Wayward Pines- Genesis Collection

by Steven Konkoly

  “Do you believe we’ll succeed?” said Hassler, slightly disturbed that Pilcher didn’t sound convinced.

  “I believe we have one hell of a fighting chance,” he said. “Nature threw us one hell of a curveball with the abbies. I calculated that we’d evolve into something warped and lethal. That we’d extinguish ourselves. I never thought we’d survive. Especially like this. I figured we might uncover a few hidden enclaves of DNA-corrupted brutes. That’s why I insisted that we bring military-grade weapons and hardware. Finding the abbies was a game changer, but not a game ender.”

  “Do you think they’re everywhere?” said Hassler.

  “It’s impossible to say until we conduct long reconnaissance missions. The helicopter has a one hundred and fifty mile round-trip range. Enough to get us to Boise and back with plenty of reserve fuel. A trip to Idaho Falls would be pushing it. The only way to go further is to stage fuel.”

  “Finding several hundred of these things this far in the wild is a bad sign. I can’t imagine you’d need to go any further than Boise,” said Hassler, taking the last crostini. “Do you mind?”

  “No, go right ahead. Tim can make more.”

  Of course he can.

  With a full mouth, Hassler continued. “And I’m not an animal biologist, but I’d be willing to bet my next paycheck that this is the dominant species out there.”

  Pilcher nodded. “Let’s hope so. I’d hate to imagine something more lethal than an abby.”

  “I’ll drink to that,” said Hassler, finishing his glass.

  “Can I get you a refresh?”

  “I’ll take a rain check. I need to be firing on all cylinders tonight,” said Hassler.

  “Indeed,” said Pilcher, tilting his head slightly and grimacing. “What do you want me to do about Theresa if you don’t return?”

  “You’re not getting rid of me that easy.”

  “Seriously, we both know this isn’t a walk in the park, or forest, so to speak. I promised not to bring Ethan out of suspension, but…” He let the words linger.

  Hassler hated hearing the name. The thought of Ethan sailing into the sunset with Theresa onboard the SS Wayward Pines turned his stomach. Not after what he put her through. Still, he had to face reality.

  “If I don’t come back, you should bring him out of suspension. Ben needs a father, and as much as I hate to say it, Theresa will need someone familiar—even if he is a cheating piece of shit. I might take another nip,” he said, tilting his glass.

  “I’m impressed, Adam. A lesser man would have condemned Mr. Burke to an eternal state of purgatory,” said Pilcher.

  “I figured my answer wasn’t relevant to your ultimate decision regarding his fate, so I took the high road,” he said, catching movement in his peripheral vision.

  “Chef Tim indicates that dinner is ready. Wait until you taste the filet! Impossible to tell that it’s nearly two thousand years old!” said Pilcher.

  I’m in crazy town.

  Chapter 33

  Hassler jogged toward the black abyss ahead of him. Buffeted by wind sweeping over the top of the mountain, he held the crossbar steady, leaning the glider’s nose down to keep from being yanked off the stone and dashed into the crags to the west. He knew the effort was wishful thinking. If the winds decided to sweep him off the mountain, there was little he could do about it. Launching was a hang glider’s most vulnerable moment, the danger compounded by the presence of moderate to heavy winds. He’d feel better once he was in the air, a thought that had never entered his mind prior to strapping into the glider rig.

  His legs swung under him, and the glider dropped precipitously. He felt the wings catch the air current, tugging him upward several feet before the glider steadied on a smooth course toward the middle of the valley. Risking a glance over his shoulder, the green chemlights marking the launch point rapidly shrank, disappearing completely as the glider descended below the cliff.

  Satisfied with the stability of the glider’s frame, Hassler tucked his legs into the pod-like bag behind him and pulled his weight along the crossbar to the right. The glider responded, turning him south. He glanced at the digital display in front of him, watching the magnetic course reading pass one hundred and eighty degrees—due south. His goal was southwest—another forty-five degrees. When the orange LED read two hundred and twenty, he shifted left along the bar, slowing the turn until he steadied on a course that should take him to the proposed landing point.

