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The highly-anticipated finale to the New York Times bestselling 5th Wave series
The 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.
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.
In these last days, Earth’s remaining survivors will need to decide what’s more important: saving themselves�.�.�. or saving what makes us human.
Praise for The Last Star
“Yancey’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.”—Booklist, starred review
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“A haunting, unforgettable finale.”—Kirkus Reviews
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“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.”—Entertainment Weekly
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“Yancey has capped off his riveting series with a perfect ending.”—TeenReads.com
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“[T]he ending provides both satisfaction and heartbreak.”—Publishers Weekly
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“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
"Rick Yancey sticks the (alien) landing in the action-packed�finale to his�The 5th Wave�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
Praise for�The 5th Wave
Now a major motion picture starring Chlo� Grace Moretz
"Remarkable, not-to-be-missed-under-any-circumstances."—Entertainment Weekly
"A modern sci-fi masterpiece . . ."—USAToday.com
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"Wildly entertaining . . . I couldn't turn the pages fast enough."—Justin Cronin,�The New York Times Book Review
Praise for�The Infinite Sea�
“Heart-pounding pacing, lyrical prose and mind-bending twists . . .”—The New York Times Book Review
“Impressively improves on the excellent beginning of the trilogy.”—USA Today
“An epic sci-fi novel with all the romance, action, and suspense you could ever want.”—Seventeen.com
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Books in the series:
The 5th Wave�(The First Book of The 5th Wave)
The Infinite Sea�(The Second Book of The 5th Wave)
The Last Star�(The Third Book of the The 5th Wave)
- Sales Rank: #772 in Books
- Brand: G.P. Putnam's Sons
- Published on: 2016-05-24
- Released on: 2016-05-24
- Original language: English
- Number of items: 1
- Dimensions: 9.28" h x 1.20" w x 6.38" l, 1.00 pounds
- Binding: Hardcover
- 352 pages
Features
- The Last Star: The Final Book of The 5th Wave
Review
Praise for The 5th Wave
An Amazon Best Book of the Year
A New York Times bestseller
A�USA Today�bestseller
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“Just read it.”—Entertainment Weekly
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“A modern sci-fi masterpiece.”—USA Today
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“Wildly entertaining�.�.�. I couldn’t turn the pages fast enough.”—Justin Cronin,The New York Times Book Review
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�“Nothing short of amazing.”—Kirkus Reviews�(starred review)
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“Gripping!”—Publishers Weekly�(starred review)
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“Everyone I trust is telling me to read this book.”—The Atlantic Wire
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Praise for The Infinite Sea
A New York Times bestseller
A�USA Today�bestseller
�
“Heart-pounding pacing, lyrical prose and mind-bending twists . . .”—The New York Times Book Review
“Impressively improves on the excellent beginning of the trilogy.”—USA Today
“An epic sci-fi novel with all the romance, action, and suspense you could ever want.”—Seventeen.com
About the Author
Rick Yancey is the author of �the New York Times bestsellers�The 5th Wave and The Infinite Sea, the first two books in this series. His debut young-adult novel, The Extraordinary Adventures of Alfred Kropp, was a finalist for the Carnegie Medal. In 2010, his novel The Monstrumologist received the Michael L. Printz Honor, and the sequel, The Curse of the Wendigo, was a finalist for the Los Angeles Times 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.
Excerpt. � Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
1
This is my body.
In the cave’s lowermost chamber, the priest raises the last wa�fer—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.
The catastrophe of the divine sacrifice by his hands.
Take this, all of you, and eat of it . . .
Then the chalice containing the final drops of wine.
Take this, all of you, and drink from it . . .
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.
With faith in your love and mercy, I eat your body and drink your blood . . .
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.
Let it not bring me condemnation, but health in mind and body.
There is no more bread, no more wine. This is his final communion.
May the body of Christ bring me to everlasting life.
The stale fragment of bread that softens on his tongue.
May the blood of Christ bring me to everlasting life.
The drops of soured wine that burn his throat.
God in his mouth. God in his empty stomach.
The priest weeps.
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.
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.
He wipes clean the paten with the cloth, then stuffs the purifi�cator 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.
His collar is damp with sweat and tears and loose about his neck: He’s lost fifteen pounds since the plague struck and aban�doned 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 reach�ing safety. As their deaths approached, he spoke the rite, Catholic, Protestant, or Jew, it didn’t matter: May the Lord in his love and mercy help you . . . Tracing a cross on their hot foreheads with his thumb. May the Lord who frees you from sin save you . . .
