{"product_id":"the-last-star-isbn-9780142425879","title":"The Last Star","description":"\u003cb\u003eThe highly-anticipated finale to the \u003ci\u003eNew York Times \u003c\/i\u003ebestselling 5th Wave series.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe enemy is Other. The enemy is us. They’re down here, they’re up there, they’re nowhere. They want the Earth, they want us to have it. They came to wipe us out, they came to save us.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e But beneath these riddles lies one truth: Cassie has been betrayed. So has Ringer. Zombie. Nugget. And all 7.5 billion people who used to live on our planet. Betrayed first by the Others, and now by ourselves.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn these last days, Earth’s remaining survivors will need to decide what’s more important: saving themselves . . . or saving what makes us human.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003ePraise for The Last Star\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e“\u003c\/b\u003eYancey’s prose remains achingly precise, and this grows heavier, tighter, and more impossible to put down as the clock runs out…this blistering finale proves the truth of the first two volumes: it was never about the aliens.”—\u003ci\u003eBooklist, \u003c\/i\u003estarred review\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “A haunting, unforgettable finale.”—\u003ci\u003eKirkus Reviews\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Yancey doesn’t hit the breaks for one moment, and the action is intense, but the language always stays lyrical and lovely. It’s a satisfying end to an impressive trilogy, true to the characters and the world Yancey created.”—\u003ci\u003eEntertainment Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Yancey has capped off his riveting series with a perfect ending.”—TeenReads.com\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “[T]he ending provides both satisfaction and heartbreak.”—\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Yancey's writing is just as solid and descriptive as in the first two books….What Yancey does beautifully is reveal the human condition.”—Examiner.com\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Rick Yancey sticks the (alien) landing in the action-packed finale to his \u003ci\u003eThe 5th Wave\u003c\/i\u003e invasion saga . . . . And the author gives us a major dose of girl power as well, pairing Cassie and Ringer for an uneasy alliance that provides the best moments in this fantastic series’ thought-provoking and satisfying conclusion.”—USA Today\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003ePraise for \u003ci\u003eThe 5th Wave\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003eNow a major motion picture starring Chloë Grace Moretz\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Remarkable, not-to-be-missed-under-any-circumstances.\"—\u003ci\u003eEntertainment Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"A modern sci-fi masterpiece . . .\"—USAToday.com\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e \"Wildly entertaining . . . I couldn't turn the pages fast enough.\"—Justin Cronin, \u003ci\u003eThe New York Times Book Review\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003ePraise for \u003ci\u003eThe Infinite Sea \u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Heart-pounding pacing, lyrical prose and mind-bending twists . . .”—\u003ci\u003eThe New York Times Book Review\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Impressively improves on the excellent beginning of the trilogy.”—\u003ci\u003eUSA Today\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “An epic sci-fi novel with all the romance, action, and suspense you could ever want.”—Seventeen.com\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003eBooks in the series:\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003eThe 5th Wave\u003c\/i\u003e (The First Book of The 5th Wave)\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003eThe Infinite Sea\u003c\/i\u003e (The Second Book of The 5th Wave)\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003eThe Last Star\u003c\/i\u003e (The Third Book of the The 5th Wave)\u003cb\u003e★ \u003c\/b\u003eLoss and sacrifice intertwine with the underlying questions of morality, family, and human strength, and the resolutions of two apocalyptically doomed romances are appropriately understated, but no less electrifying. . . . [T]his blistering finale proves the truth of the first two volumes: it was never about the aliens.