“Just kidding. What are we looking at?”
“Sir, I was just showing them our active signals. Two hundred and forty-eight, divided into nine distinct packs, ranging in size from six to fifty-two.”
“I thought we had ten groups?”
“We did, until about forty minutes ago. Groups six and seven merged. They’ve been travelling together ever since.”
“Incredible. I wonder if the rest will do the same thing given their close proximity, possibly forming one super-pack, or a new herd. Do we still have a few blind spots?”
“The transmitter signals fade out when the abbies range toward the far northern end of the valley, but our software is keeping track of each transmitter. If any of the tagged abbies enter the blackout zone, we can account for them,” said Upshaw.
“And the explosives?”
“Thirty charges active. Hassler detected some movement on the way to mile five and decided to hole up for the night.”
“Fucking Hassler,” muttered Pilcher.
He didn’t understand why an ex-Delta Force operator couldn’t “push the envelope” a little. Maybe make up some lost time by planting a few charges at night? Didn’t Delta Force “rule the night” or something like that? The guy was traipsing around the forest with generation-six night vision equipment—gear that didn’t even exist before Hassler went into suspension—and he was treating the mission like a union job! Can’t move after dark. Have to take breaks to observe the forest. Every time Hassler called over the radio, he reported another delay. At this rate, the helicopter would be ready by the time he planted all of the explosives.
“Is there any point trying to convince him to climb down and finish the next string of charges?” said Pilcher.
“To be completely honest, sir, it didn’t sound like a committee decision. Light had already faded nearly sixty percent at that point, and he heard suspected abby activity due west of his position—moving out of the valley.”
“Have any of the abbies drifted south?” said Pilcher.
“Negative,” said Upshaw.
Pilcher looked at Pope and shook his head. “I don’t see any reason for them to leave the valley. Not while we’re setting off diversionary charges. Hassler is doing this to annoy me. To exert a little control over the situation.”
“We need to be careful with him,” said Pope. “We can’t afford to have any authority challenges, especially now. The people are nervous, still unsure about our new reality.”
Pilcher wondered if Pope was speaking for the people or himself. Maybe the sheriff thought their path might be clearer with new leadership. Pope had summarily rejected Leven’s proposal to reenter suspension, and he’d never wavered in his support of Pilcher’s decision to press onward with Wayward Pines. Now he wondered if Pope’s public support was a calculated act to undermine his authority. If personnel losses continued during the next phase of construction, Pope would be in a good position to lead a coup d’etat against him. Or was Pam’s childish jealousy tainting his assessment of Pope’s behavior?
“Gentlemen, I want each of your teams ready to start work at first light, precisely sixty-two hours from now. That means all equipment fully functional. All safety cages fully installed. Security teams ready to roll. Everyone knows the plan cold. When the first rays of light fill the valley, I want to see trees falling and a path opening to the fence site. Arnold, you’re in charge of this operation. Report any and all possible issues directly to me. I expect the rest of you to keep Mr. Pope fully apprised of your progress. No excuses. No delays—”
“What about Hassler? There’s no guarantee he’ll finish on time,” said Pope.
“He either finishes by the end of the third day, or we’ll send someone else out to complete his work. Contact the hangar and tell them to assemble and test one of the ultralights.”
Upshaw started to open his mouth to say something, but stopped. Pilcher suspected that he had pieced together Hassler’s predetermined fate.
“Yes, Ted?”
“Nothing, sir,” he said, avoiding eye contact. “Just thinking out loud.”
“Very well. Mr. Black?” said Pilcher.
“Sir?”
“How are your people feeling about the security precautions taken to protect them from the abbies?” said Pilcher.
“Better. Marcus brought one of my more skeptical equipment operators on the tagging expedition this morning. He got to see the welded protective bars in action. Still scared the hell out of him, but he came back and confirmed that the cages attached to the forestry equipment will keep them safe. Nobody’s happy about being locked into their machines.”
