A.N: Sorry about the late update, I've just been swamped with schoolwork as of late. Hope you enjoy! :)
Disclaimer: I do not own The 5th Wave.
Chapter Song: Holding On For Life by Broken Bells.
LINCOLN
I felt no remorse about killing the boy. I saved him. There's no life after being infected. There's nothing to live for.
I got up from the bed, my fingers trembling, my lips stretched into a thin line. The doctor smiled at me, and placed a hand on my shoulder.
"If you here anything about the survivors from Camp Ashpit, please tell me. There's a girl, Daisy. It's her sister I arrived with."
She nods, and shows me to the door, telling me that we're all to convene in the main hall where we're assigned to our troop leaders. Whatever that means. As I walk outside, I'm met by swarms of soldiers, marching past me, their footsteps all in sync. I wait for them to pass me, shuffling slightly on my feet. I don't notice one of them approach me, until I spot the polished boots on the floor next to me. Immediately I straighten myself, and look up into the wizened face of the soldier.
He was certainly old enough to be my father, with a round face, and a receding hairline, wrinkles droning the most part of his face. However, he had this sort of rascality to him, that made me think beyond the badge and title, he could really make you laugh.
"Are you Lincoln Campbell?" he asks me, and I'm taken aback that he knows my name. One glance at his rank slides, and I know that he's a Colonel. What's an important military figure like him doing approaching me?
"Yes, sir," I reply, wavering slightly, uncertain whether the sir was perhaps too much.
The man grinned. "I'm Colonel John Garrett, but of course you already knew that, didn't you?"
Did I? I knew he was a Colonel, and by reading the name on his fatigues I could have deduced he was called Garrett. But he said it as though I should have recognised him, should have known who he was the second he spoke.
"Smart boy, smart boy," he added, gripping my shoulder. "Or should I say young man? You're eighteen, aren't you Campbell? Good age, that is. I enlisted when I was eighteen. Would you ever consider enlisting?"
He's talking about it as though there's still a chance I could join the Army, and this worries me.
"No sir, I wanted to be a doctor," I say, as assertively as I could. "Like my father, and his father before him."
"And I bet you would have made a good doctor. It's just, we're calling out for soldiers you see, and we're in dire need of strapping young men like you," he sighs. "Tell me you'll think about, yes?"
I nod, though I already know my answer. As he is about to slip away, I see another chance to ask after the buses. I can't go back to Lola without something to tell her.
"Colonel Garrett, sir, do you mind if I ask you something?"
The man's face lights up, and he nods, gratefully. "Fire away, son."
"There's this girl, Daisy - "
"A girl eh?" he chuckles.
I shake my head, though I can feel a blush creeping up to my cheeks. Since when did I, Lincoln Campbell, blush?
"Not like that sir, she's the sister of the little girl I arrived here with. Her name's Daisy Johnson, and the buses left her behind at Camp Ashpit, their father too . . . "
I would have liked to continue, to express the urgency of the matter, however the drain of colour from Garrett's face tells me everything. His lips thin out, and his eyes seem to soften, maybe get a little misty I might go so far to say.
"Oh, son. I'm sorry. Not long after the first buses left the camp, we received an airstrike from the Others. Some of us managed to get out before the bombs made a real impact, but many of my men were hit, as well as the inhabitants. Only a small handful of us escaped. You're friend, she wasn't among them."
I take it back. I'd rather go to Lola empty-handed then with the news her sister and her father had both died. I couldn't bear it. I must admit, I had been looking forward to meeting Daisy again, to be with somebody familiar. Somebody comforting. But now . . .
Garrett pats my shoulder in a supportive sort of manner, and follows after his troops down the corridor. I make my way to the main hall, my head hung low. This horrible feeling of guilt ensued in my stomach. If only I had persisted more with the bus driver, made him stop the vehicle and let Daisy on, then she wouldn't have died. Their father however, there was nothing to be done to help him.
As I reach the hall, I search for Lola, scouring through the sea of children nervously awaiting some adult presence. It stuck me how many of them were young, under ten years old. I was probably the oldest, though I spotted three of four who could have been my age. Nobody seemed to quite know what was going on, or really why all of us were here. And why were there were no adults?
I must have tapped over twenty little girl's shoulders until I finally found Lola in the corner, sat on the lap of a girl around my age. She had wispy sorrel brown hair, tucked into a ponytail that hung from her head. Bags fell from under her chestnut eyes, and she appeared just as exhausted as I felt. She was quite pretty, that much I noticed, clad in a weary pair of jeans and a navy blue sweater that was riddled with holes. Mud caked her walking boots, and broken twigs protruded from here and there. She's trying not to look so miserable. I walk over to the pair, and kneel down, smiling at Lola. "It's okay, I've got her now," I tell the other girl, hoisting Lola into my arms.