\"\u003ci\u003e—Booklist\u003c\/i\u003e,\u003cb\u003e \u003cb\u003estarred review\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"[The Last Star] again unspools from multiple perspectives, keeping readers as off-balance as the characters, who must adjust to a world where they can trust no one. . . . After hundreds of pages of violent, nonstop action, the ending provides both satisfaction and heartbreak.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e—Publishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePraise for \u003ci\u003eThe 5th Wave\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e An Amazon Best Book of the Year\u003cbr\u003e A \u003ci\u003eNew York Times \u003c\/i\u003ebestseller\u003cbr\u003e A \u003ci\u003eUSA Today\u003c\/i\u003e bestseller\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Just read it.”—\u003ci\u003eEntertainment Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “A modern sci-fi masterpiece.”—\u003ci\u003eUSA Today\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Wildly entertaining . . . I couldn’t turn the pages fast enough.”—Justin Cronin,\u003ci\u003eThe New York Times Book Review\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e  “Nothing short of amazing.”—\u003ci\u003eKirkus Reviews\u003c\/i\u003e (starred review)\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Gripping!”—\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e (starred review)\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Everyone I trust is telling me to read this book.”—\u003ci\u003eThe Atlantic Wire\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003ePraise for \u003ci\u003eThe Infinite Sea \u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA \u003ci\u003eNew York Times \u003c\/i\u003ebestseller\u003cbr\u003e A \u003ci\u003eUSA Today\u003c\/i\u003e bestseller \u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e “Heart-pounding pacing, lyrical prose and mind-bending twists . . .”—\u003ci\u003eThe New York Times Book Review\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Impressively improves on the excellent beginning of the trilogy.”—\u003ci\u003eUSA Today\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “An epic sci-fi novel with all the romance, action, and suspense you could ever want.”—Seventeen.com\u003cb\u003eRick Yancey \u003c\/b\u003e(rickyancey.com) is the author of the \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestseller \u003ci\u003eThe 5th Wave\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eThe Infinite Sea\u003c\/i\u003e, several adult novels, and the memoir \u003ci\u003eConfessions of a Tax Collector\u003c\/i\u003e. His first young-adult novel, \u003ci\u003eThe Extraordinary Adventures of Alfred Kropp\u003c\/i\u003e, was a finalist for the Carnegie Medal. In 2010, his novel, \u003ci\u003eThe Monstrumologist\u003c\/i\u003e, received a Michael L. Printz Honor, and the sequel, \u003ci\u003eThe Curse of the Wendigo\u003c\/i\u003e, was a finalist for the \u003ci\u003eLos Angeles Times\u003c\/i\u003e Book Prize. When he isn't writing or thinking about writing or traveling the country talking about writing, Rick is hanging out with his family. Follow him on Twitter @RickYancey.1\u003cbr\u003e This is my body. \u003cbr\u003e In the cave’s lowermost chamber, the priest raises the last wa­fer—his supply has been exhausted—toward the formations that remind him of a dragon’s mouth frozen in mid-roar, the growths like teeth glistening red and yellow in the lamplight. \u003cbr\u003e The catastrophe of the divine sacrifice by his hands. \u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e Take this, all of you, and eat of it . . . \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Then the chalice containing the final drops of wine. \u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e Take this, all of you, and drink from it . . . \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Midnight in late November. In the caves below, the small band of survivors will remain warm and hidden with enough supplies to last until spring. No one has died of the plague in months. The worst appears to be over. They are safe here, perfectly safe. \u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e With faith in your love and mercy, I eat your body and drink your blood . . . \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e His whispers echo in the deep. They clamber up the slick walls, skitter along the narrow passage toward the upper chambers, where his fellow refugees have fallen into a restless sleep. \u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e Let it not bring me condemnation, but health in mind and body. \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e There is no more bread, no more wine. This is his final communion. \u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e May the body of Christ bring me to everlasting life.