“There’s no other way, Elliot. The engineers couldn’t create locking mechanisms that would hold up under a sustained attack,” said Pilcher.
“I know, but sitting in a welded-shut cage for ten hours will take a toll,” said Black.
“Better than being eaten alive,” said Pope.
With that statement, he felt pretty confident that Pope wasn’t about to outmaneuver him in a popularity contest at any point in the near future.
“Marcus?” said Pilcher, hoping for something a little more sophisticated than a playground-level comment.
“The situation outside will be vastly different than this morning. With most of the abbies drawn out of the valley, we expect isolated, easily manageable attacks from small groups. My team will immediately clear any threats posed to your crew. We’ll rehearse the procedures exhaustively with your people,” said Marcus.
Black forced a smile and nodded. “That’ll help assure the equipment operators.”
“Sounds like we’re on the right path. Two weeks from now, we’ll have a four-thousand-volt, five-hundred-amp barrier standing between Wayward Pines and the outside world. Then the real work begins,” said Pilcher.
Chapter 39
A persistent chirping sound drew Hassler out of a shallow nap. Struggling to break through his sleep inertia, a strong survival imperative told him to remain still. Perfectly still. A few seconds later, he recognized the sound in his ears. Something had triggered the motion sensor array attached to the tree trunk below him, sending a wireless alarm signal through his radio earpiece. He opened his eyes slowly and stared at a single, dark point in the distance, a trick he had learned in another life. The rod cells, which are concentrated away from the center of the eye, function better in low light, making the peripheral vision better for detecting movement in the dark.
He spotted the abby immediately, creeping east to west a few hundred feet northeast of his tree. It had barely come within range of the motion sensors. The branches gently rustled and swayed around him as a frigid breeze sifted through the pines—pushing his scent toward the nearby abby. Shit. Hassler lowered the night vision goggles mounted to his helmet, activating the green image. Instead of a single abby near the periphery of the motions sensor’s detection range, he saw a staggered column of six creatures moving cautiously on all fours. Six was too many if they discovered him. He couldn’t afford to watch and wait.
The breeze strengthened momentarily, creating enough background noise for him to silently shift into a more stable fighting position. Still connected to the tree by a climbing harness, he stood on the sturdy branch beneath him and wrapped his arm through the sling attached to his rifle. Pulling the hefty rifle tightly into his shoulder, he flipped the lens covers and searched for the lead abby.
Hassler’s instincts proved correct. The abby stopped next to a young pine tree and stood on its hind legs to sniff the air. He placed the tip of the reticle’s green arrow in the center of the abby’s head and pressed the trigger. The rifle coughed, and the creature dropped without making a sound—he hoped. When he shifted the rifle to the next creature in the line, he saw that it had frozen in place, its head slowly scanning the forest. Hassler started to apply pressure to the trigger when the remaining abbies suddenly bolted north, moving away from him at full speed. A faint, distant crack echoed through the forest several sec
onds later, followed by a voice in his earpiece.
“We picked up your motion sensor signal. Figured you could use a little help,” said Ted Upshaw.
“I owe you one. I had six abbies sniffing me out. Managed to drop the first one quietly, but I think the rest were on to me.”
“We’ll set off another string of explosives two hours prior to first light. We want to draw these stray groups deeper into the valley before you start.”
“I appreciate that. Tell Pilcher I’ll be back at the resupply point by noon. If I don’t run into any major problems, I should be able to make up some lost time,” said Hassler.
“He’ll be happy to hear that. Let us know if you need any more help,” said Upshaw.
“Copy. Hassler out,” he said, easing himself into a seated position on the thick branch.
The discovery of a small pack quietly patrolling the forest nagged at him. He couldn’t shake the awful feeling that they were alerted to his general presence. Their quiet incursion through his territory seemed deliberate. Maybe there’s more to their future descendants than Pilcher thinks—or is willing to admit.
