Free The 5th Wave by Rick Yancey

ours?” he asked Hutchfield.
     “It’s like using a club and stones against a tactical missile.”
    The argument was lost on Hutchfield. He was a marine, for God’s sake. His rifle was
     his best friend, his most trusted companion, the answer to every possible question.
    I didn’t get that back then. I get it now.

13
    IN GOOD WEATHER, everyone stayed outside until it was time to go to bed. That ramshackle
     building had a bad vibe. Because of why it was built. Why it existed. What had brought
     it—and us—into these woods. Some nights the mood was light, almost like a summer camp
     where by some miracle everybody liked one another. Someone would say they heard the
     sound of a helicopter that afternoon, which would set off a round of hopeful speculation
     that the People in Charge were getting their acts together and preparing for the counterpunch.
    Other times the mood was darker and angst was heavy in the twilight air. We were the
     lucky ones. We’d survived the EMP attack, the obliteration of the coasts, the plague
     that wasted everyone we knew and loved. We’d beaten the odds. We’d stared into the
     face of Death, and Death blinked first. You’d think that would make us feel brave
     and invincible. It didn’t.
    We were like the Japanese who survived the initial blast of theHiroshima bomb. We didn’t understand why we were still here, and we weren’t completely
     sure we wanted to be.
    We told the stories of our lives before the Arrival. We cried openly over the ones
     we lost. We wept secretly for our smartphones, our cars, our microwave ovens, and
     the Internet.
    We watched the night sky. The mothership would stare down at us, a pale green, malevolent
     eye.
    There were debates about where we should go. It was pretty much understood we couldn’t
     squat in these woods indefinitely. Even if the Others weren’t coming anytime soon,
     winter was. We had to find better shelter. We had several months’ worth of supplies—or
     less, depending upon how many more refugees wandered into camp. Did we wait for rescue
     or hit the road to find it? Dad was all for the latter. He still wanted to check out
     Wright-Patterson. If there were People in Charge, the odds were a lot better we’d
     find them there.
    I got sick of it after a while. Talking about the problem had replaced actually doing
     something about it. I was ready to tell Dad we should tell these douchebags to stuff
     it, take off for Wright-Patterson with whoever wanted to go with us and screw the
     rest.
    Sometimes, I thought, strength in numbers was a highly overrated concept.
    I brought Sammy inside and put him to bed. Said his prayer with him. “‘Now I lay me
     down to sleep…’” To me, just random noise. Gibberish. I wasn’t sure exactly what it
     was, but I felt that, when it came to God, there was a broken promise in there somewhere.
    It was a clear night. The moon was full. I felt comfortable enough to take a walk
     in the woods.
    Somebody in camp had picked up a guitar. The melody skipped along the trail, following
     me into the woods. It was the first music I’d heard since the 1st Wave.
    “And, in the end, we lie awake
    And we dream of making our escape.”
    Suddenly I just wanted to curl into a little ball and cry. I wanted to take off through
     those woods and keep running until my legs fell off. I wanted to puke. I wanted to
     scream until my throat bled. I wanted to see my mother again, and Lizbeth and all
     my friends, even the friends I didn’t like, and Ben Parish, just to tell him I loved
     him and wanted to have his baby more than I wanted to live.
    The song faded, was drowned out by the definitely less melodic song of the crickets.
    A twig snapped.
    And a voice came out of the woods behind me.
    “Cassie! Wait up!”
    I kept walking. I recognized that voice. Maybe I’d jinxed myself, thinking about Ben.
     Like when you’re craving chocolate and the only thing in your backpack is a half-crushed
     bag of