→ my name is lana snyder and this is my story on what happened at the end of the world. we were invaded and it was a mass instinctive event. but somehow i was one of the survivors.
- the 5th wave
→ started : 12/22/22 - finished : 3/17/23
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there is snow, tiny pinpricks of white, spinning down.
there is the river reeking of human waste and human remains, black and swift and silent beneath the clouds that hide the glowing green eye of the mothership.
in the park by the river in the snow spinning down.
we feel the chopper before we hear it. a change in pressure, a thrumming against my exposed skin. then the rhythmic percussion of the blades, and we rise unsteadily, pressing my hand into the bullet wound on my stomach, zombie presses his hand against his side while helping me steady myself.
"where should I shoot you?" ringer asked.
"i don't know, but it can't be the legs or the arms."
and dumbo, who had plenty of experience with human anatomy from processing duty: "shoot him in the side. close range. and angled this way, or you'll puncture his intestines."
and ringer: "what do we do if i puncture your intestines?"
"bury me, because i'll be dead."
and afterward, as dumbo examined the wound, she asked, "how long do we wait for you guys?"
"no more than a day."
"a day?"
"okay. two days. if we aren't back in forty-eight hours, we aren't coming back."
ringer says, "if you aren't back in forty-eight hours, i'm coming back for you guys."
"dumb move, chess player."
"this isn't chess."
black shadow roaring over the bare branches of the trees ringing the park, and the heavy pulsing beat of the rotors like an enormous racing heart, and the icy wind blasting down, pressing on our shoulders as we hoof it toward the open hatch.
the pilot whips his head around as I dive inside. "where's your unit?"
falling into the empty seats. "go! go!"
and the pilot: "soldiers, where's your unit?"
from the trees my unit answers, opening up a barrage of continuous fire, and the rounds slam and pop into the reinforced hull of the black hawk, and zombies shouting at the top of his lungs, "go, go, go!" which costs him: with every "go!" blood is forced through the wound and dribbles through his fingers.
the pilot lifts off, shoots forward, then banks hard to the left. zombie closes his eyes.
the black hawk lays down strafing fire, pulverizing the trees, and the pilot is shouting something at the copilot, and the chopper is over the trees now, we circle the trees several times, firing until the trees are shattered stubs of their former selves. the pilot glances into the hold, sees zombie lying his head on my lap , holding his bloody side. i lay my head back and close my eyes. the pilot pulls up and hits the gas. the chopper shoots toward the clouds; the park is swallowed up by the white nothing of the snow.
we're both losing consciousness. too much blood. too much. there's amélie's face, and she's crying. pale sick. and there's sammy, he has a sad look but a look that tells me to let go, he has amélie. but then there's zombie. he's telling me to hold on, they need you.