  He took a moment to relax and enjoy the glide; not an easy feat with near-freezing temperatures slicing through his rig. Operations informed him that he faced a wind chill index of twenty-two degrees at his proposed flight speed, so he had opted to add an additional layer of full-body thermals to his already bulky outfit. Now he wished he had selected a heavier layer. Fifteen minutes and he’d be on the ground. Then he got to sit in a cold tree all night while Pilcher sipped hot cocoa in front of a gas fireplace.

  Pushing aside these self-pitying thoughts, Hassler focused on the task at hand. The next fifteen minutes would be anything but an easy glide out of the valley. Without GPS, he’d have to rely on the “old school” method of navigation—calculating distance travelled using time and speed in flight. Tracking the microchip planted in his leg, Operations would plot his precise location within the valley, giving him course corrections until the signal faded. He’d be on his own after that, in a constant struggle to maintain the same speed and course against shifting winds, thermal layers and the natural tendency of hang gliders to drift.

  “Hassler, this is Operations. Radio check,” he heard through the helmet communications set.

  “This is Hassler, over.”

  “We’ll start your track in one minute. Recommend you establish and maintain airspeed. Looking good so far. Only a minor adjustment to course required.”

  “Copy. Settling in at thirty-five miles per hour,” he said, pushing his weight back from the control bar to bring the nose up gently.

  As the airspeed indicator approached thirty-five, he eased into the control bar.

  “Airspeed thirty-five. Altitude thirty-six hundred. Heading two-two-five,” said Hassler.

  “Perfect. That gives you a range of 10.3 miles. We hold you 9.1 from the target. Thirty seconds until final course correction.”

  “Copy,” said Hassler.

  He was relieved to learn that the glide ratio estimate hadn’t drastically changed. With an additional mile of horizontal travel predicted on his current glide path, he would arrive at the target with more than enough altitude to circle and find a suitable landing zone. A strong crosswind pitched the glider to the right, taking him several degrees off course. He immediately countered the move, bringing the nose around. The chances of landing precisely where Pilcher wanted him was next to zero without GPS.

  “This is Operations. Stand by to turn left and steady on two-one-eight magnetic. Stand by. Stand by. Execute.”

  Hassler adjusted the glider’s heading and transmitted his first data set. A few minutes later, Operations announced that he had exceeded their microchip tracking range, passing a new heading of two-one-seven. He had drifted one degree west in two minutes, with light crosswind interference. With eight miles to go, a one-degree drift could make a big difference in his final destination.

  “Ops, this is Hassler. Did your heading calculation take into account drift?”

  “Affirmative.”

  For the next ten minutes, he sent the glider’s instrument data to Operations in thirty-second intervals, fighting constantly to maintain his speed and heading. One mile from the landing zone, Operations adjusted his course again, pointing him a few degrees east. He made the adjustment and lowered his night vision goggles, taking in the scene below him. He had a problem. Hassler checked his altitude. Six hundred and eighty feet. He had a big problem.

  “Ops, this is Hassler. I can’t see the ground. I’m seeing fog or a low cloud layer.”

  He prayed for clouds. Even an insanely low cloud ceilin
g would give him several seconds to figure out a landing. Fog meant he would have to plow ahead blindly and hope for the best.

  “Copy. If visibility doesn’t improve by one hundred feet, we recommend you flare at tree-top level and nestle in between trees.”

  Nestle in? How about plummet fifty to sixty feet with a few hundred pounds of gear lashed above me? Fuck that.

  “I’m thinking about deploying my reserve parachute over the target. With the forward speed of the glider, the chute will engage. I should be roughly three hundred feet above the ground at that point,” said Hassler.

  “Stand by.”

  Of course. Run it by the head-shed. A few seconds later, Pilcher’s voice sounded in his ears.

  “Adam, the parachute is not attached to the glider, it’s attached to you.”