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 Frank�lin 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. Not much farther, he encouraged his companions. Keep moving. Along 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!”
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.
Supplies had been gathered, water and nonperishables, blan�kets and bandages and medicines. And weapons, naturally, rifles and pistols and shotguns and many knives. The sick were quaran�tined 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: Per sacrosancta humanae reparationis mys�teria . . . By the sacred mysteries of man’s redemption . . .
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.
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.
The Mass is ended, go in peace.
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. We began as cave dwellers, the priest thinks as he makes his way toward the surface, and to caves we have returned.
Even the longest journey is a circle, and history will always cycle back to the place where it began. From the missal: “Remem�ber you are dust and unto dust you shall return.”
And the priest rises like a diver kicking toward the dome of the sky sparkling above the water.
Along the narrow passageway that winds gently upward be�tween 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.
And the priest rising like a leviathan from the lightless deep.
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 refu�gees, 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 roll�ing 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.
Lord, bless these ashes by which we show that we are dust.
Snatches of prayer run through his mind. Fragments of song. Litanies and blessings and the words of absolution, May God give you pardon and peace, and I absolve you from your sins . . . And from the Bible: “I went down to the roots of the mountains; to the land whose bars closed behind me forever.”
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 sub�stance; the bread, not the body.
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 confu�sion, pain and loss, where he was born. Turn over the currency of suffering, the priest thinks, and you will see his face.
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.
The man nods a hello to the priest. “Where’s your coat, Father? It’s a cold one tonight.”
The priest smiles wanly. “I lent it to Agatha, I’m afraid.”
The man grunts his understanding. Agatha is the complainer of the group. Always cold.�Always hungry. Always something. He lifts the binoculars to his eyes and scans the sky.
“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 be�fore 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.
The man lowers the binoculars and rubs his eyes. “What’s the matter, Father? Can’t sleep?”
“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.
“No atheists in foxholes.” The clich� hangs in the air like a rancid smell.
“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 se�curely 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.
The man pulls a pack of gum from his breast pocket, carefully unwraps a piece, and folds it into his mouth. He counts the re�maining sticks before slipping the pack back into his pocket. He does not offer any to the priest.
“My last pack,” the man says in explanation. He shifts his weight on the cold stone.
“I understand,” the priest says.
“Do you?” The man’s jaw moves with a hypnotic rhythm as he chews. “Do you really?”
The dry bread, the soured wine: The taste lingers on his tongue. The bread could have been broken; the wine could have been di�vided. He did not have to celebrate the Mass alone. “I believe that I do,” the little priest answers.
“I don’t,” the man says slowly and deliberately. “I don’t believe in a goddamned thing.”
The priest blushes. His soft, embarrassed laughter is like the patter of children’s feet up a long staircase. He touches his collar nervously.
“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 Califor�nia? We’ll bounce back. We always bounce back. I believed that.”
The watchman is nodding, staring at the night sky, at the cold, blazing stars. Eyes high, voice low. “Then people got sick. Anti�biotics. Quarantines. Disinfectants. We put on masks and washed our hands until our skin peeled off. Most of us died anyway.”
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?
“My neighbors. My friends. My wife and kids. I knew that all of them wouldn’t die. How could all of 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.”
The man pulls a large hunting knife from his boot and begins to clean the dirt from beneath his nails with its tip.
“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.” Scrape, scrape. Scrape, scrape, scrape. He 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, Fa�ther. 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.”
“Yes,” the priest says. “Life will go on.”
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 can�dles 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.”
The little priest has raised his hands, the same hands that con�secrated the bread and wine, as if to show the man that they are empty, that he means no harm.
“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.’”
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.
“I’m going to be honest with you, Father,” he says matter-of-factly. “I feel like killing you right now.”
The priest nods somberly. “I’m afraid that may happen. When the truth hits home.”
He eases the knife from the man’s shaking hand. The priest touches the man’s shoulder.
The man flinches but doesn’t pull away. “What is the truth?” the man whispers.
“This,” the little priest answers, and drives the knife deep into the man’s chest.
The blade is very sharp—it slides through the man’s shirt easily, gliding between the ribs before sinking three inches into the heart.
The priest pulls the man to his chest and kisses the top of his head. May God give you pardon and peace.
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. The blood of the new and everlasting covenant . . .
The priest studies the dead man’s face, and his heart burns with rage and revulsion. The human face is hideous, unendurably gro�tesque. No need to hide his disgust anymore.
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.
This is�humanity, the priest thinks. This is its face.
“Father, is that you?” Her voice is barely audible, a mouse’s squeak, a rat’s high-pitched cry.
