White house, red barn, a narrow country lane: We couldn't have fallen into a more quintessential slice of Americana. The name of the hamlet where the caverns are? West Liberty.

I join her at the base of a silo, where she's busy stripping off her jumpsuit. Beneath it, she's wearing mom jeans and a hoodie. She has no weapon except the knife, which she tucks into a sheath strapped to her leg.

"Half a click south and west of our position," she breathes. The entrance to the caverns. "We're a couple of hours ahead of them." Zombie and whoever was crazy enough to come with him to look for me and Teacup. Poundcake, probably. My gut tightens at the thought of telling Zombie about Teacup. "You hang here and wait for my signal."

I shake my head. "I'm coming with you."

She flashes that goddamned stupid smile. "Honey, you don't want to do that."

"Why?"

"Our cover story won't fly if there's anyone around to contradict it."

The vise around my stomach tightens another turn. Survivors. Constance is going to kill everyone she finds hiding in those caves, and that's probably a lot of people. Dozens, maybe hundreds. It will be tough work. They'll be well-armed and wary of strangers-it's hard to imagine that anyone's unaware of the 4th Wave this late in the game. Which means I might not have to kill Constance after all. Maybe they'll do it for me.

It's a pleasant thought. Unrealistic, but pleasant. My next thought is not pleasant at all, so I blurt out the first thing that pops into my head.

"We don't need to take the caverns. We can intercept Zombie before he gets there."

Constance shakes her head. "Not our orders."

"Our orders are to rendezvous with Zombie," I argue. I'm not letting this go. If I let it go, innocent people will die. I'm not totally against people dying-I am planning to kill her and Evan Walker-but this is avoidable.

"I know it bothers you, Marika," she says kindly. "That's why I'm going in solo."

"It's a stupid risk."

"You've reached a conclusion without knowing all the facts," she scolds me.

That's been a problem from the beginning-as in the beginning of human history.

My hand drops to the butt of my sidearm. She doesn't miss it. Her answering smile lights up the night.

"You know what happens if you do that," she says gently, a kindly aunt, a caring big sister. "Your friends-the ones you've come back for-how many lives are their lives worth? If a hundred had to die so they could live, or a thousand, or ten thousand, or ten million . . . When would you say enough?"

I know this argument. It's Vosch's. It's theirs. What are seven billion lives when existence itself is at stake? My throat burns. I can taste stomach acid in my mouth.

"It's a false choice," I answer. One last try, a plea: "You don't have to kill anyone to get Walker."

She shrugs. Apparently, I'm just not getting it. "If I don't, neither of us is going to live long enough to have that chance." She lifts her chin and turns her face slightly away. "Hit me." Taps her right cheek. "Here."

Why not? The blow rocks her back on her heels. She shakes her head impatiently, turns the other cheek. "Again. Harder this time, Marika. Hard."

I hit her harder. Hard enough to break bone. Her left eye immediately begins to swell. She feels no pain from the punch. Neither do I.

"Thanks," she says brightly.

"No problem. Anything else you need busted, let me know."

She laughs softly. If I didn't know better, I'd swear she likes me, finds me charming. Then she's gone so quickly that only enhanced vision like mine could follow her, zipping across the field to the road that leads to the caverns, then cutting into the woods on the northwest side.

As soon as she's out of sight, I sink to the ground, shaky, light-headed, my gut churning. I'm beginning to wonder if something is wrong with the 12th System. I feel like shit.

I lean against the cold metal of the silo and close my eyes. The darkness behind my lids spins around an invisible center, the singularity before the universe was born. Teacup is there, falling away from me; the blast from Razor's weapon resounds in timeless space. She falls away, but she will always be mine.

Razor is there, too, in the absolute center of absolute nothing, the blood still fresh on his arm from the self-inflicted wound, VQP, and he knew the cost of sacrificing Teacup would be his own life. I'm certain by the time we spent the night together, he'd already decided to kill her-because killing her was the only way to set me free.

Free me to do what, Razor? Endure so I can conquer what?

With my eyes still closed, I pull the combat knife from the sheath strapped to my calf. I can imagine Razor lingering in the doorway to the warehouse; the golden light from the pyre outside washing over his lean features; his eyes lost in shadow as he rolls up his sleeve. The knife in his hand then. The knife in my hand now. He probably winced when the tip broke the skin. I do not.

I feel nothing. I am cocooned in nothingness, the answer, after all, to Vosch's riddle of why? I can smell Razor's blood. I can't smell mine, because none breaks the surface of the wound; thousands of microscopic drones stanch the flow.

V: How do you conquer the unconquerable?

Q: Who can win when no one can endure?

P: What endures when all hope is gone?

Out of the singularity, a voice cries out. "My dear child, why do you cry?"

I open my eyes.

It's a priest.

24.

AT LEAST, he's dressed like one.

Black pants. Black shirt. White collar, yellowed by sweat, spotted with rust-colored stains. He's standing just outside my reach, a small guy with a receding hairline and a pudgy, babyish face. He sees the wet knife in my hand and immediately raises his.

"I am not armed." His voice is high-pitched, as childlike as his features.

