The 5th Wave by Rick Yancey

Others?”
    One word, spoken in a raspy monotone: “No.”
    Hutchfield came out and smartly saluted the corporal. He was neck-deep in his element
     now, back with his brothers in arms. He was bursting all over with excitement, like
     any second he would pee himself.
    “All weapons accounted for and secured, Corporal.”
    All except two,
I thought. I looked at Dad. He didn’t move a muscle, except the ones around his eyes.
     Flick to the right, flick to the left.
No.
    There was only one reason I could think of that he’d do that. And when I think about
     it, if I think too much about it, I start to hate my father. Hate him for distrusting
     his own instincts. Hate him for ignoring the little voice that must have been whispering,
This is wrong. Something about this is wrong.
    I hate him right now. If he were here right now, I’d punch him in the face for being
     such an ignorant dweeb.
    The corporal motioned toward the barracks. It was time for Colonel Vosch’s briefing.
    Time for the world to end.

19
    I PICKED OUT Vosch right away.
    Standing just inside the door, very tall, the only guy in fatigues not cradling a
     rifle against his chest.
    He nodded to Hutchfield when we stepped inside the old hospital/charnel house. Then
     Corporal Branch gave a salute and squeezed into the line of soldiers that ringed the
     walls.
    That’s how it was: soldiers standing along three of the four walls, refugees in the
     middle.
    Dad’s hand sought out mine. Sammy’s teddy in one hand, the other hanging on to his.
    How about it, Dad? Did that little voice get louder when you saw the men with guns
     against the walls? Is that why you grabbed my hand?
    “All right, now can we get some answers?” someone shouted when we stepped inside.
    Everybody started to talk at once—everyone except the soldiers—shouting out questions.
    “Have they landed?”
    “What do they look like?”
    “What are they?”
    “What are those gray ships we keep seeing in the sky?”
    “When do the rest of us get to leave?”
    “How many survivors have you found?”
    Vosch held up his hand for quiet. It only half worked.
    Hutchfield gave him a smart salute. “All present and accounted for, sir!”
    I did a quick head count. “No,” I said. I raised my voice to be heard over the din.
     “No!” I looked at Dad. “Crisco’s not here.”
    Hutchfield frowned. “Who’s Crisco?”
    “He’s this cree—this kid—”
    “Kid? Then he left on the buses with the others.”
    The others.
It’s kind of funny when I think about it now. Funny in a sickening way.
    “We need everyone in this building,” Vosch said from behind his mask. His voice was
     very deep, a subterranean rumble.
    “He probably had a freakout,” I said. “He’s kind of a wuss.”
    “Where would he go?” Vosch asked.
    I shook my head. I had no clue. Then I did, more than a clue. I knew where Crisco
     had gone.
    “The ash pit.”
    “Where is the ash pit?”
    “Cassie,” Dad spoke up. He was squeezing my hand hard. “Why don’t you go get Crisco
     for us so the colonel can start our briefing?”
    “Me?”
    I didn’t get it. I think Dad’s little voice was screaming by this point, but I couldn’t
     hear it, and he couldn’t say it. All he could do was try to telegraph it with his
     eyes. Maybe it was this:
Do you know how to tell who the enemy is, Cassie?
    I don’t know why he didn’t volunteer to go with me. Maybe he thought they wouldn’t
     suspect a kid of anything, and one of us would make it—or at least have a chance to
     make it.
    Maybe.
    “All right,” Vosch said. He flicked his finger at Corporal Branch:
Go with her.
    “She’ll be okay alone,” Dad said. “She knows those woods likethe back of her hand. Five minutes, right, Cassie?” He looked at Vosch and smiled.
     “Five minutes.”
    “Don’t be a dumbass, Sullivan,” Hutchfield said. “She can’t go out there without an
     escort.”
    “Sure,” Dad said. “Right. You’re right, of