A.N: Anybody who has read or seen The 5th Wave will know what an amazing book slash film it is. And anybody familiar with my stories will know that I love to incorporate other stories into my own. Rick Yancey is such a brilliant writer, I just hope I've done this justice. Please enjoy!
DISCLAIMER: I do not own The 5th Wave, as that honour belongs to the brilliant Rick Yancey.
Chapter Song: Breezeblocks by alt-J
DAISY
Aliens must think we're stupid. Stupid, and gullible.
The air was bitter, biting at my nose, and the frost on the ground caused the leaves to crackle under my foot. Every owl hoot and wild dog cry startled me, causing me to jump slightly each time. Moonlight peaked through the long, spindly branches, causing iridescent and pearly beams of light to stretch across the forest floor. It was this light which guided me across the now empty motorway, strewn with the oddest objects abandoned by previous survivors to walk this road.
On the other side, there stood a convenience store. It had been ransacked by countless others, so I didn't feel quite so guilty rummaging around. And anyway, there's not exactly anybody left to arrest me.
Looking around, I rolled my eyes at the scene that surrounded me. People hadn't taken the canned fruit, or the cereal bars, or even the pre-bottled water, but the beer, and the Krispy Kreme donuts. No wonder I haven't seen another living soul for over three months now - they've all died of diabetes and thirst.
Mentally, I scrolled down my list of items, checking my basket as I did so. Why I had reached for the basket when I stepped foot inside the store, I'm not entirely sure. Old habits die hard I guess. Speaking of habits, I craved actual texture. Not the dry, dust-covered almonds I chewed on to give my teeth something to do. Not the acidic, slimy peaches my everyday breakfast consisted of. But real flavour, real substance. In my mind I could picture the deep-dish, mouth-watering pizza, coated in tangy slices of pineapple, and salted pieces of ham; the kind dad would order in after work.
Closing my eyes, I clutched my stomach as I felt the rumble before I heard it echo. Why would I torture myself like this? It's highly unlikely that I'm ever going to eat Hawaiian pizza again. It's highly unlikely I'm going to get to do much ever again.
Sighing, I gathered up the things I truly needed - the necessities. For instance, toothpaste, water, tampons, canned meat. The nuts I despised with a burning intensity were a luxury. With much frustration, I stood up, loading my haul into my backpack. The unmoving, glass eyes of a stuffed toy stared back at me from the bottom of my bag, causing a lump to form in my throat. It dredged up memories and promises that were just too painful for me to think about. Zipping my bag up hastily, and grabbing my M16 from off of the shelf, I turned to leave with the faintest glimmer of a tear in my eye, when I heard the cry.
Prominently male, and ever-so feeble, it was enough to release a startled gasp from my lips. At first I was frozen to the spot, unable to move. Like I said, it had been three months since I'd made with contact with anybody - any human at least. My trust was fading, if there was any left. Was this a trap, set to ensnare me? Kill me. I'd killed enough of them, maybe they were finally sick of the city-girl blowing holes through their skulls.
I could turn and leave, and not risk my chances. I could still survive this, and I could get out unscathed. But what if there is another survivor behind those doors? What if they're in there, bleeding out, and I'm their last hope. Could I really live with myself knowing I left him in there, to die?
Raising my rifle, I took a shaky step forward. I may carry a gun, but I still lead with my heart. With my head, with my morales, with my humanity. I find myself walking towards the back room, where he lay. I could hear his ragged breath through the door. It was slow, and heavy, and I knew he was in pain. With the little shred of bravery I clung onto, I pushed open the door handle, though my grip tightened on my gun as I did so. He jumped, so I jumped. He was pointing a gun at me, though it was considerably smaller than mine. A pistol. It was still powerful enough to put a bullet between my eyes.
"Put the gun down!" he called to me, just as I shouted the same to him. "Put it down now!"
Fiercely, I kept my guard up, and my finger tightened on the trigger. Gritting my teeth, I shook my head. "You first!" I yell. I wasn't going to let this guy think he had any kind of control over me or the situation. I was the healthy one here, not him. I was the one who could walk out of the store any time I liked. Not him.
Realising this, he drops his hand, beads of sweat trailing down his forehead. His left hand, I notice, is still tucked away inside his jacket, hidden. My heart hammers away inside my chest. Why won't he show me?
"Show me your hand!"
Shaking his head at me, screwing his face up in despair. Tears fell from his contorted face, and it was incredibly heartbreaking. It was also something they would do to get somebody to drop their guard. This whole thing reeked completely of false intentions. Why was there no blood? Why won't he show me his damn hand?
"Show me the fucking hand!"
I was being harsh, but I couldn't care less. Not if he wasn't human.
"Show me - "
"I can't!" he roared back, banging his head against the wall. "I can't move my hand, or else my guts will spill out."
I wasn't sure whether to believe him or not. Whether it was a him or not.
"Just show me!"
Giving in, I watched as he slowly retracted his arm. Narrowing my eyes, I waited, impatiently. I've always been told I sometimes act to rashly. Act without thinking. I never thought it an issue, not really. I saw it as a shortcut, a way to avoid all the bullshit.
I guess that's why when I saw the glint of metal reflect off of the moonlight, I pulled the trigger. Twice. I don't know why twice.
