The 5th Wave (Fifth Wave Series #1) by Rick Yancey, Paperback. ALIENS ARE STUPID. I’m not talking about real aliens.
![The 5th Wave Rotten Tomatoes The 5th Wave Rotten Tomatoes](https://d2rd7etdn93tqb.cloudfront.net/wp-content/uploads/2016/01/the-5th-wave-poster-1024x646.jpg)
Super intense apocalyptic alien-invasion nail-biter. Read Common Sense Media's The 5th Wave, Book 1 review, age rating, and parents guide. Rent The 5th Wave (2016) and other Movies & TV Shows on Blu-ray & DVD. The 5th Wave - Kindle edition by Rick Yancey. Download it once and read it on your Kindle device, PC, phones or tablets. Use features like bookmarks, note taking and.
The Others aren’t stupid. The Others are so far ahead of us, it’s like comparing the dumbest human to the smartest dog. No contest. No, I’m talking about the aliens inside our own heads. The ones we made up, the ones we’ve been making up since we realized those glittering lights in the sky were suns like ours and probably had planets like ours spinning around them. You know, the aliens we imagine, the kind of aliens we’d like to attack us, human aliens.
You’ve seen them a million times. They swoop down from the sky in their flying saucers to level New York and Tokyo and London, or they march across the countryside in huge machines that look like mechanical spiders, ray guns blasting away, and always, always, humanity sets aside its differences and bands together to defeat the alien horde. David slays Goliath, and everybody (except Goliath) goes home happy. What crap. It’s like a cockroach working up a plan to defeat the shoe on its way down to crush it. There’s no way to know for sure, but I bet the Others knew about the human aliens we’d imagined. And I bet they thought it was funny as hell. They must have laughed their asses off.
If they have a sense of humor . They must have laughed the way we laugh when a dog does something totally cute and dorky. Oh, those cute, dorky humans! They think we think like they do! Isn’t that adorable?
![The 5th Wave Review The 5th Wave Review](http://images.popmatters.com/misc_art/5/5th-wave-650.jpg)
Forget about flying saucers and little green men and giant mechanical spiders spitting out death rays. Forget about epic battles with tanks and fighter jets and the final victory of us scrappy, unbroken, intrepid humans over the bug- eyed swarm. That’s about as far from the truth as their dying planet was from our living one. The truth is, once they found us, we were toast.
![The 5th Wave Full Movie Free The 5th Wave Full Movie Free](http://www.the-numbers.com/images/movies/5th-Wave-The-3-News.jpg)
The 5th Wave Rick Yancey
Although it's based on Rick Yancey's young adult novels (two so far, and counting), The 5th Wave feels more as if it were cobbled together from a host of other. Watch The 5th Wave instantly on VUDU. Based on the best selling novel "The 5th Wave", four waves of increasingly deadly attacks have left most of Earth decimated. Taken on its own, "The 5th Wave" is an effectively decent post-apocalyptic, young-adult, world-in-the-balance survival thriller. The 5th Wave is a 2016 American science fiction action film directed by J Blakeson, with a screenplay by Susannah Grant, Akiva Goldsman, and Jeff Pinkner.
SOMETIMES I THINK I might be the last human on Earth. Which means I’m the last human in the universe. I know that’s dumb.
They can’t have killed everyone . I see how it could happen, though, eventually. And then I think that’s exactly what the Others want me to see. Remember the dinosaurs?
Well. So I’m probably not the last human on Earth, but I’m one of the last. Totally alone—and likely to stay that way—until the 4th Wave rolls over me and carries me down. That’s one of my night thoughts.
You know, the three- in- the- morning, oh- my- God- I’m- screwed thoughts. When I curl into a little ball, so scared I can’t close my eyes, drowning in fear so intense I have to remind myself to breathe, will my heart to keep beating.
When my brain checks out and begins to skip like a scratched CD. Alone, alone, alone, Cassie, you’re alone. That’s my name. Cassie. Not Cassie for Cassandra. Or Cassie for Cassidy. Cassie for Cassiopeia, the constellation, the queen tied to her chair in the northern sky, who was beautiful but vain, placed in the heavens by the sea god Poseidon as a punishment for her boasting.
In Greek, her name means “she whose words excel.”My parents didn’t know the first thing about that myth. They just thought the name was pretty. Even when there were people around to call me anything, no one ever called me Cassiopeia.
Just my father, and only when he was teasing me, and always in a very bad Italian accent: Cass- ee- oh- PEE- a. I didn’t think he was funny or cute, and it made me hate my own name. On a crisp, clear fall evening, he set it up in the backyard and showed me the constellation.“See how it looks like a W?” he asked.“Why did they name it Cassiopeia if it’s shaped like a W?” I replied. I don’t know that it’s for anything,” he answered with a smile. Mom always told him it was his best feature, so he trotted it out a lot, especially after he started going bald.
