I sat beside him. I didn’t touch him. I didn’t speak. He was where he was and I was where I was.
“Sorry,” he said.
I shook my head. “Don’t be.”
He wiped the back of his hand against one cheek, then the other cheek. “You know what he told me? Well, more like promised. He promised he would empty me. He would empty me and fill me up with hate. But he broke that promise. He didn’t fill me with hate. He filled me with hope.”
I understood. In the safe room, a billion upraised faces populating the infinite, and the eyes that sought mine, and the question in those eyes too horrible to put into words, Will I live? It’s all connected. The Others understood that, understood it better than most of us. No hope without faith, no faith without hope, no love without trust, no trust without love. Remove one and the entire human house of cards collapses.
It was like Vosch wanted Ben to discover the truth. Wanted to teach him the hopelessness of hope. And what could be the point of that? If they wanted to annihilate us, why didn’t they just go ahead and annihilate us? There must be a dozen ways to wipe us out quickly, but they drew it out in five waves of escalating horror. Why?
Up to now, I always thought that the Others felt nothing toward us except disdain with maybe a little disgust mixed in, the way we feel about rats and cockroaches and bedbugs and other nasty lower forms of life. Nothing personal, humans, but you gotta go. It never occurred to me that it could be entirely personal. That simply killing us isn’t enough.
“They hate us,” I said, as much to myself as to him. Ben looked at me, startled. And I looked back at him, scared. “There’s no other explanation.”
“They don’t hate us, Cassie,” he said gently, the way you talk to a frightened little kid. “We just had what they want.”
“No.” Now my cheeks were wet with tears. The 5th Wave had one explanation and only one. Any other possible reason was absurd.
“This isn’t about ripping the planet away from us, Ben. This is about ripping us.”
13
“THAT’S IT,” Ben said. “Time’s up.”
Then he was up, but he didn’t get very far. Halfway to his feet before plopping down hard on his butt. I put a hand on his shoulder.
“I’ll go.”
He smacked his thigh with his palm. “Can’t let it happen,” he muttered as I opened the door and poked my head into the hallway. Can’t let what happen? Losing Teacup and Poundcake? Losing all of us one by one? Losing the battle against his injuries? Or losing the war in general?
The hall was empty.
First Teacup. Then Poundcake. Now Dumbo. We were disappearing faster than campers in a slasher movie.
“Dumbo!” I called softly. The ridiculous name echoed in the cold, stagnant air. My mind raced through the possibilities. Least likely to most: Somebody quietly neutralized him and stashed his body; he was captured; he saw or heard something and went to investigate; he had to pee.
I lingered in the doorway for a couple of seconds in case the last possibility was true. When the hall stayed empty, I stepped back into the room. Ben was upright, checking the magazine of his M16.
“Don’t make me guess,” he said. “Never mind. I don’t need to guess.”
“Stay here with Sam. I’ll go.”
He shuffled to a stop an inch from my nose. “Sorry, Sullivan. He’s your brother.”
I stiffened. The room was freezing; my blood was colder. His voice was hard, flat, without any feeling at all. Zombie. Why do they call you Zombie, Ben?