Chapter 40
Hassler pounded his foot into the shoulder of the compact shovel, loosening a few inches of pine-needle-covered soil. Even after a full day of sun and warmer temperatures, the ground barely yielded to his effort. Thirty-three more holes, including this one, and he was home free. Movement in his far right peripheral field drew his attention to a fast-moving, grayish form several feet away. His mind didn’t have time to process the specifics and initiate a complex response. Instead, he lurched forward and swung the shovel backward, striking the grotesque beast in midair as it sailed behind him.
The abby lashed out with its talons, slicing through Hassler’s backpack and ripping the shovel out of his grip. Landing to his left, the monster skidded a few feet before regaining traction and reversing course. Still in emergency survival mode, he drew his pistol and rapid-fired at the onrushing abby until the semiautomatic’s slide locked back, the barrel smoking. The creature’s broken, bloodied skull crashed to the ground at his feet as screeches filled the forest. In one fluid motion, he holstered the empty weapon and raised his rifle.
“Ops, this is Hassler. Possible heavy contact at mile thirteen. Any and all help is appreciated.”
“Copy. Stand by.”
He scanned the forest, unable to determine the direction of the pack. He knew they were coming. Twelve unsuppressed .45 caliber pistol shots guaranteed it. A quick assessment of the terrain didn’t hold much promise. Mostly flat ground interrupted by the occasional boulder. He’d crossed a three-foot-wide stream a few hundred yards back, which formed a shallow gully. At this point, a few hundred yards might as well be ten miles. He had seconds to execute a plan.
Glancing upward, he dismissed the trees. Climbing wasn’t an option. The abbies would be on him before he could climb out of reach. Even if he managed to escape their talons, his journey would more than likely end in the tree. Fuck that. If his luck had truly expired, he’d die on the ground—not holed up in a tree like an animal. The shrieks suddenly stopped. Lucky mile thirteen, he thought, before the first creature bolted into sight to his left.
Before he could shift his rifle to fire at the target, two more beasts appeared in his peripheral vision, attacking at a ninety-degree angle from the first. Classic moving ambush. He resisted the temptation to engage the larger group and concentrated on the lone abby. The key to surviving a multiple-direction attack was to minimize the number of threat directions. He centered the reticle on the inbound creature and pressed the trigger twice, spinning the abby into a tree.
Before engaging the second group of abbies, Hassler scrambled a few feet to the left and nestled against a thick, immovable tree trunk, giving his flank some natural protection. His first bullets closed the twenty-foot gap at 1,050 feet per second, instantly ejecting the contents of the closest abby’s chest onto the second creature. Hassler fired the next burst while shifting his body behind the tree, barely avoiding a thirty-mile-per-hour collision with the two-hundred-and-fifty-pound mass of muscle and sinew. The abby brushed against his right shoulder and slid along the ground, the top half of its grotesque head missing.
Without hesitating, he swung his rifle to the other side of the tree, crashing into an abby that had approached in his blind spot. Talons slashed into his left forearm, slicing through his camouflage jacket as they tumbled. His first priority was to get out of the thing’s immediate slashing range.
Hassler rolled several feet to the left, stopping on his back to aim the rifle. The monster had already leapt when he fired, partially impaling itself on the suppressor. Panicked by the creature’s frenzied scream, he repeatedly pressed the trigger, showering them in a geyser of blood and gore until the lifeless thing slid down the rifle and pinned him to the ground. Desperate to stay alive, Hassler launched his knees upward and wrenched the rifle left, swinging the dead carcass off him. He tugged the gore-coated rifle through the abby’s chest, spinning to face the general direction of the pack’s attack. Miraculously, he was alone.
He reloaded the rifle, dropping the empty, blood-soaked magazine to the forest floor. A quick check of his ACOG sight showed that it would be useless until he could take a few minutes to wipe it clean. Minutes he didn’t have at the moment. Distant shrieks prodded Hassler to start moving. He needed to put as much distance between ground zero and himself as possible in the next ten minutes.
