The 5th Wave by Rick Yancey Read Free Book Online

daylight, was the surest way to invite them to the cookout.
    A shadow shoots across the grass a dozen yards in front of me. I jerk my head back,
     knocking it hard against the side of a Honda Civic I was leaning against while I enjoyed
     my snack. It wasn’t a drone. It was a bird, a seagull of all things, skimming along
     with barely a flick of its outstretched wings. A shiver of revulsion goes down my
     spine. I hate birds. I didn’t before the Arrival. I didn’t after the 1st Wave. I didn’t
     after the 2nd Wave, which really didn’t affect me that much.
    But after the 3rd Wave, I hated them. It wasn’t their fault, I knew that. It was like
     a man in front of a firing squad hating the bullets, but I couldn’t help it.
    Birds suck.

8
    AFTER THREE DAYS on the road, I’ve determined that cars are pack animals.
    They prowl in groups. They die in clumps. Clumps of smashups. Clumps of stalls. They
     glimmer in the distance like jewels. And suddenly the clumps stop. The road is empty
     for miles. There’s just me and the asphalt river cutting through a defile of half-naked
     trees, their leaves crinkled and clinging desperately to their dark branches. There’s
     the road and the naked sky and the tall, brown grass and me.
    These empty stretches are the worst. Cars provide cover. And shelter. I sleep in the
     undamaged ones (I haven’t found a locked one yet). If you can call it sleep. Stale,
     stuffy air; you can’t crack the windows, and leaving the door open is out of the question.
     The gnaw of hunger. And the night thoughts.
Alone, alone, alone.
    And the baddest of the bad night thoughts:
    I’m no alien drone designer, but if I were going to make one, I’d make sure that its
     detection device was sensitive enough to pick up a body’s heat signature through a
     car roof. It never failed: The moment I started to drift off, I imagined all four
     doors flying open and dozens of hands reaching for me, hands attached to arms attached
     to whatever they are. And then I’m up, fumbling with my M16, peeking over the backseat,
     then doing a 360, feeling trapped and more than a little blind behind the fogged-up
     windows.
    Dawn comes. I wait for the morning fog to burn off, then sip some water, brush my
     teeth, double-check my weapons, inventorymy supplies, and hit the road again. Look up, look down, look all around. Don’t pause
     at the exits. Water’s fine for now. No way am I going anywhere near a town unless
     I have to.
    For a lot of reasons.
    You know how you can tell when you’re getting close to one? The smell. You can smell
     a town from miles away.
    It smells like smoke. And raw sewage. And death.
    In the city it’s hard to take two steps without stumbling over a corpse. Funny thing:
     People die in clumps, too.
    I begin to smell Cincinnati about a mile before spotting the exit sign. A thick column
     of smoke rises lazily toward the cloudless sky.
    Cincinnati is burning.
    I’m not surprised. After the 3rd Wave, the second most common thing you found in cities,
     after the bodies, were fires. A single lightning strike could take out ten city blocks.
     There was no one left to put the fires out.
    My eyes start to water. The stench of Cincinnati makes me gag. I stop long enough
     to tie a rag around my mouth and nose and then quicken my pace. I pull the rifle off
     my shoulder and cradle it as I quickstep. I have a bad feeling about Cincinnati. The
     old voice inside my head is awake.
    Hurry, Cassie. Hurry.
    And then, somewhere between Exits 17 and 18, I find the bodies.

9
    THERE ARE THREE OF THEM, not in a clump like city folk, but spaced out in the median
     strip. The first one is an older guy, around my dad’s age, I guess. Wearing blue jeans
     and a Bengals warm-up. Facedown, arms outstretched. He was shot in the back of the
     head.
    The second, about a dozen feet away, is a young woman, a little older than I am and
     dressed in a pair of men’s pajama pants and Victoria’s Secret tee. A streak