The Last Star (Fifth Wave Series #3)

The Last Star (Fifth Wave Series #3)

3.9 43
by Rick Yancey

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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


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
“A haunting, unforgettable finale.”—Kirkus Reviews
“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
“Yancey has capped off his riveting series with a perfect ending.”—
“[T]he ending provides both satisfaction and heartbreak.”—Publishers Weekly
“Yancey's writing is just as solid and descriptive as in the first two books….What Yancey does beautifully is reveal the human condition.”—

"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 Chloë Grace Moretz

"Remarkable, not-to-be-missed-under-any-circumstances."—Entertainment Weekly

"A modern sci-fi masterpiece . . ."—
"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.”—
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)

Editorial Reviews

Publishers Weekly
Six weeks have passed since readers left Cassie, Ben, and their skeletal crew clinging to life at the end of The Infinite Sea, limping toward a final confrontation with the Others, inscrutable aliens who have engineered the near-extinction of the human race. Seven billion are dead. Those still alive cannot let down their guard. Silencers roam the countryside picking off survivors. This final installment of Yancey's 5th Wave trilogy 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. Current events make it harder to read this dystopian epic as escapist literature when some plot elements—like the Others' use of suicide bombers not old enough to know what they're doing—are far from implausible. After hundreds of pages of violent, nonstop action, the ending provides both satisfaction and heartbreak. Ben perhaps gets to the heart of Yancey's theme when he says the only way to win against an irrational foe is to hold onto his humanity. "You're never perfectly safe," he says. "To live is to risk your life, your heart, everything." Ages 14–up. Agent: Brian DeFiore, DeFiore and Co. (May)
From the Publisher
Praise for The 5th Wave
An Amazon Best Book of the Year
A New York Times bestseller
USA Today bestseller
“Just read it.”—Entertainment Weekly
“A modern sci-fi masterpiece.”—USA Today
“Wildly entertaining . . . I couldn’t turn the pages fast enough.”—Justin Cronin,The New York Times Book Review
 “Nothing short of amazing.”—Kirkus Reviews (starred review)
“Gripping!”—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“Everyone I trust is telling me to read this book.”—The Atlantic Wire
Praise for The Infinite Sea
A New York Times bestseller
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.”—

School Library Journal
Gr 9 Up—The Others arrived with one goal in mind—complete annihilation of the human race. The first wave cut the power, the second brought natural disasters, the third heralded the plague, the fourth saw the Others walk among us, but the fifth will be the worst. Without trust, it is every human for themselves. Forced by Vosch to undergo the 12th system, Ringer is enhanced with alien technology that makes her a deadly killer. Vosch has given her one mission—bring him Evan Walker. With Evan captured, Ringer offers Cassie what she wants most—a chance to infiltrate Vosch's headquarters to save Evan as long as Vosch is Ringer's to kill. Added to this pressure is the fact that they have just four days before the mothership will begin dropping bombs on all of the world's major cities. This is the most mature of the volumes of Yancey's "Fifth Wave" trilogy, as strong language frequently appears and violence reaches its peak. Astute fans will appreciate the author's attempt to make everything come full circle back to Cassie's initial fear that she is the last human. While satisfying, the ending will leave readers either loving or hating it, so prepare to hear passionate debates from teens. VERDICT While some questions remain unanswered, there are too many fans of the series even to consider passing over the final installment for purchase.—Lindsey Tomsu, La Vista Public Library, NE
Kirkus Reviews
Cassie, Ringer, Ben (aka Zombie), and company fight the final frontier to save the last vestiges of human life on Earth. On the heels of their mind-boggling discovery of the origin of the "others"—humans who they were tricked into thinking were aliens—Yancey's cast of child soldiers and assassins plots to stop the planet's takeover, led by the evil Vosch, who's responsible for the mass murder of billions of innocent humans. The story takes place over the final four days before 5th Wave soldiers are unleashed to destroy every city in the world. Similar to the first two titles in the trilogy (The 5th Wave, 2013, and The Infinite Sea, 2014), this action-packed conclusion starts with a ghastly, ominous tableau then unfolds through the voices of its various heroines, heroes, and villains. Yancey piles on plenty of gross throughout, including a pit of freshly killed and rotting dead bodies that gets visited and revisited on multiple occasions as well as a very, very scary crazy cat lady that will have readers recoiling in horror and disgust—only Yancey could have imagined it. Religion also plays a fairly strong role this time around, as characters find themselves questioning their own personal beliefs as well as their trust and faith in each other, which is totally understandable give their state of affairs. Although the going gets murky from time to time, readers should be happy to know that by the end all is revealed, even if it's not necessarily the truth they want. A haunting, unforgettable finale. (Science fiction. 14 & up)

Product Details

Penguin Young Readers Group
Publication date:
Fifth Wave Series , #3
Sales rank:
Product dimensions:
6.30(w) x 9.10(h) x 1.40(d)
HL670L (what's this?)
Age Range:
14 - 17 Years

Read an Excerpt

This is my body.
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.
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 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.
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: 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 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. 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, 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: Per sacrosancta humanae reparationis mys­teria . . . 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: “Remem­ber 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 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.
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 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.
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 sub­stance; 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 confu­sion, 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 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.
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 cliché 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 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.
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.
“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 di­vided. 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 Califor­nia? 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. Anti­biotics. 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, 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.”
“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 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.”
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.
“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 gro­tesque. 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.”

