Wayward Pines- Genesis Collection

by Steven Konkoly

  They all looked up at one of the flat-screen monitors. A three-dimensional, full-color model of Wayward Pines’ dominant species spun slowly on a horizontal axis.

  “That’s your solution?” said Pope. “Jump into our time machine and hope for the best? We need to take a more proactive approach to the future of Wayward Pines. I say we implement the plan created by Operations.”

  “David, it doesn’t cost us anything to pack up and start again later. Pushing our luck in this overtly hostile world could cost us everything,” said Leven.

  Pilcher furrowed his brow, appearing painfully conflicted about the decision. After several moments, a thin grin washed over his face.

  “I learned something three days ago. Something I could never have gleaned from a textbook or a laboratory. It hit me while I fired a pistol into a seemingly unstoppable wall of abbies. For the first time ever, I felt a visceral connection to the survival of Wayward Pines. All of the spreadsheets, data sets and projection models vanished; replaced by the raw excitement of defending this vision—one bullet at a time. That same energy radiated from the entire group, feeding itself and growing more powerful. It is for that reason alone that I must disagree with your proposal. For Wayward Pines to truly succeed, we have to cultivate a genuine feeling of investment. Of sacrifice.”

  Pope fought to keep his mouth under control. He had so many things to say, none of which would endear him to either man. Gloating over Francis Leven would only serve to undermine Pope’s authority in the future. Leven looked like a petty man, accustomed to manipulating lives through script commands and computer viruses. He didn’t need to make enemies with the guy running the day-to-day workings of the superstructure. As a matter of fact, from this point forward he’d strive hard to avoid rubbing anyone the wrong way. That’s where Pam went wrong on a daily basis. She unapologetically pissed everyone off, and they hated her.

  Then there was Pilcher’s bullshit speech about feeling personally vested. He’d conveniently forgotten to mention the fact that a hand-selected group of Alan’s security team, including Pope, stood by to evacuate him if the abbies broke through. Maybe Pilcher experienced an existential moment out there. Who gives a shit? As long as they weren’t going back into suspension, Pope didn’t care what reason the big man claimed was the catalyst.

  “The option remains if you change your mind. You have my unwavering commitment to Operations’ plan,” said Leven.

  “Thank you, Francis. I guess we should review your projections for Operation Drum Solo.”

  “I like the name. Very appropriate,” said Pope, drawing an impatient look from Leven.

  “Before we dig into my data, we need to evaluate the least quantifiable—yet most critical aspect of the operation.”

  “Hassler,” said Pope.

  “Hassler,” repeated Leven, turning to Pilcher. “Can he pull this off?”

  “His dossier, reinforced by his recent performance in the forest, suggests he’s the most qualified person on our team to undertake the mission,” said Pilcher.

  “What about Marcus or one of the squad leaders assigned to the boundary team? Murray Wagner is former Special Air Service, right?”

  “I want to keep the boundary teams intact,” stated Pilcher. “Hassler is perfect for the job.”

  “I suggest picking someone else. Someone who won’t fuck us over and make a run for it,” said Pope.

  “And who might you suggest,” said Pilcher.

  “Pam’s a survivor.”

  “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

  “Had to try,” said Pope.

  “Mr. Pope brings up a good point. Hassler’s loyalty to Wayward Pines may be lacking,” said Leven.

  “That’s exactly why he’s perfect,” said Pilcher. “Loyalty to a concept or idea ebbs and flows with the tides of circumstance. Hassler started with zero loyalty to the idea of Wayward Pines, so he has no reason to betray it. He did, however, sacrifice everything for the chance of spending the rest of his life with Theresa Burke. And I’m willing to stake the entire future of Wayward Pines on his loyalty to that idea.”

  Chapter 31

  Hassler was met at the entrance to Operations by one of Alan’s permanent security officers, a stick-thin, middle-aged man called Leo. Featuring pale skin, brown eyes and dark, shoulder-length hair, he looked like he might be more comfortable serving up a decaf caramel iced latte than guarding the door to the superstructure’s nerve center. There had to be more to this fellow than met the eye.

