I shuffle backward, knocking into the little table by the window. The stew sloshes over the rim of the pot, and the small can of fire beneath it hisses angrily.
“My soup!” she cries, struggling to her feet, and I back farther away, keeping the gun on her, but it’s a hollow threat; we both know it. The old lady scoops the spoon from the floor and hobbles over to the bubbling pot. The sound of the wood knocking against the metal sides of the pot draws a dozen cats from their hiding places. My stomach tightens. I have eaten nothing but a power bar in over twelve hours.
Grandma gives me a sideways look that borders on sly, and asks if I’d like a taste.
“I don’t have time,” I tell her. “I have to get back to my friend.”
Her eyes fill with tears. “Five minutes, please? I’ve been so lonely.” She stirs the soup. “Ran out of the cans a month ago, but one makes do.” Glancing over again. A shy smile. “You could bring your friend here. I have medicines and we can pray for him. The Lord heals all who ask with a pure heart.”
My lips are dry, though my mouth is watering. The blood pounds in my ears. A cat rubs against my calf, having decided I’m not such a bad guy after all.
“That wouldn’t be a good idea,” I tell her. “It isn’t safe here.”
She gives me a startled look. “And there’s a place that is?”
I almost laugh. She’s old, but sharp. And tough. And fearless. And full of faith. She’d have to be to survive this long. Whoever’s left now will have her kind of spirit—what did Cassie call them? The bent but unbroken ones. For a desperate instant I consider taking her up on the offer, leaving Dumbo with her while I race to the caverns to find Cup and Ringer. It might be his best chance—no, his only chance.
I clear my throat. “You ran out of cans? So what’s in the soup?”
She raises the spoon to her lips, closes her eyes, sips the brownish broth. The cat at my feet lifts its mangy head and stares up at me with huge yellow eyes.
I know what she’s going to say a microsecond before she says it.
“Cat.”
In one fluid motion, she hurls the scalding liquid toward my face. I stumble backward, knock against a stack of magazines, and lose my balance. She’s on me before I hit the floor, her fingers locking around a fistful of my jacket, which she uses to hurl me across the room as easily as a kid throws a stuffed animal. The rifle falls from my shoulder when I hit the far wall. Lying on my side, I point my sidearm at the shimmering blob hurtling toward me.
She’s too fast or I’m too slow—she knocks the gun out of my hand. Her fingers lock around my throat. She yanks me upright, shoves my head against the wall and brings her face close to mine, her deep green eyes sparking with infinite malice.
“You shouldn’t be here,” she hisses. “It’s too soon.”
Her face swims into and out of focus. Too soon? Then I understand: She saw the eyepiece. She thinks I’m part of the 5th Wave, which won’t be launched for another week, after she returns to the mothership, after Urbana and every other city on Earth is gone.
I’ve found the Urbana Silencer.
18
“CHANGE OF PLANS,” I gasp. She’s allowing me just enough air. The grip of her icy fingers is so hard, the strength behind it so obvious, I’m sure she could snap my neck with a flick of her bony wrist. That would be bad. Bad for Dumbo, bad for Ringer and Teacup, and especially bad for me. The only thing that’s kept me alive is her surprise that I’m here, miles from the nearest base and in a place that won’t exist at week’s end.
Your fault, Zombie. You had the chance to neutralize her and you blew it.
Well. She reminded me of my grandmother.
Grandma Silencer cocks her head at my response, like a curious bird spying a tasty morsel. “Change of plans? That isn’t possible.”
“Air support’s already been called in,” I gasp, desperate to buy time. “Didn’t you hear the plane?” Each second I keep her off balance is another second of life. On the other hand, telling her that bombers are on their way may be the shortest path to the quickest death.
“I don’t believe that,” she tells me. “I think you’re a filthy little liar.”
My rifle lies a couple of feet away. Very close. Too far. Again she reminds me of a bird, the way she cocks her head when she looks at me, her head tilted to one side like a damned green-eyed crow, and then I feel it—the violent thrust of an invading consciousness, her consciousness, ripping into me like a drill into soft wood. I feel crushed and flayed open at the same time. There’s no part of me hidden from her, nothing safe or sacred. It’s like the Wonderland program, only it’s not my memories she’s mining, it’s me.