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The stale fragment of bread that softens on his tongue. \u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e May the blood of Christ bring me to everlasting life. \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The drops of soured wine that burn his throat. \u003cbr\u003e God in his mouth. God in his empty stomach. \u003cbr\u003e The priest weeps. \u003cbr\u003e He pours a few drops of water into the chalice. His hand shakes. He drinks the precious blood commingled with water, then wipes clean the chalice with the purificator. \u003cbr\u003e It is finished. The everlasting sacrifice is over. He dabs his cheeks on the same cloth he used to clean the chalice. The tears of man and the blood of God inseparable. Nothing new in that. \u003cbr\u003e He wipes clean the paten with the cloth, then stuffs the purifi­cator into the chalice and sets it aside. He pulls the green stole from his neck, folds it carefully, kisses it. He loved everything about being a priest. Loved the Mass most of all. \u003cbr\u003e His collar is damp with sweat and tears and loose about his neck: He’s lost fifteen pounds since the plague struck and aban­doned his parish to make the hundred-mile journey to the caverns north of Urbana. Along the way he gained many followers—over fifty in all, though thirty-two died from the infection before reach­ing safety. As their deaths approached, he spoke the rite, Catholic, Protestant, or Jew, it didn’t matter: \u003ci\u003eMay the Lord in his love and mercy help you . . . \u003c\/i\u003eTracing a cross on their hot foreheads with his thumb. \u003ci\u003eMay the Lord who frees you from sin save you . . . \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The blood that seeped from their eyes mixed with the oil he rubbed on their lids. And smoke rolled across open fields and hunkered in woods and capped over roads like ice over languid rivers in deep winter. Fires in Columbus. Fires in Springfield and Dayton. In Huber Heights and London and Fairborn. In Frank­lin and Middletown and Xenia. In the evenings the light from a thousand fires turned the smoke a dusky orange, and the sky sank to an inch above their heads. The priest shuffled through the smoldering landscape with one hand outstretched, pressing a rag over his nose and mouth with the other while tears of protest streamed down his face. Blood crusted beneath his broken nails, blood caked in the lines of his hands and in the soles of his shoes. \u003ci\u003eNot much farther, \u003c\/i\u003ehe encouraged his companions. \u003ci\u003eKeep moving. \u003c\/i\u003eAlong the way, someone nicknamed him Father Moses, for he was leading his people out of the obscurity of smoke and fire to the Promised Land of “Ohio’s Most Colorful Caverns!” \u003cbr\u003e People were there, of course, to greet them when they arrived. The priest expected it. A cave does not burn. It is impervious to weather. Best of all, it’s easy to defend. After military bases and government buildings, caves were the most popular destinations in the aftermath of the Arrival. \u003cbr\u003e Supplies had been gathered, water and nonperishables, blan­kets and bandages and medicines. And weapons, naturally, rifles and pistols and shotguns and many knives. The sick were quaran­tined in the welcome center aboveground, lying in cots arranged between the display shelves of the gift shop, and every day the priest visited them, spoke with them, prayed with them, heard their confessions, delivered communion, whispered the things they wanted to hear: \u003ci\u003ePer sacrosancta humanae reparationis mys­teria . . . By the sacred mysteries of man’s redemption . . . \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Hundreds would die before the dying was over. They dug a pit ten feet wide and thirty feet deep to the south of the welcome center to burn them. The fire smoldered day and night, and the smell of burning flesh had become so commonplace, they hardly noticed. \u003cbr\u003e Now it’s November, and in the lowermost chamber the priest rises. He is not tall; still, he must stoop to avoid smacking his head into the ceiling or against the stone teeth that bristle from the roof of the dragon’s mouth. \u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e The Mass is ended, go in peace. \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He leaves behind the chalice and the purificator, the paten and his stole. They are relics now, artifacts from an age receding into the past at the speed of light. \u003ci\u003eWe began as cave