  “Mr. Hassler,” the man said, holding the door open for him.

  “Leo,” he responded, studying the man for a second before taking a guess. “Martial arts expert?”

  The man smiled and closed the door behind him. “Edged weapons, particularly anything that you can throw. Axes, tomahawks, throwing knives, screwdrivers. Been playing with stuff like that since middle school.”

  “Sounds a little more serious than playing,” said Hassler.

  Leo’s smile waned. “Got me in a little bit of trouble later in life.”

  “Got you the winning lottery ticket, if you consider this a prize,” said Hassler, looking around the hallway.

  “One hell of a ride either way. They’re waiting for you in the main briefing room,” he said, folding his arms.

  “Who do I have the honor of entertaining tonight?”

  “All of them,” said Leo.

  Hassler nodded and walked toward the closed door, pausing before opening it. Something told him not to open it. Shit. If he listened to that voice every time he heard it, he’d never leave his dormitory room. He twisted the lever and pushed the door open, surprised to see that Leo hadn’t been kidding. Everyone important was here, which told him everything he needed to know about what was about to happen.

  “Adam, sorry about the short notice. Please take a seat,” said Pilcher, motioning for him to sit in the only available seat at the table, near the door.

  He strolled cautiously to the faux leather executive chair, painfully aware that all eyes followed him. Even the mysterious Francis Leven was in attendance, which tipped Pilcher’s hand.

  “I’m not going back out there,” said Hassler. “If that’s what this is all about, you can dispense with the sales pitch. I’m late for my date with Mr. Walker.”

  “Mr. Walker?” said Pam, turning to Pilcher. “We don’t have a Walker, right?”

  “Johnny Walker Blue. Not something you drink on the streets,” he said, eliciting a few stifled laughs from the table.

  Pam stiffened. He wondered how many of them knew her real backstory, that a runaway turned prostitute single-handedly ran Pilcher’s behind-the-scenes show. Probably none of them.

  “Be civil, Adam, and please take a seat,” said Pilcher, displaying an unusually authoritative tone. “I’m not going to bullshit you. We need you to go outside of the superstructure.”

  “Not going to happen,” said Hassler, standing behind the chair.

  “The survival of Wayward Pines depends on this mission. The reason you took this leap of faith in the first place depends on it. We can’t rebuild the town if we don’t lure the abbies out of the valley.”

  “Bait? Uhhh…I appreciate the transparency, but maybe we should restart the meeting. I’ll step outside for a few minutes while you come up with a better way to convince me to hang my ass out for the abbies.”

  “We’re using explosives to lure them out of the valley. Not your hindquarters,” said Pilcher. “Please take a seat.”

  Hassler reluctantly settled into the chair, curious to hear the rest. He still had no intention of leaving the superstructure, regardless of what Pilcher threatened.

  “May I continue?” said Pilcher.

  “Be my guest.”

  “We need to lure the bulk of the abbies far enough away from the valley to construct the containment fence,” said Pilcher.

  “I thought you started construction on the fence already,” said Hassler.

  “We built a smaller perimeter a
round the hatch so we could construct a ramp sturdy enough to move our heavy machinery out of the superstructure.”

  “It took you four days to do that? Jesus. We’ll never see Wayward Pines,” said Hassler.

  “If we can lure the abbies outside of their acoustic detection range, we can finish the containment fence within two weeks. We’ve created reinforced steel enclosures for the heavy machinery cabins to protect the operators against random, unpreventable attacks. Plus, we’ll have enough firepower on scene to handle moderately sized groups if they surface. Mr. Black’s crew will erect the fence as the forest is cleared.”

  “How do I fit into this?” said Hassler.

  “We need you to plant the explosives in a specific pattern leading out of the valley,” said Pilcher, pointing at the large flat-screen monitor behind him. “First a test string to determine their acoustical capabilities, then a medium-range series to effectively lure them away from Wayward Pines. They can’t seem to resist explosions. Finally, you’ll plant a containment series that we’ll use to keep them out of the valley until the fence is finished.”

  Hassler stared at the schematic for a moment.

