The 5th Wave (The 5th Wave, #1)

by Rick Yancey

When I cry—when I let myself cry—that’s who I cry for. I don’t cry for myself. I cry for the Cassie that’s gone. And I wonder what that Cassie would think of me.

It’s hard to plan for what comes next when what comes next is not something you planned for.

“You don’t believe in guns,” I whispered. “I used to not believe in a lot of things.”

“Do you know how to tell who the enemy is in wartime, Cassie?” His eyes darted around the shack. Why couldn’t he look at me? “The guy who’s shooting at you—that’s how you tell. Don’t forget that.”

He was lucky, my dad. All of us were. Luck had carried us through the first three waves. But even the best gambler will tell you that luck only lasts so long. I think my dad had a feeling that day. Not that our luck had run out. No one could know that. But I think he knew in the end it wouldn’t be the lucky ones left standing. It would be the hardcore. The ones who tell Lady Luck to go screw herself. The ones with hearts of stone. The ones who could let a hundred die so one might live. The ones who see the wisdom in torching a village in order to save it. The world was FUBAR now. And if you’re not okay with that, you’re just a corpse waiting to happen.

Do you know how to tell who the enemy is, Cassie?

You know how sometimes you tell yourself that you have a choice, but really you don’t have a choice? Just because there are alternatives doesn’t mean they apply to you.

Crueler than seeing her is the not seeing her.

If I had faced it then, I wouldn’t be facing it now, but sooner or later you have to choose between running and facing the thing you thought you could not face.

“We’re all dead, son. Some of us are just a little further along than others.

“God doesn’t call the equipped, son. God equips the called. And you have been called.”

I will teach you to love death. I will empty you of grief and guilt and self-pity and fill you up with hate and cunning and the spirit of vengeance. I will make my final stand here, Benjamin Thomas Parish.

“It wouldn’t be the first time people have changed sides once the victor is obvious.”

“I think we’re seriously screwed when the men with guns decide to help the bad guys.”

We’re here, and then we’re gone, and it’s not about the time we’re here, but what we do with the time.”

No more guilt. No more grief. I will trade my self-pity for hate. My guilt for cunning. My grief for the spirit of vengeance.

“Let’s establish a code for when you want to go all creeper on me. One knock means you’d like to come in. Two means you’re just stopping by to spy on me while I sleep.”

😂😂😂

I don’t know what to say. So I don’t say anything. Too many people say something when they really have nothing to say.

“When you love someone. Something happens to them, and it’s a punch in the heart. Not like a punch in the heart; a real punch in the heart.”

Evan Walker, Silencer.

“I had it all wrong,” he says. “Before I found you, I thought the only way to hold on was to find something to live for. It isn’t. To hold on, you have to find something you’re willing to die for.”

There’s an old saying about the truth setting you free. Don’t buy it. Sometimes the truth slams the cell door shut and throws a thousand bolts.

First I have to find him. And then politely ask him to stand still so I can ram the end of my rifle against his temple and blow his head off his shoulders.

I don’t move. I wait behind my log, terrified. Over the past ten minutes, it’s become such a dear friend, I consider naming it: Howard, my pet log.

It really doesn’t matter who or what Evan Walker is. He kept me from dying. Fed me, bathed me, protected me. He helped me to get strong. He even taught me how to kill. With an enemy like that, who needs friends?

You don’t know what real loneliness is until you’ve known the opposite.

A thousand ways. Focus on the one way.

And I whisper to Ben Parish, “The one with Sammy—he’s mine.” Startled, Ben whispers back to me, “What?”

you don’t kill all of us all at once, those who remain will not be the weak. It’s the strong who remain, the bent but unbroken, like the iron rods that used to give this concrete its strength. Floods, fires, earthquakes, disease, starvation, betrayal, isolation, murder. What doesn’t kill us sharpens us. Hardens us. Schools us.