dwellers, \u003c\/i\u003ethe priest thinks as he makes his way toward the surface, \u003ci\u003eand to caves we have returned. \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Even the longest journey is a circle, and history will always cycle back to the place where it began. From the missal: “Remem­ber you are dust and unto dust you shall return.” \u003cbr\u003e And the priest rises like a diver kicking toward the dome of the sky sparkling above the water. \u003cbr\u003e Along the narrow passageway that winds gently upward be­tween walls of weeping stone, the floor is as smooth as the lanes of a bowling alley. Only a few months before, schoolchildren on field trips marched in single file, trailing their fingers along the rock face, their eyes searching for monsters in the shadows that pooled in the crevices. They were still young enough to believe in monsters. \u003cbr\u003e And the priest rising like a leviathan from the lightless deep. \u003cbr\u003e The trail to the surface runs past the Caveman’s Couch and the Crystal King, into the Big Room, the main living area for the refu­gees, and finally into the Palace of the Gods, his favorite part of the caverns, where crystalline formations shine like frozen shards of moonlight and the ceiling sensually undulates like waves roll­ing in to shore. Here, close to the surface, the air thins, becomes drier, tinged with the smoke of the fires that still feed upon the world they left behind. \u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e Lord, bless these ashes by which we show that we are dust. \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Snatches of prayer run through his mind. Fragments of song. Litanies and blessings and the words of absolution, \u003ci\u003eMay God give you pardon and peace, and I absolve you from your sins . . . \u003c\/i\u003eAnd from the Bible: “I went down to the roots of the mountains; to the land whose bars closed behind me forever.” \u003cbr\u003e Incense burning in the censer. Soft spring sunlight shattered by stained glass. The creaking of the pews on Sunday like the hull of an ancient vessel far at sea. The stately measure of the seasons, the calendar that governed his life from the time he was an infant, Advent, Christmas, Lent, Easter. He knows he loved the wrong things, the rituals and traditions, the pomp and foppery for which outsiders faulted the Church. He adored the form, not the sub­stance; the bread, not the body. \u003cbr\u003e It didn’t make him a bad priest. He was quiet and humble and faithful to his calling. He enjoyed helping people. These weeks in the cave had been some of the most fulfilling of his life. Suffering brings God to his natural home, the manger of terror and confu­sion, pain and loss, where he was born. \u003ci\u003eTurn over the currency of suffering, \u003c\/i\u003ethe priest thinks, \u003ci\u003eand you will see his face. \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e A watchman sits just inside the opening above the Palace of the Gods, his burly frame silhouetted against the spray of stars beyond him. The sky has been scrubbed clean by a stiff north wind auguring winter. The man wears a baseball cap pulled low over his forehead, and a worn leather jacket. He’s holding a pair of binoculars. A rifle rests in his lap. \u003cbr\u003e The man nods a hello to the priest. “Where’s your coat, Father? It’s a cold one tonight.” \u003cbr\u003e The priest smiles wanly. “I lent it to Agatha, I’m afraid.” \u003cbr\u003e The man grunts his understanding. Agatha is the complainer of the group. Always cold. Always hungry. Always \u003ci\u003esomething. \u003c\/i\u003eHe lifts the binoculars to his eyes and scans the sky. \u003cbr\u003e “Have you seen any more of them?” the priest asks. They spotted the first grayish-silver, cigar-shaped object a week before, hanging motionlessly above the caverns for several minutes be­fore silently shooting straight up, dwindling to a pinprick scar in the vast blue. Another—or the same one—appeared two days later, gliding soundlessly over them until it dropped beneath the horizon. There was no question about the origin of these strange craft—the cave dwellers knew they weren’t terrestrial—it was the mystery of their purpose that frightened them. \u003cbr\u003e The man lowers the binoculars and rubs his eyes. “What’s the matter, Father? Can’t sleep?” \u003cbr\u003e “Oh, I don’t sleep much these days,” the priest says. Then he adds, “So much to do.” He doesn’t want the man to think he’s complaining. \u003cbr\u003e “No atheists in foxholes.” The cliché hangs in the air like a rancid smell. \u003cbr\u003e “Or in caves,” the priest says. Since they met, he has strained to know this man better, but he is a closed room, the door se­curely dead-bolted by anger and grief and the hopeless dread of the doomed living on borrowed time. For months there’s been no turning from it or hiding from it. For some, death is the midwife to faith. For others, it is faith’s executioner. \u003cbr\u003e The man pulls a pack of gum from his breast pocket, carefully unwraps a piece, and folds it into his mouth. He counts the re­maining sticks before slipping the pack back into his pocket. He does not offer any to the priest. \u003cbr\u003e “My last pack,” the man says in explanation. He shifts his weight on the cold stone.