And this, humanity’s voice.
“Yes, Agatha. It’s me.”
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?”
“Yes, Agatha. I will sit with you.”
2
He carries the remains of his victims to the surface two at a time, one under each arm, and throws them into the pit, drop�ping 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.
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.
The snow melts on his upturned face. Four months until win�ter’s end. One hundred and twenty days until the bombs fall, then the unleashing of the 5th Wave, the human pawns they have con�ditioned to kill their own kind. Until then, the priest will remain to slaughter any survivors who wander into his territory.
Almost over. Almost there.
The little priest descends into the Palace of the Gods and breaks his fast.
Most helpful customer reviews
111 of 116 people found the following review helpful.
Oh no :(
By Iris Lindsay
I'm honestly wondering how anyone who is a true fan of this series gave this book a 5 star rating. I wrestled between a 1 and a 3, finally landing on the 2 for the following reasons: (Spoilers ahead...) Cassie has always been the main character despite the changing POV. I really think Yancey did a wonderful job with her character growth through the series and her ending. It was heartbreaking, but beautiful. I'm still upset she didn't realize Evan Walker's true love until it was too late to celebrate it fully with him, but I can tell Yancey wanted a more "real-life" ending for all of his characters instead of fairy tale love stories (which I think is a great idea). Also, the religious references and the complete loss of faith in the end of the world was realistically well-done.
With all of that said, why did I hate this book? The first 2 books (which became 2 of my favorite YA novels ever) built all fans up in a way that we were aching for the explanation of the invasion. Well...in this book we find out all the aliens are actually dead and technology is controlling the whole thing, but how? We still don't know how Vosch knows all that he knows and how he came to be. We don't know why the Others decided to kill the human race and what they planned to do with Earth after. And there was a point where Vosch was saying there were only a limited amount of escape pods and when Evan Walker asks why, Vosch says he will explain...but doesn't. At all. It's a total mess that left me with more questions than the speculations of the invasion I had from the first 2 books! I have to add: in the second book it was hinted that the 5 waves might not be from aliens, but from human government instead. It was never said outright, but it could have been a possibility. In the third book, it would have made way more sense when Vosch was semi-explaining to say that the government did it as a means for population control to save the Earth instead of aliens were doing it to save the Earth, but giving no more information after that.
I don't even want to mention how he butchered Ringer's character, but I have to. Her character is meant to be apathetic, but then we see interesting character growth in the second book when she insta-falls for Razor (which I hated but rolled with). It's worse in this book when she keeps thinking about Razor but saying she doesn't love and blah blah blah, but then we get hints her reason for being is Zombie/Ben Parish? What? Oh, and she's pregnant. The apathetic badass chick turns wishy-washy and pops out a daughter. I'M SO MAD. There was no gradual character growth. Ringer just became completely different and wrong for no reason.
Lastly, Yancey's writing style was choppy in this one. What was happening wasn't always fully explained. I also got serious whiplash from all the ridiculous POV changing, which made reading more confusing than it needed to be.
I expected so much more from this book. So much more. I know from friends and reading other reviews on here that I am not alone in my disappointment.
If you're a fan, read this last book to join in on this debate. If you haven't read the first two books, don't start because you will be devestated when you get to the last one.
9 of 10 people found the following review helpful.
Don't.
By Deborah
Just don't. Seriously, don't do it to yourself.
After reading this book I have no idea why Yancey even wrote this series. I have even less of an idea as to why I read it. The 5th Wave was okay. The Infinite Sea breathed life into a series crippled by its own overworked plot. But The Last Star obliterated any and all reason to suggest reading this series to anyone you feel a modicum of warmth towards. Spoilers to follow-- but are they really spoilers if the book isn't worth the paper it was printed on?
I knew from the first page I was going to hate this book. The first page. Maybe even the first line. Yancey knows what he's doing with the English language. Homie has serious writing skills. Unfortunately, he knows it and sometimes he likes to just run you into the ground with it. And unfortunately, those skills didn't come with an ability to facilitate a plot so we just meander through a wasteland of terrible plot and deteriorating characters for 300+ pages.
I won't get into the mess that was the plot because I can't even bring myself to care about how that house of cards collapsed in on itself. Seriously. House of cards in hurricane level winds with a writer who just threw his hands into the air and said, "Well, look at those prose! Look at how well I spin metaphor. Humanity. Humanity. Look, more philosophy about humanity being spewed by jaded teenagers."
The characters, though. That's where this story lost it all.
Zombie was the only character I could stand throughout this book. I love Zombie and even if the Ringer storyline is unforgivable, Ben Parish was still endearing enough to not turn this book into kindling before I finished it.