I drop the knife and draw my sidearm. "Hands on top of your head. Kneel."

He obeys instantly. I glance toward the road. What happened to Constance?

"I didn't mean to startle you," the little guy says. "It's just that I haven't seen another person in months. You're with the military, yes?"

"Shut up," I tell him. "Don't talk."

"Of course! I-sorry." His mouth clamps shut. His cheeks are flushed with fear or maybe embarrassment. I step behind him. He remains very still while I run my free hand over his torso.

"Where did you come from?" I ask.

"Pennsylvania-"

"No. Where did you come from just now?"

"I've been living in the caves."

"With who?"

"No one! I told you, I haven't seen anyone in months. Since November . . ."

A hard metal object in his right-hand pocket. I fish it out. A crucifix. It's seen better days. The cheap gold finish is chipped; the face of Christ has been worn down to a bald nub. I think of Sullivan's Crucifix Soldier cowering behind the beer coolers.

"Please," he whimpers. "Don't take that."

I toss the crucifix into the tall, dead grass between the silos and the barn. Where the hell is Constance? How did this dweeby little guy slip past her? More important, how did I let this dweeby little guy sneak up on me?

"Where's your coat?" I ask him.

"Coat?"

I step in front of him and level the gun at his forehead. "It's freezing. Aren't you cold?"

"Oh. Oh!" He hiccups a nervous laugh. His teeth match the rest of him: small and scruffy with grime. "I completely forgot to grab it. I was so excited when I heard that plane-I thought rescue had finally arrived!" The smile dies. "You are here to rescue me, aren't you?"

My finger twitches on the trigger. Sometimes you're in the wrong place at the wrong time and what happens is nobody's fault, I told Sullivan after hearing the story of the soldier.

"How old are you, may I ask?" he asks. "You seem much too young to be soldier."

"I'm not a soldier," I tell him. And I'm not.

I am the next step in human evolution.

I answer truthfully, "I am a Silencer."

25.

HE SPRINGS TOWARD ME, an explosion of pale pink and black. A flash of tiny teeth, and the gun flies from my hand. The blow breaks my wrist. The next punch, flying faster than even my enhanced eyes can follow, hurls me six feet straight back into the silo. The metal screeches, folds around my body like a taco. Now Constance's words come home: You've reached a conclusion without knowing all the facts.

She wasn't going into those caves to neutralize survivors. She was going in to silence a Silencer.

Thanks, Connie. You might have told me.

The fact that I don't die on impact saves my life. The phony priest pauses, cocking his head at me in a weird, birdlike way. I should be dead or at least unconscious. How is it that I'm still standing?

"My! This is . . . curious."

Neither of us moves for several seconds. I've thrown off his game. Stall, Ringer. Wait for Constance to come back.

If Constance comes back.

Constance may be dead.

"I'm not one of you," I say, pulling free of the metal nook. "Vosch gave me the 12th System."

His bemused expression doesn't change, but his shoulders tense. It is the only explanation that makes sense, yet it makes no sense.

"Curiouser and curiouser!" he murmurs. "Why would the commander enhance a human?"

Time to lie. The enemy taught me that great things can be accomplished by the smallest of lies.

"He's turned on you. He's given the 12th System to all of us."

He shakes his head and smiles. He knows I'm full of shit.

"And we're coming for all of you now," I go on. "Before the pods can bring you to the ship."

My rifle lies on the ground a yard from his foot. I don't know where my sidearm ended up. The knife is very close, lying about halfway between us. He'll expect me to go for the knife.

Okay, so the lie doesn't seem to be working. I'll try the truth, but my hopes aren't high. "I'm probably wasting my breath here, but you should know that you're as human as I am. You're being used, just like they're using everyone else. Everything you think you know about who you are, everything you remember, is a lie. Everything."

He nods, smiling at me the way you smile at a crazy person. That's your cue, Constance. Jump out of the shadows and plunge your knife into his back. But Constance misses her entrance.

"I'm really at a loss," he says. "What should I do with you?"

"I don't know," I answer honestly. "What I do know is I'm going to take that knife and bleed you out like a pig."

I don't look at the knife. I know if I look, I won't stand a chance-he'll see through the ruse instantly. By not looking, I force him to look. He glances down only for a second, but a second is longer than I need.

The tip of my steel-toed boot catches him under the chin and his little body flies ten feet before thumping down hard. Before he can get his feet beneath him, the knife leaves my hand and rockets toward his throat; he bats it into the air, then catches the knife on its descent, a move so wickedly graceful, I can't help but admire it.

I dive for the rifle. He beats me to it. His fist slams into my temple and I fall. My mouth smacks the ground; my upper lip splits open. Here it comes. Now he'll slit my throat. He'll pick up the rifle and blow my brains out. I'm a piker, an amateur, a newbie still adjusting to the augmentation he's lived with since he was thirteen.

He twists a fistful of my hair into his hand and flings me onto my back. Blood filling my mouth, I gag. He towers over me, all five feet three of him, knife in one hand, rifle in the other.

"Who are you?"

I spit the blood from my mouth. "My name is Ringer."