I watch as she furrows her eyebrows, and reaches out for the little girl in my arms, protectively. "You don't understand, I know her," she tells me, standing up. The English accent is striking, and I can't help but let the shock appear on my face. Her eyes lock with mine, and she gasps. "Oh my God, you're Lincoln Campbell!"
I nod, slowly, trying to remember where I'd seen this girl before. We'd obviously gone to school together, and I feel awful that I can't remember her name. Her name was on the tip of my tongue.
She rolls her eyes at me, and takes Lola from my arms. "I'm Jemma Simmons. We were seniors. We were in homeroom together."
I snap my fingers in remembrance. "It's great that you're still alive," I say, as I begin to reach out and take Lola's hands. "But Lola was my little sister's best friend. I need to look after her."
"Lola's my best friend's little sister."
These words take me aback, and I find that I'm at a loss for words. This girl knows Daisy. She was Daisy's best friend and Daisy was dead. Not only had I got to tell Lola that her sister and father were gone, but now I also had to inform the best friend. The weight in my chest only increased.
"You were Daisy's best friend?" I mutter, gently.
Jemma nods, confused. Then, I watch closely as she suddenly understands my use of the past tense. She covers her mouth with one of her hands, as tears pool in her eyes. Strangled sobs threaten to escape, and Lola notices. She pouts, and asks Jemma what's wrong. Neither of us know how to, or want to, answer her.
Fortunately, a call from one of the senior staff signals us all to congregate by the podium set up at the far end. Me and Jemma lead Lola, a little hand in each of ours, as I cast furtive glances towards the older girl. She is struggling with the news, and the tears spill over onto her cheeks.
"I'm really sorry about Daisy," I mutter in her ear, careful that Lola doesn't overhear.
Jemma smiles appreciatively, though crookedly, and sorrowfully. "What happened to her?"
"The buses left her behind. Her, and her dad. Then there was an airstrike, and it killed . . . everyone. She didn't survive. Neither of them did."
Whimpering slightly, she closes her eyes, and tightens her grip on Lola's hand. Holding on for life, it seems. The tears are like tiny glass crystals as they slip down her cheek, and all I can do is pity her, and share in her grief. I place a hand on her shoulder, but it feels somewhat an insignificant gesture. I couldn't understand her loss, and I couldn't ask her to help me understand. It wasn't going to bring her best friend back. It wasn't going to bring Lola's family back.
Slithers of sunlight peer through the cracks in the blackout paint on the hanger windows. Faint chirps of birds can be heard underneath all the nervous chatter. What a lovely day to be lonely, I thought, looking at Jemma.
Lola looks up at the pair of us, with an inquisitive gleam in her eye. I touch her nose gently, with as supportive a smile as I could muster. She didn't know about her sister, and for the time being, she didn't have to. I shared a small glance with Jemma, and she seemed to agree. Instead, we took a hand each, and turned to listen to Colonel Garrett on the podium.
"To those of you who don't know me, I'm Colonel John Garrett, and I'm the commander of this base. All of you stand before me because you're the ones we've found alive. You're all healthy. Your lungs are good. Heart rate, blood pressure. Everything is good. Except, everything isn't good, is it? As you all know, aliens have invaded our planet, and in the space of six months managed to take away everything we hold dear. Many of you are the last of your family to survive. They've killed almost all of us, but not all of us. And that's the flaw in their plan, ladies and gentleman, because if you don't kill all of us then the ones left standing aren't going to be the weak ones. We are the strong ones. Immune to the virus, fortunate enough to live away from disaster, and smart enough to stay alive this long. We are humanity's last hope. We are the ones who are going to take back our world. You're either with me, or dead, so what's it going to be soldiers? Fight, or flight?"
As atrocious as the speech was for the ears of children, it had a resounding effect on them, many whooping him enthusiastically. It was odd, incredibly odd. Lola nervously shuffled on her feet, unsure of how to react, and rightly so. This man wanted to make soldiers out of seven year olds. Even me and Jemma, who were of enlistment age, could not believe the words spewing out of Colonel Garrett's mouth, who didn't seem to be conflicted at all about what he was suggesting. We belong to another time, yet still we have to carry on here. We've nowhere else to go, yet here, we've no idea of what we can show, and what we have to hide.
But it's not like any of us had a choice, right? He said it himself; we either stay here, where our best chance of survival is, and do something about the issue, or we run from it, and take our chances out in the wild where the Others are roaming free, armed and dangerous.
I guess he made my decision. No doctor's degree for me.