,Godknows)is thatI tendtodivetoodeeplyintotheinner livesofmycharacters.I ignorethesageadvicetoremainabovethefray,tobeasindifferentasthegodstothesufferingwithinmycreation.Whenyou’rewritinga longstoryspanning threevolumesabout theendof theworldasweknowit,you’reprobablybetteroffnottakingittooseriously.Otherwise,you’reinforsomedarknightsofthesoul,aswellasfatigue,malaise,untowardmoodswings,hypochondria,cryingjags,andpuerilehissyfits.Youtellyourself(andthepeoplearoundyou)thatactinglikeafour-year-oldwhocriesbecausehedidn’tgetwhathewantedforChristmasisaperfectlynormalwaytobehave,butdeepdownyouknowyou’rebeingdisingenuous.Deepdownyouknowthat,whentheclockhaswounddownandthetimeisup,therewillbemorethanacknowledgmentsowed;therewillbeapologies,too.TothegoodpeopleatPutnam,particularlyDonWeisberg,JenniferBesser,andAriLewin:Forgive

meforgettinglostinthethickets,fortakingmyselfandmybookstooseriously,forblamingothersformyownshortcomings,forgettingboggeddowninthemuddytrenchesoftheimpossibledilemmasofmyownmaking.Youhavebeengenerousandpatientandincrediblysupportive.Tomyagent,BrianDeFiore:Tenyearsago,youhadnoideawhatyouweregettinginto.Tobefair,

neitherdidI,butthanksforhanginginthere.It’snicetoknowthatthere’ssomeoneIcancallanytimeandyellatfornoreasonatall.Tomyson,Jake:ThankyouforalwaysansweringmytextsandnotfreakingoutwhenIwas.Thanks

forreadingmymoodsandforgivingthemevenwhenyoudidn’tunderstandthem.Thanksforinspiringme andpushingme and alwaysdefendingme againstmeanpeople.And thanks for notminding toomuchyourfather’sannoyinghabitofpepperinghisspeechwithobscurequotesfrombooksyouhaven’treadandmoviesyouhaven’tseen.Finally,toSandy,mywifeofnearlytwentyyears,whorecognizedinherhusbandadreamunfulfilled

andwhounderstoodbetterthanhedidhowtomakethatdreamreal:Mydarling,youtaughtmecouragein the faceofoverwhelmingoddsand incalculable loss.Youshowedme faith in the faceofdespair,courageinthehoursoflightlessconfusion,patienceintheshadowofloomingpanicoverlosttimeandwastedeffort.Forgivemeforthehoursofsilenceyouendured,theinarticulateangerandhopelessness,the inexplicableswingsfromeuphoria (“I’magenius!”) toangst (“Isuck!”).Theonlyfool I’veeverseen you suffer gladly is me. Ruined holidays, forgotten obligations, unheard questions. Nothing ismorepainfulthanthelonelinessofbeingwithsomeonewhoisnevercompletelythere.I’veincurredadebtthatishopelessformetorepay,thoughIpromisetotry.Because,intheend,withoutlovealloureffortiswasted,allwedoisinvain.Vincitquipatitur.