He screamed - or maybe I screamed - and then the silence engulfed us both. My ears rang with the sound of the gunshot, and it was deafening. I dropped the gun, though it was still attached to my neck by the strap I wore. My gaze was fixated on the crucifix the man wore. Not the hidden gun I thought he held. Blood was spilling out of the gash in his ribs and the hole in his forehead. His eyes, though glazed over, bore directly into me. He knew what I was going to do, before I did myself. He'd given up, and showed me his hand, even though he knew he would die. I didn't know that he was going to kill me for sure, so I finished him off rather than risk it. I killed an innocent man, because I was afraid.
What does that say about me? What does that say about my faith?
I guess I need to explain. Explain what's going on, though I don't fully comprehend it myself. Explain who I am, and who I was. Or else, you'll think I'm an awful person.
My name is Daisy Johnson. I'm seventeen, and I lived in Chicago, before this whole mess.
Six months ago, to this day, on the 9th of July, the mothership to end all motherships orbited into our atmosphere. First it appeared over Hong Kong, and the horrible, clunky piece of space metal plastered all over the news. I remember the pictures surfacing on social media, the posts spilling in by the thousands. I was sat in Physics, the most brain-numbing subject in the entire curriculum, when my lab partner slipped his phone under the table to show me his Twitter feed, which was jam-packed with the image of this alien spaceship hovering over Japan.
Believing I knew a hoax when I saw one, I had shook my head at him, calling him a plethora of names and practically laughing at the possibility of an alien arrival. Looking back now, if I was in the other kid's position, I would have slapped me for being so naïve. Aliens? On Earth? Don't be so ridiculous, that kind of thing only happens in the films. Last I checked, this isn't an episode of Falling Skies.
Slowly, but surely, after crossing China, Afghanistan, Iran, Turkey, Greece, Italy, France and the United Kingdom, it found it's way to America.
I was waiting for Lola at pre-school, and for our mom to drive us home, when I remember feeling a shiver up my spine. It was as if the darkest clouds imaginable had all clustered in the sky to block out the sun. Shrugging my plaid button-down further over my shoulders, I looked up to sky, and felt my jaw drop. Above me was the infamous flying saucer - though it was a little bigger then the shiny, metallic discs they show you in the films.
About fifty thousand feet up into the air, was this gigantic, hunk of metal, the size of a continent. Every now and then an emerald green light would flicker from onboard. I could see my own tiny reflection on the underside of the ship. I was just one of dozens of people in the street who had looked up. I was just one of thousands of people in Chicago who had looked up. I was one of billions in the world who looked up.
Lola, my five year old little sister, ran out of the doors, among many other rosy-cheeked five year olds, into my arms. Dropping my school bag, I picked her up with both arms, hoisting her onto my hip. Her smile was nearly enough to make me forget what was looming over our heads.
"Daisy, look at the sticker I got! Look at the sticker!" she called to me, thrusting her t-shirt in my face. On her chest was a fluorescent yellow, smiley face, staring at me wildly and intently. It would have been the most unnerving thing I'd seen all day, if there wasn't a freaking mothership floating above me.
"Wow, Lola," I replied, with the most enthusiastic smile I could give. "That's fantastic."
Over her shoulder, I locked eyes with our mom, who had clocked the spaceship too. She looked concerned, and filled with dread. Quickly she approached us, wrapping her arms around both of us. Kissing me on the forehead, softly and tentatively, she gestured for me to take Lola to the car. I nodded, and picked up the bag I'd dropped.
"How has your day been, sweetie?" she asks Lola, in a monotonous kind of tone.
We were both trying to distract her from looking upwards. Neither one of us wanted to scare her, to scare the little girl who got spooked so easily. When she was two, I had to take her out of the cinema when we went to see Frozen, because when Elsa made the snow monster out of thin air - how? why? - the roaring made her cry. Of course I justhad to take her again, because 'Emily went two times last week, and she didn't cry once, so I have to go again!'.
I ran my fingers through Lola's golden hair, though in this dark light it looked slightly brown. She was still chattering away bless her, about what she made out of her clay, and what instrument she played in recess. I was half-listening, half-watching my mom. Every now and then she would look up to the sky, and I'd see that shred of fear flicker in her amber-brown eyes. It was the same look she has in her eyes when dad won't come home from work until the early hours in the morning. The same look she wore when Auntie Helena died in that car crash three years ago.
It's despair, and worry, and dread all rolled into one. It made me fear the worst. If my mom, the woman who could battle sharks and fight off ninjas simultaneously, was afraid, then why shouldn't I be?
Then, sensing my concern I guess as I belted Lola into her carseat in the back, she turned to look at me, her face brightening up. Suddenly, she seemed like she had the widest of smiles on, and hope glinting in her eyes. It was enough to get me to wake up and realise that if she had faith, then I had faith.
"It'll be okay, petal," she mouthed, climbing into the front seat. Reaching out, her fingertips brushed my knuckles. It was a universally known gesture for everything will be fine. "I promise."
I shouldn't have held her to that promise. It wasn't fair of me to expect my mom to know everything, or at least know what was going to happen. Nobody did.
Anyway, that was then, and this is now. Then, I held onto my baby sister, and my mom for support. Now, I clutch my M16.
Before the Arrival, I despised guns. Ironic really, for a cop's daughter to hate the one thing that kept him alive most days, but there it is. So many things have changed since that mothership descended down to our Earth. I had a family, for one. I had a mother, who I loved dearly, and a father who protected. I'm hoping I still have a sister, but it doesn't look good for a five year old girl, alone, deep in the depths of the enemy's clutches.
Positivity was something I most definitely needed to improve. Not just for my sake, but for Lola. She needed her sister to come save her. She needed me. If I thought she was dead, or at least as good as, then I could never forgive myself. Never. I couldn't give up hope.
I had to go and save her.