You know, to drag the other person’s eyes downward. Or wise?” He dropped his hand on my shoulder as I squinted through the lens at the five stars burning over fifty light- years from the spot on which we stood. I could feel my father’s breath against my cheek, warm and moist in the cool, dry autumn air. His breath so close, the stars of Cassiopeia so very far away. The stars seem a lot closer now. Closer than the three hundred trillion miles that separate us.
Close enough to touch, for me to touch them, for them to touch me. They’re as close to me as his breath had been. That sounds crazy. You can only call someone crazy if there’s someone else who’s normal.
If everything was good, then nothing would be good. Whoa. Not the me I am now, shivering in a tent deep in the woods, too afraid to even poke her head from the sleeping bag.
No, I’m talking about the Cassie I was before the Arrival, before the Others parked their alien butts in high orbit. The twelve- year- old me, whose biggest problems were the spray of tiny freckles on her nose and the curly hair she couldn’t do anything with and the cute boy who saw her every day and had no clue she existed. The Cassie who was coming to terms with the painful fact that she was just okay. Okay at sports like karate and soccer. Basically the only unique things about her were the weird name—Cassie for Cassiopeia, which nobody knew about, anyway—and her ability to touch her nose with the tip of her tongue, a skill that quickly lost its impressiveness by the time she hit middle school.
I’m probably crazy by that Cassie’s standards. And she sure is crazy by mine. I scream at her sometimes, that twelve- year- old Cassie, moping over her hair or her weird name or at being just okay. The fact is she didn’t know, had no way of knowing, and that was her blessing and why I miss her so much, more than anyone, if I’m being honest. 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. The Cassie who kills. HE COULDN’T HAVE BEEN much older than me. But hell, he could have been seven hundred and nineteen for all I know.
Five months into it and I’m still not sure if the 4th Wave is human or some kind of hybrid or even the Others themselves, though I don’t like to think that the Others look just like us and talk just like us and bleed just like us. I like to think of the Others as being . There’s a stream not far from my campsite, but I’m worried it might be contaminated, either from chemicals or sewage or maybe a body or two upstream.
Depriving us of clean water would be an excellent way to wipe us out quickly. So once a week I shoulder my trusty M1. Two miles south, just off Exit 1. I load up as much bottled water as I can carry, which isn’t a lot because water is heavy, and get back to the highway and the relative safety of the trees as quickly as I can, before night falls completely.
Dusk is the best time to travel. I’ve never seen a drone at dusk. Three or four during the day and a lot more at night, but never at dusk. From the moment I slipped through the gas station’s shattered front door, I knew something was different. I didn’t see anything different—the store looked exactly like it had a week earlier, the same graffiti- scrawled walls, overturned shelves, floor strewn with empty boxes and caked- in rat feces, the busted- open cash registers and looted beer coolers. It was the same disgusting, stinking mess I’d waded through every week for the past month to get to the storage area behind the refrigerated display cases. Why people grabbed the beer and soda, the cash from the registers and safe, the rolls of lottery tickets, but left the two pallets of drinking water was beyond me.
What were they thinking? It’s an alien apocalypse!
Quick, grab the beer! The same disaster of spoilage, the same stench of rats and rotted food, the same fitful swirl of dust in the murky light pushing through the smudged windows, every out- of- place thing in its place, undisturbed. Still. Something was different. I was standing in the little pool of broken glass just inside the doorway.
I didn’t smell or feel it. But I knew it. Something was different. It’s been a long time since humans were prey animals. A hundred thousand years or so. But buried deep in our genes the memory remains: the awareness of the gazelle, the instinct of the antelope.
The wind whispers through the grass. A shadow flits between the trees. And up speaks the little voice that goes, Shhhh, it’s close now. Close. I don’t remember swinging the M1.
One minute it was hanging behind my back, the next it was in my hands, muzzle down, safety off. Close. I’d never fired it at anything bigger than a rabbit, and that was a kind of experiment, to see if I could actually use the thing without blowing off one of my own body parts. Once I shot over the heads of a pack of feral dogs that had gotten a little too interested in my campsite. Another time nearly straight up, sighting the tiny, glowering speck of greenish light that was their mothership sliding silently across the backdrop of the Milky Way. Okay, I admit that was stupid. I might as well have erected a billboard with a big arrow pointing at my head and the words yoo- hoo, here i am!
After the rabbit experiment—it blew that poor damn bunny apart, turning Peter into this unrecognizable mass of shredded guts and bone—I gave up the idea of using the rifle to hunt. I didn’t even do target practice.
In the silence that had slammed down after the 4th Wave struck, the report of the rounds sounded louder than an atomic blast. Still, I considered the M1. Always by my side, even at night, burrowed into my sleeping bag with me, faithful and true. In the 4th Wave, you can’t trust that people are still people. But you can trust that your gun is still your gun. Shhh, Cassie. It’s close. Close. I should have bailed.
That little voice had my back. That little voice is older than I am. It’s older than the oldest person who ever lived.
I should have listened to that voice. Instead, I listened to the silence of the abandoned store, listened hard. I took a tiny step away from the door, and the broken glass crunched ever so softly under my foot.
And then the Something made a noise, somewhere between a cough and a moan.