First, he needed to cover his scent. While walking briskly, he unbuttoned the jacket sleeve on his left arm and pulled it up to his elbow, followed by the moist under layers covering his torn forearm. Hassler grimaced as the tight fabric chafed against the cut. With the forearm exposed, he dug through the spare pockets on his vest for immediate medical care items. He opened a small tube of antibiotic cream and poured the contents onto the wound, rubbing the translucent salve into the cut. Next, he tore open a wide field dressing, wrapping it around the forearm. He didn’t bother to tighten it. The final step would take care of that.
After replacing the spent items, he removed a compact roll of green duct tape and pulled a six-inch strip, biting off the end. He wrapped the tape around the dressing, making sure to extend the adhesive an inch beyond the dressing on each side. Three pieces of tape later, he’d effectively treated and sealed the bleeding wound, preventing it from leaving a trail. Hassler wasn’t worried about the blood that had already seeped onto his clothing. He was soaked in enough of the abby’s blood to cover the scent.
“Ops, this is Hassler. Survived contact with five hostiles. Moving south to clear the area. I’ll plant the rest of mile thirteen’s explosives somewhere else.”
“Adam, I’m a little concerned that you only planted seven of the twelve charges assigned to this distance,” said Pilcher.
“And I’m a little concerned about making it back to the superstructure alive. I don’t have time for this, David,” he said, searching for his shovel. “You’ll get the rest of your diversions when I get the fuck out of here.”
“We’ve decided to expand the test pattern to mile fifteen,” started Pilcher.
“I’m not planting additional explosives.”
“There’s no change to the number of charges to be used. We plan to use one of the diversionary charges at each distance increment beyond mile ten. Unfortunately, that only leaves us with six diversionary devices at mile thirteen. Can you plant a few more if nothing shows up in the next few minutes?” finished Pilcher.
“You really don’t give a shit if I’m eaten, do you?” he said, picking up his pace.
“Adam, the success of Wayward Pines depends on your mission. Nobody has more vested in your survival than I do. I’m just being practical,” said Pilcher.
“Then let me restate my position in a language you might understand. I just fired twelve unsuppressed pistol rounds into an abby. Sticking around would be very bad for my health and the mission,” he said, spotting the dark green shovel next to
a pine sapling.
“I’ll defer to your judgment on this one,” said Pilcher.
About fucking time. “Look on the bright side, David. I’m hauling ass to mile fourteen. With any luck, I might be back in the cafeteria for lunch tomorrow. I’m a solid half-day ahead of schedule.”
“That’s great news, Adam. I’ll have the chefs prepare something special,” said Pilcher.
“Can’t wait…and David?”
“Yes?”
“Don’t underestimate the abbies’ intelligence. I just witnessed a highly coordinated, multidirectional attack by five of these things. One of them intentionally took advantage of a blind spot in my defense.”
“Their hunting skills have been honed to perfection over the past eighteen hundred years, Adam. There’s a big difference between instinctual evolution and intelligence. An intelligent predator wouldn’t approach a man armed with a rifle,” said Pilcher.
“I’m not saying they could outscore any of us on the SATs. I think there’s more rattling around these ugly heads than meets the eye,” said Hassler, dumbfounded by Pilcher’s position on the matter.
“Maybe you’re right. We’ll be sure to record your observations during the debriefing. Until then, stay safe. We’re counting on you,” said Pilcher.
“Staying safe is my middle name,” he said, turning off the radio.
“Not believing a fucking word you just said is my game.”
Chapter 41
Pilcher pressed the “Send Elevator” button, releasing his private elevator car to retrieve Pam from the first floor. He needed to revisit a sensitive topic with her. A distasteful subject he’d hoped to avoid altogether during their tenure in Wayward Pines. When the monitor next to the door showed her enter the car, he walked briskly to his living room, situating himself in one of the leather club chairs facing the entryway. Before the elevator door chimed, he slipped a small, semiautomatic pistol out of his pocket and tucked it between the cushions next to his right thigh.
Wayward Pines- Genesis Collection Page 14