  “Two thirty-mile hiking trips through abbie-infested territory? Let’s reconvene this meeting tomorrow when everyone is thinking straight. I’m not traversing sixty miles with water, food, radios, explosives, weapons, ammunition—and God knows what else you want me to carry.”

  “Seventeen miles total, with minimal abbie contact. No more than fifty pounds of explosives on your back at any time, that weight decreasing every mile,” said Leven.

  Hassler sat down. “Now you have my attention, because your math doesn’t work—and I know you’re Pilcher’s top number cruncher. What am I missing?”

  “You’ll use a hang glider to reach a predetermined position ten miles from the proposed fence line. The glider is designed for tandem carry, up to four hundred pounds, but you’ll be travelling alone. We’ve fashioned a sling system to carry everything you’ll need to execute the mission. The landing site will serve as your resupply point. When you’ve placed all of the explosives, we’ll deploy an ultralight to retrieve you from one of several possible landing zones within a five-mile radius,” said Pilcher.

  “I haven’t flown a hang glider in over four years. Even then it was more of a midlife thrill-seeker thing than a serious pursuit.”

  “You’re the only person we have that has ever piloted one,” said Pilcher.

  “Who’s flying the ultralight?”

  “One of our helicopter pilots.”

  “Why don’t you wait and use the helicopter? You could lure the abbies out like the pied piper.”

  “We’re three to four weeks away from a test flight. Wayward Pines doesn’t have that kind of time.”

  “We have nothing but time,” protested Hassler.

  “We can’t risk the possibility of another herd entering the valley. The previous herd left significant pockets of creatures everywhere. The fence around the ramp is under constant attack by groups as large as ten, and that’s after we initiated a small war outside of the hatch. Then there’s the timeline. If construction of the town doesn’t begin within the month, we’ll never enclose the structures in time for the heavy snow. We may as well not start.”

  “Nobody in suspension will notice the delay,” said Hassler.

  “But I will, and if Wayward Pines fails, nobody in suspension will ever see the light of day again!” sputtered Pilcher.

  Hassler received the message loud and clear. He’d never see Theresa Burke again if he didn’t do Pilcher’s bidding. He also confirmed the thinly veiled, underlying theme surrounding his presence in Wayward Pines. Expendable. He desperately wanted to believe that Pilcher intended to honor their agreement, but two separate experiences suggested otherwise. He’d accept the mission, fully accepting the fact that Pilcher would screw him over.

  “Let’s go over the details,” he said, fully intent on building a small insurance policy into the plan.

  Chapter 32

  The armory door thunked, drawing Hassler’s attention away from the pile of gear assembled on the linoleum floor. Access to the weapons was strictly controlled, requiring one of five known keycards for entry. He held one of the cards. Nobody he fully trusted held the others. His right hand drifted to the concealed holster hidden in the small of his back, a precaution Pilcher insisted upon for anyone given an access card to the armory. Trust was scarce in the superstructure.

  Easing the pistol out of the holster, he waited for the door to open. A few seconds later, Pilcher’s shiny, bald head poked through the opening.

  “Just me. Sorry, I should have called,” he said, stepping into the bright light.

  Hassler stood up, nestling the compact pistol into the leather holster. Pilcher’s eyes caught the movement, eliciting a grin.

  “Glad to see you’re taking my suggestions about security seriously,” said Pilcher. “One can never be too cautious in a closed system like this.”

  “On that note, you should probably shut the door,” commented Hassler.

  “Actually, I was hoping to drag you upstairs for dinner.”

  “I grabbed some food during the first seating. Wanted to finish packing early so I could study the maps and recheck the glider rig.”

  “I mean a real dinner. Filet mignon drizzled with herbed butter. Fingerling potatoes and asparagus.”

  “You put cows into suspension?” said Hassler, raising an eyebrow.

  “No, but we did manage to preserve some specialty items,” said Pilcher.

  “For eighteen hundred years?”

  “It’s not the same as a fresh cut, but I guarantee you won’t complain. Shall we?”

  “Is this my last supper?” said Hassler.