Evan Walker, who? I'm not kidding. The character is massacred (by other characters and the author) and I found myself skimming it because I just wanted to be done.
Cassie went from being slightly annoying to obnoxious on a level I didn't think attainable for a person who doesn't actually exist. But Yancey achieved it (Congrats, bro. Now write me another sentence about stars and love and humanity). He most likely turned Cassie into the absolute worst because he wanted you to hate her and not notice that he desperately wants us to like Ringer who- heads up- is our new hero and main character. Somewhere during The Infinite Sea Yancey decided that he liked Ringer better than Cassie and that "hey, I may have written an entire series around this character and the fact that she represents humanity, but look at Ringer and her skills and how complex she is now and she's beautiful and let me force her with Zombie down your throat some more."
I can not say this enough: Ringer and Zombie are an absolute non-starter for me. Absolute non-starter. Going into this book I liked Ringer. Her section in The Infinite Sea is, frankly, the only portion of this entire series worth the time it takes to read it. I was blown away by the way Yancey handled her relationship with Razor and that ending... God, that ending left me bleeding on the floor with Razor. I didn't hate that Ringer was pregnant (alien invasions leave little time to find condoms) and the way that she was still working through losing Razor was realistic enough. But if I had to read another line from her perspective about Ben's smile I was going to light the book on fire. But don't worry, Ben also decided to realize that he was totally into Ringer and oh look, the starlight in her hair, she's so beautiful and I'm completely cool with her being pregnant with another man's baby. Totally fine and this is a completely healthy thing for teenagers to read. Zombie and Ringer had a great friendship- truly great- and Yancey had to burn it to the ground because he decided to abandon Cassie and Evan's relationship.
Cassie and Evan's relationship was supposed to be the metaphoric crutch of this monstrosity. But it just fell by the wayside. Cassie is so belligerently jaded that she refuses to accept Evan's feelings as real and Evan is far too wounded emotionally to push the issue. They do the deed anyway because: APOCALYPSE and we're going to die anyway, amiright?
And Cassie doesn't realize that she loves Evan too until it's way too damn late and ugh, spare me...
Again, the entire point of this series was deconstructing what it means to be human. By destroying our compassion and taking us back to our most innate instinct of "destroy the enemy, ask questions later" the aliens would win. But that isn't what truly defines us as humans. Not violence and greed and being terrible to each other (which we're excellent at) but our love for one another. And the sacrifices we're willing to make for the people we love. If Yancey had ended the series with Razor's sacrifice then I'd probably feel a lot more forgiving of just about everything else. But no, he tainted that sacrifice with this word vomit.
The ending was the most predictable thing under the sun. My six-year-old niece could've conceived a more original ending.
The epilogue was physically painful to read. Physically painful. Really? Ben is playing house with Ringer and the baby loves him and I just can't... Razor hasn't even been dead a year. That's his child. And Ringer doesn't even think of him when another man is daddying her. No mention of the child looking like her father. Though apparently naming said baby Cassie is supposed to make me forget that this is utter bulls***.
Yancey desecrated the only good relationship he wrote with this epilogue and I will never forgive him for it.
2 of 2 people found the following review helpful.
Disappointed by ending, spoilers ahead..
By Sam
Usually I don't write reviews on anything, I generally just either enjoy novels or I don't.
It's exactly 4:08 am and I finished this book around 8 minutes ago, giving me the proper time to figure out what exactly just happened.(spoilers ahead)
What the actual heck just happened? It may be the lack of sleep that is making me confused but I think it's more of the fact barely any of my questions got answered. What was the alien invasion here for?? What did the aliens look like? Why is Ben A okay with Ringer just coming back and blindly trusting her?? So many questions concerning vosch and what the heck was even going on there. Couldn't Cassies death have answered more reader questions than just having her attempt to bomb the place?
One of my main gripes about this book is the lack of cassie/evan connections. The sex scene wasn't passionate and "evan"eseque like I imagined it would be. The best part of the book is Cassies realization that Evan has done so much for her while she tends to just worry about herself. The character development for Cassie was good, but in the end felt rushed.
I was so ridiculously tired of ringer action scenes and the added pregnancy was a nice twist though.
Felt like the book had a lot of plot holes, too little character relationship development, and not fairly answered.
Love the first two novels. Disappointed a bit by ending.. I don't feel much closure and extremely disappointed by Evans ending. He knew hoq much Cassie loved Sam and would have never left Sam unprotected, even if he was with zombie and Ringer.
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