After the 4th wave, only one rule applies: trust no one. Now, it's the dawn of the 5th wave, and on a lonely stretch of highway, Cassie runs from Them. The beings . The 5th Wave / Rick Yancey. pages cm. Summary: “Cassie Sullivan, the survivor of an alien invasion, must rescue her young brother from the enemy with help. Chapter CASSIE. Chapter Chapter RINGER. Chapter Chapter Chapter ZOMBIE. Chapter Chapter Chapter RINGER. Chapter.
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The 5th Wave. The Fifth Wave (Series). Book 1. Rick Yancey Author Phoebe Strole Narrator (). cover image of The Infinite Sea. (5th wave). Summary: “Cassie Sullivan and her companions lived through the Others' Now, with the human race nearly exterminated and the 5th Wave rolling . new release bookdownload books download books online download ebooks download books on tape download books on ipad download.
I was overruled. If Walker really was one of them, he may have found a way to survive. She took a deep breath. She looked back. Neither of us said anything. A being thousands of years more advanced than us turns on its own kind—for what? Raising livestock? A vacation getaway? Every time I chased after it, it skittered away. Her head looked like it was about to explode. The next Silencer Sullivan encounters might not be as love struck as the first one.
I duck into the thin line of trees that borders the road. Stiff with ice, the autumn ruins crunch beneath my boots. Leaves curled up like fists, trash and human bones scattered by scavengers.
The cold wind carries the faint odor of smoke. The world will burn for a hundred years. Fire will consume the things we made from wood and plastic and rubber and cloth, then water and wind and time will chew the stone and steel into dust. How baffling it is that we imagined cities incinerated by alien bombs and death rays when all they needed was Mother Nature and time. For whatever reason, he said, the bottom line is they want all of us dead.
Everything else is just noise. Because of the rats. I forgot to tell Zombie about the rats. Halfway there, right on schedule. Clouds have rolled in from the north; the sun rises beneath the canopy and paints its underbelly a glistening maroon. Going around Urbana adds a few miles, but the only thing riskier than navigating a town during the day is trying it at night.
Mist rises from the frozen ground. The cold is intense. It squeezes my cheeks, makes my chest ache with each breath. I feel the ancient yearning for fire embedded deep in my genes. The taming of fire was our first great leap: Fire protected us, kept us warm, transformed our brains by changing our diets from nuts and berries to protein-rich meat. Sitting with my back against a tree, I pull out the brochure.
But every day we stay at that hotel, the risk grows tenfold. Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, and the idea of fighting is ludicrous. The clock winds down. When I pointed this out to him, Zombie told me I think too much.
He was smiling. Ignore the fifty-six to nothing score. Play for pride! The breeze dies. Me in these woods. Zombie in the hotel. Back to the R word. Not just ours. Theirs, too: embedding themselves in human bodies, establishing death camps, training kids to finish the genocide, all of it crazy risky, stupid risky. Like Evan Walker, discordant, illogical, and just damn strange. But after that, their brilliant strategy starts to unravel.
Ten thousand years to plan the eradication of humans from Earth and this is the best they can come up with? Deeper in the woods, behind me and to my left, a soft moan slices through the silence.
In the early days, it was nearly omnipresent, a constant background noise, like the hum of traffic on a busy highway: the sound of a human being in pain. I pull the eyepiece from my rucksack and adjust the lens carefully over my left eye. Without panic. Panic shuts down neurons. My footsteps thunder on the frozen ground. My breaths are sonic booms. The delicate white curtain parts, and twenty yards away I see a figure slumped against a tree, head back, hands pressed into its lap.
I aim the rifle at his head. Let me see your hands! His vacant eyes regard the gray sky through bare branches glistening with ice. I step closer. A rifle identical to mine lies on the ground beside him. I lower my weapon. In this weather, I would see his breath and there is none.
The moan I heard must have been his last. I do a slow , holding my breath, but see nothing but trees and mist, hear nothing but my own blood roaring in my ears.