  “I’m well aware of that. I’ll bring my speed down prior to deployment. The harness will hold. It won’t be pretty, but it’s better than dropping through the trees at full speed,” said Hassler.

  “It’s your call. Watch yourself on the ground. This is bound to make a lot of noise,” said Pilcher.

  “I’ll try to remember that. Ops, I’m going to sign off and watch my altitude. I’ll reestablish comms when I’m secure on the ground.”

  “Copy. Operations standing by.”

  Hassler scanned the layer below him, looking for a break. Nothing. He drifted into the fog bank, a cold mist striking the exposed skin on his face. Within seconds, the crisp green image displayed by his night vision goggles blurred as the suspended droplets of moisture adhered to the outer lens. He took a hand off the control bar and wiped the dual lenses, barely improving his view. Flying in near green-out conditions, he reduced his speed to twenty-five miles per hour, a few notches above stall speed, and stared at the altimeter readings. The moment of truth rapidly approached.

  At three hundred and ten feet, Hassler felt for the nylon handle protruding from the pouch on his chest, gripping the loop and pulling the reserve parachute a few inches forward. At three hundred and five feet, he slipped his legs out of the pod harness and let them dangle freely. Depending on how the glider responded to the sudden loss of lift, he might not have the benefit of gravity to help him untangle his legs from the harness.

  At three hundred feet, Hassler pulled the parachute clear of the pouch and tossed it behind and below him, squeezing the control bar and bracing for the shock of deployment. A few seconds passed before he felt the first tugs of the chute spreading. Before he could flare the nose to reduce his speed, the parachute fully deployed, yanking him backward into the harness.

  With his body pulled as far back as possible from the control bar, the nose angled upward, flaring the hang glider at the worst possible moment. Hassler experienced a moment of weightlessness as the airframe swung downward through the thick fog. Completely disoriented, he did the only thing he could do in the situation—hold on to the crossbar. A sudden tug jolted him upward, loosening his left hand’s grip on the bar. The helpless feeling of free fall was replaced by a steady, controlled descent. He tucked his legs into his chest, knowing that the peaceful fall would be short lived. Something brushed against his right foot. Here we go!

  Rushing through the treetops at twelve miles per hour, one of the glider’s wings hit something solid and spun, slamming Hassler into an unmoving pine obstacle. The blow slammed him against the frame, scraping him along a wall of sharp branches before the glider frame swung free. Still strapped to the harness, he continued to descend through the thick canopy with the glider, bending his knees for the inevitable crash into the forest floor. He sensed another dark object emerging through the fog, his senses rewarded by a head-on collision with an impenetrable pine barricade. Branches and pine needles lashed his face, causing him to let go of the frame. Buried deep in the tree, the shredded glider continued downward with Hassler, snapping several branches before coming to a sudden halt.

  He took a deep breath and felt for the missing night vision goggles. “Shit,” he muttered, digging through his tactical vest for a flashlight. Hassler was snagged in a tree, but had no concept of the distance to ground. The space below him was pitch black. A shriek pierced the night, giving him second thoughts about the flashlight. Fuck it, he had to take the risk. If he was thirty or forty feet in the air, he might be able to hang out in the harness until first light, when Pilcher’s crew started to draw the abbies away. If he sat ten feet above the ground, he’d more than likely turn into a midnight snack. He needed to assess, decide and act—just like he had been trained.

  A quick scan with the flashlight indicated he was suspended at a safe height above the forest floor. A second check skyward left him reasonably confident that the glider was secure, and he wouldn’t tumble unexpectedly to the ground during the early morning hours. His arms and legs worked. All of his gear was intact, with the exception of the night vision goggles, which wasn’t a problem. He had packed a more sophisticated pair in his rucksack. Beyond a few bruises, scrapes—and the inevitable full-body ache that would plague his body in the morning—Hassler couldn’t complain.

  “Ops, this is Hassler, over,” he whispered.

  “Read you loud and clear. What is your status?”

  “The landing wasn’t pretty, but everything is intact—including me. I’m stuck in a tree, where I think I’ll stay until I’m convinced the area is clear.”