\u003cbr\u003e “I understand,” the priest says. \u003cbr\u003e “Do you?” The man’s jaw moves with a hypnotic rhythm as he chews. “Do you really?” \u003cbr\u003e The dry bread, the soured wine: The taste lingers on his tongue. The bread could have been broken; the wine could have been di­vided. He did not have to celebrate the Mass alone. “I believe that I do,” the little priest answers. \u003cbr\u003e “I don’t,” the man says slowly and deliberately. “I don’t believe in a goddamned thing.” \u003cbr\u003e The priest blushes. His soft, embarrassed laughter is like the patter of children’s feet up a long staircase. He touches his collar nervously. \u003cbr\u003e “When the power died, I believed it would come back on,” the man with the rifle says. “Everybody did. The power goes out—the power comes back on. That’s faith, right?” He gnawed the gum, left side, right side, pushing the green knob back and forth with his tongue. “Then the news trickles in from the coasts that there are no coasts anymore. Now Reno is prime oceanfront property. Big deal; so what? There’ve been earthquakes before. There’ve been tsunamis. Who needs New York? What’s so special about Califor­nia? We’ll bounce back. We always bounce back. I believed that.” \u003cbr\u003e The watchman is nodding, staring at the night sky, at the cold, blazing stars. Eyes high, voice low. “Then people got sick. Anti­biotics. Quarantines. Disinfectants. We put on masks and washed our hands until our skin peeled off. Most of us died anyway.” \u003cbr\u003e And the man with the rifle watches the stars as if waiting for them to shake loose from the black and tumble to the Earth. Why shouldn’t they? \u003cbr\u003e “My neighbors. My friends. My wife and kids. I knew that \u003ci\u003eall \u003c\/i\u003eof them wouldn’t die. How could \u003ci\u003eall \u003c\/i\u003eof them die? Some people will get sick, but most people won’t, and the rest will get better, right? That’s faith. That’s what we believed.” \u003cbr\u003e The man pulls a large hunting knife from his boot and begins to clean the dirt from beneath his nails with its tip. \u003cbr\u003e “This is faith: You grow up; you go to school. Find a job. Get married. Start a family.” Finishing the job on one hand, a nail for each rite of passage, then beginning on the other. “Your kids grow up. They go to school. They find a job. They get married. They start a family.” \u003ci\u003eScrape, scrape. Scrape, scrape, scrape. \u003c\/i\u003eHe pushes his hat back with the heel of the hand that wields the knife. “I was never what you’d call a religious person. Haven’t seen the inside of a church in twenty years. But I know what faith is, Fa­ther. I know what it is to believe in something. The lights go out, they come back on. The floodwaters roll in, they roll out again. Folks get sick, they get better. Life goes on. That’s true faith, isn’t it? Your mumbo-jumbo about heaven and hell, sin and salvation, throw it all out and you’re still left with that. Even your biggest church-bashing atheist has faith in that. Life will go on.” \u003cbr\u003e “Yes,” the priest says. “Life will go on.” \u003cbr\u003e The watchman bares his teeth. He jabs the knife toward the priest’s chest and snarls, “You haven’t heard a damn word I’ve said. See, this is why I can’t stand your kind. You light your can­dles and mumble your Latin spells and pray to a god who isn’t there, doesn’t care, or is just plain crazy or cruel or both. The world burns and you praise the asshole who either set it or let it.” \u003cbr\u003e The little priest has raised his hands, the same hands that con­secrated the bread and wine, as if to show the man that they are empty, that he means no harm. \u003cbr\u003e “I don’t pretend to know the mind of God,” the priest begins, lowering his hands. Eyeing the knife, he quotes from the Book of Job: “‘Therefore I have declared that which I did not understand, things too wonderful for me, which I did not know.’” \u003cbr\u003e The man stares at him for a very long, very uncomfortable moment, absolutely still except