Marionette (A 'The 5th Wave' Fanfiction) [COMPLETED] #wattys2017

(Sneak-peak) Prologue

    The Walker Hotel is an abandoned—like most things—cottage-sort-of building a few miles away from Camp Haven, the military camp blown to shreds by Evan Walker. The namesake of the poor means of shelter.

    Evan Walker is an Other, a Silencer sent from the mothership to kill what's left of humans. But he's different. Something went wrong in his system. He has sided with the humans against the Others. The reasons are unknown to himself also.

    In result, though, after he sent Camp Haven into the sky he disappeared along with it.

    The Walker Hotel has two floors anf three bedrooms. There is a rotting set of stairs moaning when stepped on, and further an elevator. Needn't say it's absolutely useless. Some places hold the smell of the plague—rotting milk. The plague is a deadly disease sent as the Third Wave. It causes floos, dizziness and in the latest stages, bleeding. And not just any. Bleeding from everywhere possible. The suffering ends with the bearer losing their mind and dying. It's awful.

    So naturally, those areas in the Hotel are often avoided by Squad 53 and the audition.

    Squad 53 are a trained military force from mentioned Camp Haven—one that saw through their instructors' lies and went rogue before it was too late. Unfortunate events led to the loss of two Squad members—one went Dorothy (a phrase used for a person who lost their mind—Camp slang) and the other . . . is lost. Nobody knows how or where.

    Poundcake is taking his turn in keeping watch at the front and Dumbo covered the back. Ringer just went out and the kids—Teacup and Nugget—are asleep. It took Ben a while to get out of the little boy's grip.

    Nugget came to camp before Ringer, the killing beauty. The kid was a mess—on the inside—and kept faith his sister, Cassie, would eventually come after him, along with their Dad.

    Eventually she did come—alone, with the escort and guidance of Evan Walker. And so, despite Nugget's longing for Cassie, he quickly turned reluctant and agitated by his sister. He believes she is the reason of their Daddy's death.

    Zombie shoves a last pistol in his belt and makes sure his gear is secure for what could be the hundredth time. He concluded it was best he leaves at night. The plan he conducted is still very sketchy and will require much improvisation. He'll go in the direction of Camp Haven and from there he wants to get a new lead. The newly-promoted Sergeant feels guilty about leaving his squad and others behind, but he convinced himself he has no control over this. It has to be done.

    “Sarge?” Dumbo whispers.

    Shit. Zombie turns in very slow motions in a dream-like state. No, he didn't plan on negotiating with anyone this night. He planned on everyone either keeping watch or sleeping.

    The big-eared recruit stares at his leader with question in his eyes. “Zombie?”

    “Hey, Bo,” Zombie replies and attempts a smile. His face aches and he can feel a cringe coming on. Instead he frowns. “Why did you leave your post, soldier?”

    Dumbo tilts his head, ignorant of the stalling. “I heard you in the hall and came to check in on you,” he replies with a shrug. He warily eyes the bag clutched in Zombie's hand, as if he were on the edge of a cliff and this was his only hope of not falling over. “What's that for? Are you going scouting?”

    Zombie's grip tightens and he half-expects Dumbo to take the bag from him. “Oh, you know. It's for the um . . . I though I could maybe . . .”

    He knows there's no point. He doesn't know how to lie about this. And Dumbo knows, anyway. It's always the same. “Zombie . . .” He's searching for words to snap him out of his daze while not hurting him all the same. What comes out of his mouth is fairly simple. “Again?”

    Dumbo doesn't know what it's like. A rope tightening around his chest and squeezing. Every flicker in the shadows, any movement of a tree's branch, some dust shifting—Zombie can just picture her coming back to him.

    He sees it quite clearly—her pale hair resembling the moon's glow at the darkest of night tied back by a makeshift string. Her eyes glassy with tears pearling in its corners when his mouth hangs open as soon as he realizes she hasn't changed at all. Her running when their gazes meet. Her hands pulling him closer. Her breath fanning his face. Her kissing him.

    It never is.

    A few weeks passed from the date of the destruction of Camp Haven. And she's nowhere near him. The girl whom he promised to always catch. The girl that saved him.

    She might be dead—that's the most-likely option. There are slim chances she went somewhere with the kids on the plane. Only the youngest were taken.

    If she's somehow managed to survive and is still with those ️️‘people’, Zombie wonders what story she was told. The Dorothy one is the most popular.

    More questions haunt the young Sergeant's mind. Where did she go? Was she even at the safe place? Where?

    He has to know. See evidence. Feel her. Anything.

    Dead or alive. That's what he's been telling himself. Until he sees a body he will believe nothing.

    Zombie doesn't get an opportunity to tell the medic anything when Cassie comes running into the room, her face a mask of worry. “Teacup is gone!”