  “That’s great news, Adam. Hang tight until the morning,” said Pilcher. “We’re counting on you.”

  “I hope you have something big planned to draw the abbies out of here. I might have woken a few up from their beauty sleep.”

  “Don’t worry. We have something special planned. By nine in the morning, every abby for miles will be headed in our direction.”

  Chapter 34

  Hassler’s eyes fluttered, letting in some of the light. He closed them tightly, trying to delay the inevitable. A distant, hollow report echoed through the trees, and his eyes snapped open. He’d overslept. Not in the lazy Sunday morning sense of the word, but more in the “only recently fell asleep after hours of shivering and worrying about being eaten alive” kind of way. A second crack filled the air, signaling the start of Pilcher’s diversions.

  “Hassler, this is Operations. We’ve detonated two sizable charges outside of the perimeter fence. Report any hostile movement in your area when detected.”

  Several shrieks pierced the post-explosion silence, followed by the sounds of twigs snapping to the south.

  “This is Hassler. I think you have their attention. Standby for confirmation,” he whispered, scanning the forest.

  “Standing by.”

  He twisted slowly in the pod harness, trying to extend his view toward the south, but the glider’s wings blocked his line of sight. He’d have to wait until they ran by his tree to verify that they were indeed responding to the explosions, which shouldn’t be very long given their speed over the ground. Hassler had witnessed their swiftness firsthand; a spectacle he had hoped to never see again. Movement to the right drew his attention—just in time to see a pack of several abbies streak north through the trees. If he had blinked, he might have missed them.

  A swishing sound directly below him was followed by two abbies leaping gracefully between trees, heading in the same direction as the smaller pack. Sounds erupted from the left as a steady stream of abbies poured through the pines in blind pursuit of Pilcher’s acoustic show.

  Hassler shifted his rifle and flipped the selector switch to semiautomatic, hoping to test the rifle’s suppressor and subsonic ammunition in a non-life-threatening situation. He centered the reticle on the pack’s general path and waited for one of the pale creatures to appear in the far left side of the rifle sight’s field of view. Squeezing the trigger slightly, he breathed lightly until he detected movement. The rifle bit into his shoulder, the sound no louder than a finger snap. The abby slowed, its head shifting from side to side for a moment, before picking up speed again. It heard the bullet buzz past, but didn’t pe
rceive a threat or detect the source. He tried again, still failing to connect with one of the monsters. The pack continued filtering through the forest, oblivious to the gunfire. Perfect. He could fire without attracting attention, a distinct advantage if he ran across a small group of abbies during his trek.

  He engaged the safety and reported the abby migration, periodically sending updates until the forest settled into its natural routine.

  “Ops, this is Hassler. No abbie movement detected since zero-nine hundred.”

  “Copy. Twenty minutes meets the threshold. Stand by for the second string of explosions. Report all abby movement.”

  “Yep,” he said, closing his eyes for a few minutes.

  He’d started to doze off before the sound of the first explosion rippled through the air, followed shortly by the second. The forest remained silent for a few minutes before the next wave of monstrosities scampered through, chasing the sound. He noted fewer abbies this time. Far fewer.

  Chapter 35

  Ted Upshaw typed a string of commands on his keyboard and turned in his chair to face Pilcher, who stood with Pam a few feet away in the Operations Center’s control room. He hated when they crowded him like this, especially Pam. He still didn’t know what to make of her. Young, attractive and fit, he shouldn’t mind having her hover over him, but something about her was off. Way off. One minute she appeared normal, almost pleasantly flirtatious; the next she grinned like a deranged clown. Even worse—her dead look. She didn’t flash that one very often, but the few times he’d seen it convinced him she was psychotic. No amount of flirtation could erase that look. He steered clear of her outside of Operations.

  “Hassler hasn’t reported any hostile activity for two hours. If Hassler could hear the explosions at ten miles, the abbies could hear and detect them at twice that distance. Assuming the theories are correct.”