“You’re going to live,” I told him. “You have to live. Promise, Evan. Promise me you’re going to live. Promise me.”
I slipped a little. Tried not to. Couldn’t help it:
“That’ll complete the circle, then we’re done; we’re both done, me and you. You shot me and I lived. I shot you and you live. See? That’s how it works. Ask anybody. Plus the fact that you’re Mr. Ten-Centuries-Old Superbeing destined to save us pitiful humans from the intergalactic swarm. That’s your job. What you were born to do. Or bred to. Whatever. You know, as plans to conquer the world go, yours has been pretty sucky. Almost a year into it and we’re still here, and who’s the one flat on his back like a bug with drool on his chin?”
Actually, he did have some drool on his chin. I dabbed it up with a corner of the blanket.
The door opened and big ol’ Poundcake stepped into the room. Then Dumbo, grinning from big ear to big ear, then Ben, and finally Sam. Finally as in no Teacup.
“How is he?” Ben asked.
“Burning up,” I answered. “Delirious. He keeps talking about grace.”
Ben frowned. “Like ‘Amazing Grace’?”
“Maybe saying grace, like before a meal,” Dumbo suggested. “He’s probably starving.”
Poundcake lumbered over to the window and stared down at the icy parking lot. I watched him Eeyore-walk across the room, then turned to Ben. “What happened?”
“He won’t say.”
“Then make him say. You’re the sarge, right?”
“I don’t think he can.”
“So Teacup’s vanished and we don’t know where or why.”
“She caught up with Ringer,” Dumbo guessed. “And Ringer decided to take her to the caverns, not waste any time bringing her back.”
I jerked my head toward Poundcake. “Where was he?”
“Found him outside,” Ben said.
“Doing what?”
“Just . . . hanging out.”
“Just hanging out? Really? You guys ever wonder which team Poundcake might be playing for?”
Ben shook his head wearily. “Sullivan, don’t start—”
“Seriously. The mute act could be just an act. Keeps you from having to answer any awkward questions. Plus the fact that it makes a lot of sense planting one of your own into each brainwashed squad, in case anybody starts to wise—”
“Right, and before Poundcake it was Ringer.” Ben was losing it. “Next it’ll be Dumbo. Or me. When the guy who admitted he was the enemy is lying right there, holding your hand.”
“Actually, I’m holding his hand. And he isn’t the enemy, Parish. I thought we covered this.”
“How do we know he didn’t kill Teacup? Or Ringer? How do we know that?”
“Oh, Christ, look at him. He couldn’t kill a . . . a . . .” I tried to think of the proper thing he had the strength to kill, but the only thing my hungry, sleep-deprived brain could come up with was mayfly, which would have been a really, really bad choice of words. Like an inadvertent omen, if an omen can be inadvertent.
Ben whipped around to Dumbo, who flinched. I think he preferred Ben’s wrath be directed at anybody but him. “Will he live?”
Dumbo shook his head, the tips of his ears growing bright pink. “It’s bad.”
“That’s my question. How bad? How soon before he can travel?”
“Not for a while.”
“Damn it, Dumbo, when?”
“A couple weeks? A month? His ankle’s broke, but that’s not the worst. The infection, then you’ve got the risk of gangrene . . .”
“A month? A month!” Ben laughed humorlessly. “He storms this place, takes you out, beats the crap out of me, and a couple hours later he can’t move for a month!”
“Then go!” I shouted across the room at him. “All of you. Leave him with me, and we’ll follow you as soon as we can.”
Ben’s mouth, which had been hanging open, snapped closed. Sam was hovering near Ben’s leg, one tiny finger hooked into his big buddy’s belt loop. Something in my heart gave a little at the sight. Ben told me they called my little brother “Zombie’s dog” in camp, meaning ever faithfully by his side.
Dumbo was nodding. “Makes sense to me, Sarge.”
“We had a plan,” Ben said. His lips barely moved. “And we’re sticking to the plan. If Ringer isn’t back by this time tomorrow, we’re bugging out.” He glared at me. “All of us.” He jabbed his thumb at Poundcake and Dumbo. “They can carry your boyfriend, if he needs to be carried.”
Ben turned, bumped into the wall, pinballed off it, lurched through the door and into the hall.
Dumbo trailed after him. “Sarge, where’re you . . . ?”
“Bed, Dumbo, bed! I gotta lie down or I’m gonna fall down. Take the first watch. Nugget—Sam—whatever your name is—what are you doing?”
“I’m coming with you.”
“Stay with your sister. Wait. You’re right. She’s got her hands full—literally. Poundcake! Sullivan has the duty. Get some shut-eye, you big mute mother . . .”
His voice faded away. Dumbo came back to the foot of Evan’s bed.
“Sarge is strung out,” he explained, like I needed him to explain. “He’s usually pretty chill.”
“Me too,” I said. “I’m the laid-back type. No worries.”
He wouldn’t go away. He was looking at me and his cheeks were as bright red as his ears. “Is he really your boyfriend?”
“Who? No, Dumbo. He’s just a guy I met one day while he was trying to kill me.”
“Oh. Good.” He seemed relieved. “He’s like Vosch, you know.”
“He’s nothing like Vosch.”
“I mean he’s one of them.” Lowering his voice like he was sharing a dark secret. “Zombie says they’re not like these tiny bugs in our brains, but somehow they downloaded themselves into us like a computer virus or something.”
“Yeah. Something like that.”
“That’s weird.”
“Well, I guess they could have downloaded themselves into house cats, but going that route would’ve made our extermination more time-consuming.”
“Only by a month or two,” Dumbo said, and I laughed. Like Sammy’s, mine surprised me. If you wanted to separate humans from their humanity, I thought, killing laughter would be a good place to start. I was never very good at history, but I was pretty sure douchebags like Hitler didn’t laugh very much.
“I still don’t get it,” he went on. “Why one of them would be on our side.”
“I’m not sure he completely understands the answer to that question.”
Dumbo nodded, squared his shoulders, took a deep breath. He was dead on his feet. We all were. I called softly to him before he stepped outside.
“Dumbo.” Ben’s question, unanswered. “Is he going to make it?”
He didn’t say anything for a long time. “If I were an alien and I could pick any body I wanted,” he said slowly, “I’d pick a really strong one. And then, just to make sure I’d live through the war, I’d like, I don’t know, make myself immune to every virus and bacteria on Earth. Or at least resistant. You know, like getting your dog vaccinated for rabies.”
I smiled. “You’re pretty smart, you know that, Dumbo?”
He blushed. “That’s a nickname based on my ears.”
He left. I had the eerie feeling of being watched. Because I was being watched: Poundcake stared at me from his post by the window.
“And you,” I said. “What’s your story? Why don’t you talk?”
He turned away, and his breath fogged the window.
“CASSIE! CASSIE, wake up!”
I bolted upright. I’d been curled up next to Evan, my head pressed against his, my hand in his, and how the hell did that happen? Sam was standing beside the bed, pulling on my arm.
“Get up, Sullivan!”
“Don’t call me that, Sams,” I mumbled. The light was bleeding from the room; it was late afternoon. I’d slept through the day. “What . . . ?”