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.
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 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.
Almost over. Almost there.
The little priest descends into the Palace of the Gods and breaks his fast.

Meet 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.

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The Last Star (Fifth Wave Series #3) 3.9 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 43 reviews.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
You know when your reading the end and you think you know, but your surprised. . .
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
I just finished, and this is an amazing book! I loved it! It was a fantasic book in the fifth wave series!
Anonymous 9 months ago
Good read
Anonymous 10 months ago
Good ending to a great series. I even got a little teary eyed at the end.
Anonymous 10 months ago
I love this series
Anonymous 11 months ago
I had to keep re reading the part because I couldn't believe it was true. I'm going to go cry now.
Anonymous 12 months ago
Great ending to the trilogy
Anonymous 12 months ago
I hate when an author kills an awesome series in the final book.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
horrible end to a good series. felt let down.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Excellent end to the series.
Anonymous 3 days ago
Not as good as the first two books. And the ending was just ok. Probly won't read any more from this author.
Anonymous 22 days ago
Anonymous 3 months ago
At the worst times this book was only confusing and mildly depressing, the rest of the book was awesomw
Anonymous 3 months ago
I loved each one of these books. The story is riveting and the characters are great.
KateUnger 4 months ago
The Last Star is the third and final book in The 5th Wave series. I loved the first book, I liked the second book, and I thought this book was a good conclusion. Although it was really confusing. The book alternates between many characters – some in first person, some in third person, and half the time I didn’t know what was going on. I knew it would be explained at the end, so I tried to just go with it. This book picks up 6 weeks after the end of book 2. Once again, I liked Yancey writing – short chapters, alternating voices, but the plot development could have been better. I did appreciate that this book focuses less on Cassie and more on Ben and Ringer because they’re my two favorite characters. It’s hard to say more without giving away the plot, but I was satisfied with the conclusion of this series. I really hope they continue making the movies.
SherryF 4 months ago
Finally…I will know the end of this awesome trilogy. Who will be the last one standing…alien…human…somewhere in between? The 5th Wave series is not the story I thought it would be…it far surpassed all my “high” expectations. I cried through the ending with a smile on my face for the happy and the sad. Life goes on.
Anonymous 5 months ago
It was a little good but I did not really like it.
Anonymous 6 months ago
Anonymous 7 months ago
toniFMAMTC 7 months ago
So I’m still trying to figure out what was real as far as the aliens and who was what. This is a decent ending to a good series. I liked it, but I’m still wondering about some things. I know it’s a good series because I’m thinking about what happened next for the characters. It didn’t end in my mind.
reececo331 7 months ago
The Last Star by Rick Yancey The Last Star is the final book in a trilogy of dystopian destruction of the world that started with the 5th wave. It in itself is a powerful book, but unfortunately one that needs to be read in the series and does not stand alone. In the Last Star we are after the events of alien invasion that has been debunked, the aliens have not set foot on earth. The aliens may not be in the ship that has hovered menacingly above the planet for the last year. The aliens have left a computer program in charge, it has decided that humanity is bent on its own self destruction. As a superior race made the ship to glide above the earth, and change the face of humanity, it will save humanity by its own destruction. Seven billion people have died in the first four waves, those remaining have been lethally hunted down and slaughtered by other humans programed by the computer to destroy other humans. The program has given direction, instruction and technological advances that have proved devastating in the 5th wave and the Infinite sea. The newest twist in the chess match between a superior alien species and mankind is to unfold in the Last Star. Can Cassie and her friends find the one thing the computer has not anticipated?
Anonymous 7 months ago
Anonymous 9 months ago
Anonymous 9 months ago
This is the final book in the trilogy, and I have to say I was a little disappointed. The story builds and builds and then rushes through everything at the end. There are a lot of point of view changes that sometimes it is hard to keep track of the story line and where everyone is at that time. I am definitely glad I read it, but was still left feeling unfinished.
KristyMcCaffrey 9 months ago
The end of this trilogy was both satisfying and frustrating. I loved the first two books--for Cassie in the first and Ringer in the second. I came to this last book eager to know how it would all end and to understand what exactly was going on with the alien invasion. The ending was bittersweet, but I won't divulge more because I don't want to spoil it for others. My frustration stems from the lack of clarity of exactly who the aliens are, why they're here, and why the idea was bandied about that they were never here at all. I'm afraid I was totally confused at the end on this point. And it's a rather big point, in my book. Still, it's an epic trilogy with compelling and interesting characters, and Yancey has a knack for writing in a distinctive voice. Kudos for that.