  Pilcher laughed. “I knew you’d draw the comparison. Let’s hope not.”

  Hassler followed him into the hallway, stopping at a featureless door halfway down the long corridor Pilcher inserted his keycard, and the door slid to the right, exposing a closet-sized, stainless steel room. The elevator travelled smoothly for several seconds before opening to a world Hassler never expected to see again. Modernistic yet comfortable by design, the warmly lit interior carried the scents of cooked garlic and steak.

  “Welcome to my residence,” said Pilcher, nodding at a man dressed in chef whites.

  Fully emerging from the hallway behind a richly appointed, Shaker-style dining room table, the impeccably dressed, plump man carried a covered silver tray in their direction.

  “Can I pour you a Scotch?” said Pilcher, motioning toward a wet bar behind them.

  “I shouldn’t drink and fly,” said Hassler, eyeing the inbound silver tray.

  “Nonsense. You’re not scheduled to leave until zero-one-hundred. Five hours. Your usual?”

  “Sure,” he said, focused on the silver dome hovering just out of reach. “Thank you.”

  “Chef Tim likes to surprise me during cocktail hour. He’s really outdone himself with the limited resources on hand.”

  I bet. One slip up here might get you assigned to guard duty outside of the hatch.

  “Thank you, Mr. Pilcher. Always a pleasure. Tonight, we have delicately toasted crostini with roasted tomato and goat cheese spread,” he said, lifting the cover.

  Waiting impatiently while Pilcher tipped a generous pour of amber liquid from a crystal decanter into each tumbler, Hassler strained to keep his hand from snatching one of the appetizers off the tray. Either purposely ignoring the situation or sinfully oblivious to the quality of food served in the cafeteria, Pilcher rambled about the superstructure’s extensive liquor stores while Hassler’s mouth watered. With tumblers in hand, and Hassler’s eyes fixated on the food, Pilcher finally offered a toast.

  “To Wayward Pines.”

  “Hear, hear,” he responded as Pilcher’s stubby fingers grabbed a piece of toast.

  “You have to try one of these. Fresh bread baked from the wheat stores,” he said.

  Hassl
er obliged, somehow remaining composed while alternating between crostini bites and sips of Scotch. Johnny Walker Blue. Pilcher had rolled out the red carpet for him tonight.

  “Why don’t we take a seat and let this digest before the main course,” said Pilcher. “Tim, you can set the tray down on the coffee table. Will ten minutes give you enough time to put the final touches on dinner?”

  “Ten minutes gives me ample time, sir,” he said, gracefully depositing the platter on a glass table in front of two coffee-colored leather club chairs.

  Seated comfortably in the chair, the novelty of fresh bread and freeze-dried goat cheese started to fade, replaced by Johnny Walker Blue’s cynical edge. He took in his surroundings with this new pair of lenses, imperceptibly shaking his head at the steaming pile of stark hypocrisy Pilcher had served everyone who followed him on this journey. Even Pam ate the dog shit served in the cafeteria. He shouldn’t have been the least bit surprised to find Pilcher living in opulence. This is how it always played out. The script never changed.

  “So, what do you think of this, Adam?” said Pilcher.

  “It looks a little different than my quarters,” he replied, taking a healthy sip of his drink.

  “Not the residence.” Pilcher chuckled. “The whole thing. You were more or less thrust into this world. You’re perspective is different than the rest of my people.”

  Hassler contemplated Pilcher’s use of the words “my people.” The whole dinner setup was creepy. He should have known better than to accept the invitation. He needed this like a hole in the head before tonight’s glider flight.

  “I wake up every morning wondering if any of this is real,” said Hassler. “Then I remember what I saw in the forest. What I felt. And I know it’s real enough. I think we should all take another two-thousand-year nap and see what nature has to say about mankind.”

  “You’re not the first person to suggest this. Francis Leven made a strong case for reentering suspension. Francis came to me as soon as he examined the initial DNA tests. He predicts failure under the current conditions, or at least that’s what his computers say. Numbers aren’t everything,” said Pilcher, draining half of his glass. “You can’t program the human spirit into a computer simulation.”