Now’s your chance, Cass. Take out your knife and cut out her treacherous heart . . . if you can find it. If she has one.
“They’re breaking formation!” Bob announces.
Ringer’s eyes snap open. My chance slips away. “Hold our course, Bob,” she says evenly.
The choppers bear down on us, spreading out so everybody gets a fair shot, so no one feels left out or cheated of the chance to blow us into a gazillion pieces.
Bob holds our course but hedges our bets, locking a missile on the lead copter. His thumb hovers over the button. The thing that blows my mind about Bob is how quickly he switched sides. When he opened his eyes this morning, both of them, he was pretty certain which team he was batting for. Then, in the batting of an eye (ha! sorry, Bob), he’s locked and loaded, ready to annihilate his fellow brothers and sisters-in-arms.
So there you go. You can love the good in us and hate the bad, but the bad is in us, too. Without it, we wouldn’t be us.
All I want to do in this moment is give Bob a big hug.
“They’re going to ram us!” Bob screams. “We gotta dive, we gotta dive!”
“No,” Ringer says. “Trust me, Bob.”
Bob laughs hysterically. We barrel toward the lead chopper as it barrels toward us, both at full throttle. “Oh, sure! Why wouldn’t I trust you?” White-knuckled on the stick, thumb caressing the button, in a few seconds it won’t matter what Ringer tells him, he’s going to fire. Ultimately, Bob is on nobody’s side but Bob’s.
“Break,” Ringer whispers at the big black fist rocketing toward our face. “Break now.”
Too late. Bob jams the button, the Black Hawk shudders like some gigantic foot kicked it, and a Hellfire missile explodes from its mount. The cockpit lights up like the noonday sun. Somebody screams (I think it might be me). A maelstrom of fire engulfs us for half a second—debris popping and smacking against our hull—and then we burst through the fireball to the other side.
“Hoooooooolyyyyy Mother of God!” Bob yells.
Ringer doesn’t say anything at first. She’s looking at his scope and the five remaining white dots. Four break off, two right and two left, and the third continues on, edging toward the bottom of the screen. Oh no. Where is he going?
“Hail them,” Ringer tells Bob. “Tell them we’re surrendering.”
“We are?” Bob and I say at the same time.
“Then hold course. They’re not going to force us down or fire on us.”
“How do you know?” Bob asks.
“Because if they were, they would have done it by now.”
“What about the other one?” I demand. “It’s gone. It’s not following us.”
Ringer gives me a look. “Where do you think it’s going?” Then she turns away. “It’ll be all right, Sullivan. Zombie will know what to do.”
Like I said, a very bad idea.
71
I SINK BACK into my seat and fight to get air into my lungs. I think I forgot to breathe back there. My mouth is bone-dry. I sip some water, but just enough to wet my mouth, because I’m a little concerned about having to pee during the operation. Ringer’s described the base to me in some detail, including the location of the Wonderland room, but I never asked where the bathrooms were.
Ringer’s voice crackles annoyingly in my ear. “Get some rest, Sullivan. We’re in the air for another couple of hours.”
And sunrise won’t be far behind. We’re cutting this too close. I’m no expert on covert ops, but I’m guessing they’re a wee bit easier in the dark. Plus, if Evan was right, today is Green Day, the day the fireballs of hell rain from the sky.
I hunt around in my pockets until I locate one of Ben Parish’s magical power bars. The alternative is bursting into tears. I’m determined not to cry until I see Sam again. He’s the only thing left that’s worthy of my tears.
And what the hell did she mean, Zombie will know what to do?
That’s good, Sullivan, he’d better know, because you sure as hell don’t. If you knew what to do, you wouldn’t be on this damn chopper. You’d be with your little brother. Wise up. You know the real reason you’re here. You can tell yourself it’s for Sam, but you’re not fooling anybody.
Oh God, I’m a horrible person. I’m worse than One-Eyed Bob. I abandoned my blood for a guy. And that’s so wrong, it makes every other wrong thing I’ve ever done seem right. Ben told me Evan was lying or crazy or both, because who destroys their entire civilization for a girl? Oh, I don’t know, Ben. Maybe the same kind of person who would sacrifice her only flesh and blood to repay a debt she didn’t owe.
I mean, it isn’t as if I asked him to save me all those times. Any more than I asked him to shoot me in the leg. I never asked him for anything. He just gave. Gave past the point where giving is sane. Is that what love is? And is that why it makes no sense to me, because I’ve never felt it, not for him, not for Ben Parish, not for anyone?
No, no, no, please, brain, don’t. Don’t serve up Vermont and that damned dog again. I promise I’ll stop thinking so much. Thinking too much has been my problem for a very long time. I’ve overthought everything, from why the Others came to what Evan was to the very weird fact that I lived while practically all of humanity died. Down to why that girl in front of me has the silkiest, most beautiful hair I’ve ever seen, and why I don’t, and why she has perfect porcelain skin, which I don’t. And the nose. Good Christ, how stupid. What a waste of time. It’s just genes with a little alien technology thrown in, big whoop.