Then I step over to the body, forcing myself not to rush, to notice everything. No panic. Panic kills. Same gun as mine. Same fatigues. I study his face. He looks vaguely familiar. I kneel beside him and press my fingertips against his neck.
No pulse. I open the jacket and pull up his blood-soaked shirt to look for the wound. He was hit in the gut by a single, high-caliber round. His squad MIA. And me alone with the silence of the woods and the milky white screen of fog.
Think fast. Like chess. Weigh the odds. Measure the risk. I have two options. Stay put until something develops or night falls.
Or get out of these woods, fast.
Whoever killed him could be miles away or hunkered down behind a tree, waiting for a clear shot. The possibilities multiply. Hunting down the person who shot him? What if the person who shot him was a fellow recruit who went Dorothy?
Forget his squad. What happens when reinforcements arrive? I pull out my knife. I press against the back of his neck until I find the tiny bulge beneath the scar. Stay calm. Move and countermove. I slice slowly along the scar and dig out the pellet with the tip of the knife, where it sits suspended on a droplet of blood.
So we can keep you safe. The risk of lighting up in an eyepiece. The opposing risk of the enemy frying my brain with the touch of a button.
The pellet in its bed of blood. The awful stillness of the trees and the clinching cold and the fog that curls between branches like fingers interlacing. I tuck the pellet between my cheek and gums. I should have wiped it off first. Every inch of my body tingles with the sensation of being watched. An uncomfortably familiar feeling now, present since the very beginning. Just the mothership silently hovering in orbit for the first ten days caused cracks in the human edifice.
A different kind of viral plague: uncertainty, fear, panic. Clogged highways, deserted airports, overrun emergency rooms, governments in lockdown, food and gas shortages, martial law in some places, lawlessness in others.
The lion crouches in the tall grass. The gazelle sniffs the air. The awful stillness before the strike. For the first time in ten millennia, we knew what it felt like to be prey again. The trees are crowded with crows. Shiny black heads, blank black eyes, their hunched-shouldered silhouettes reminding me of little old men on park benches. There are hundreds of them perched in the trees and hopping about the ground. I know why the birds have come. I am, too, so I dig out my baggie of beef jerky and only-slightly-expired gummy bears.
The crows watch me, cocking their heads as if straining to hear the sound of my chewing. You fat asses. How hungry could you be? The attacks yielded millions of tons of meat. At the height of the plague, huge flocks blotted out the sky, their shadows racing across the smoldering landscape. The crows and other carrion birds closed the loop of the 3rd Wave. They fed on infected bodies, then spread the virus to new feeding grounds. I could be wrong.
The more seconds that slip by, the safer I feel.
And heartless. The most dangerous men are those who do wrong but think they're doing something for the greater good, a lot like Eli in Vicious umm, you haven't heard of or read this one yet? Better get onto it.
It would be terrible with fantasy but it works wonderfully for a sci-fi. The apocalyptic feel was definitely there, and yet it lacked some of the spark it had in the previous books. Two quotes that were substantial and made me ponder over them for a while.
One of them is the quote at the beginning of this review.
The second one was about the absurdity of a teddy bear. Hills and valleys, desert plains and forest glens, the landscape pockmarked with scars of battle, crisscrossed by fault lines and unexpected vistas. His chest heaved: a subterranean quake that rose to the surface like a tsunamic wave. Desert plains and forest glens? I'm sorry, is this supposed to be sexy? Also, technically, she would be a conquistadorA, no? This gave me the creeps. Excuse me while I go throw up. Ben says something at that point, which I totally miss, because my mind has a way of scolding its own thoughts.
Did Stephenie Meyer write this? This, again, is an actual Cassie quote: Time for the angrily-storming-out-of-the-room part of the argument, while the guy folds his arms over his manly chest and pouts. Double ugh. Rant Number 3: The Comparisons to the Sci-fi Classics are Completely Unfounded The days when alien invasion plots could stand solely on the invasion ended right around the time of H.
Evan being a human-alien hybrid struggling to reconcile his alien soul with his humanity? Shallow even in comparison to The Host. Is that a joke?
They even killed an expendable character named Kenny! Then, yuck! Triple ugh.