for his jaw working the already tasteless knob of gum. \u003cbr\u003e “I’m going to be honest with you, Father,” he says matter-of-factly. “I feel like killing you right now.” \u003cbr\u003e The priest nods somberly. “I’m afraid that may happen. When the truth hits home.” \u003cbr\u003e He eases the knife from the man’s shaking hand. The priest touches the man’s shoulder. \u003cbr\u003e The man flinches but doesn’t pull away. “What is the truth?” the man whispers. \u003cbr\u003e “This,” the little priest answers, and drives the knife deep into the man’s chest. \u003cbr\u003e The blade is very sharp—it slides through the man’s shirt easily, gliding between the ribs before sinking three inches into the heart. \u003cbr\u003e The priest pulls the man to his chest and kisses the top of his head. \u003ci\u003eMay God give you pardon and peace. \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e It is over quickly. The gum drops from the man’s slackened lips, and the priest picks it up and tosses it through the cave’s mouth. He eases the man onto the cold stone floor and stands up. The wet knife glimmers in his hand. \u003ci\u003eThe blood of the new and everlasting covenant . . . \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The priest studies the dead man’s face, and his heart burns with rage and revulsion. The human face is hideous, unendurably gro­tesque. No need to hide his disgust anymore. \u003cbr\u003e The little priest returns to the Big Room, following a well-worn path into the main chamber, where the others twitch and turn in restless sleep. All except Agatha, who leans against the back wall of the chamber, a small woman lost in the fur-lined jacket the little priest had lent her, her frizz of unwashed hair a cyclone of gray and black. Grime nestles in the deep crevices of her withered face, around a mouth bereft of dentures long since lost and eyes buried in folds of sagging skin. \u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e This is humanity, \u003c\/i\u003ethe priest thinks. \u003ci\u003eThis is its face. \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Father, is that you?” Her voice is barely audible, a mouse’s squeak, a rat’s high-pitched cry. \u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e And this, humanity’s voice. \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Yes, Agatha. It’s me.” \u003cbr\u003e She squints into the human mask he has worn since infancy, obscured in shadow. “I can’t sleep, Father. Will you sit with me awhile?” \u003cbr\u003e “Yes, Agatha. I will sit with you.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e2\u003cbr\u003e He carries the remains of his victims to the surface two at a time, one under each arm, and throws them into the pit, drop­ping them down without ceremony before descending for another load. After Agatha, he killed the rest as they slept. No one woke. The priest worked quietly, quickly, with sure, steady hands, and the only noise was the whisper of cloth tearing as the blade sank home into the hearts of all forty-six, until his was the only heart left beating. \u003cbr\u003e At dawn it begins to snow. He stands outside for a moment and lifts his face to a sky that is blank and gray. Snow settles on his pale cheeks. His last winter for a very long time: At the equinox, the pod will descend to return him to the mothership, where he’ll wait out the final cleansing of the human infestation by the ones they have trained for the task. Once on board the vessel, from the serenity of the void, he will watch as they launch the bombs that will obliterate every city on Earth, wiping clean the vestiges of human civilization. The apocalypse dreamed of by humankind since the dawn of its consciousness will finally be delivered—not by an angry god, but indifferently, as cold as the little priest when he plunged the knife into his victims’ hearts. \u003cbr\u003e The snow melts on his upturned face. Four months until win­ter’s end. One hundred and twenty days until the bombs fall, then the unleashing of the 5th Wave, the human pawns they have con­ditioned to kill their own kind. Until then, the priest will remain to slaughter any survivors who wander into his territory. \u003cbr\u003e Almost over. Almost there. \u003cbr\u003e The little priest descends into the Palace of the Gods and breaks his fast.","brand":"Speak","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":48233696067813,"sku":"NP9780142425879","price":13.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780142425879.jpg?v=1767740163","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/the-last-star-isbn-9780142425879","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}