Wayward Pines- Genesis Collection Page 2

  He stood back from the closet and took in the entire room. Wow. He really went all out. The man was worth hundreds of billions of dollars, and this was the best he offered the hundred or so people who volunteered to carry on his crazy vision of perpetuating the human species. He really hoped Pilcher put more effort into recreating Wayward Pines—or it was going to take more than a silo full of drugs to keep the population from jumping off the cliffs.

  Chapter 4

  “What do you think?”

  Arnold Pope rubbed the blond stubble on his chin and contemplated Pilcher’s question. He studied the live video feed of Hassler eating alone in the cafeteria before responding.

  “Hard to say. Frankly, I’m surprised he didn’t have an accident in suspension,” said Pope.

  “I suggested an accident before suspension,” said Pam.

  “You really don’t like him, do you?” said Pope.

  “His presence is going to be a problem,” she said. “Everyone knows he was a last minute addition. Once they figure out he gets to live in town…”

  “We don’t really have a choice,” said Pilcher.

  “We have people that can make this run,” said Pam.

  “Not like him. His background makes him especially valuable given the circumstances.”

  “He hasn’t run a Delta team in over sixteen years—”

  “Eighteen hundred and sixteen years,” interrupted Pope.

  “That’s growing really old, Arnold. Nobody finds it funny anymore,” said Pam.

  “I think it’s pretty hilarious,” said the technician seated next to the group.

  “Nobody gives a shit what you think, Ted. Watch your screens. Let’s assign Marcus and Mustin to the detail. They have recent combat experience—”

  “Marcus and Mustin are needed in the superstructure. Hassler leads the team, and that’s final. Keep a close eye on him, Arnold. Pam, a word, please,” said Pilcher, marching toward the hallway door.

  Pope watched her sulk away with great satisfaction. He loved nothing more than to see the big man pull hard on her leash when she strayed. Behind all of her bravado and arrogance, she was little more than Pilcher’s errand girl. Still, he was cautious around the crazy bitch. Pam’s fanatical devotion to Pilcher had earned her a seat at the table right next to the big man, and he knew enough about politics not to piss her off. She had David’s ear, and if he’d learned one thing about Pilcher over the past eleven years—whoever had his ear exercised an inordinate amount of power.

  “Any problems with the microchips?” said Pope.

  “Not that I can tell. I’m tracking all eight members of the team. Larsen is in the warehouse again, taking in the sights. The Stewarts are taking a long shower together. The rest of them are in the cafeteria, including Hassler. Signals are strong,” said Ted Upshaw.

  “What do you think will happen outside?”

  “Demos proved we could track the microchips up to four miles using the active pulse arrays. With the sensors installed a few thousand feet above the ground, we’ll have clear lines of sight to maximize the range. I don’t foresee any difficulty,” said Ted.

  “No blinds spots in the superstructure?”

  Ted shook his head. “Too early to tell, but I don’t expect any. Mr. Pilcher paid for the best surveillance equipment on the market in 2033. I was there to ensure it.”

  He patted Ted Upshaw on the shoulder. “Let me know if you detect any issues with the gear—or the team.”

  “Should I make the same report to Pam?”

  “Anything you report to me should be sent to Pam…and vice versa,” said Pope, eliciting a raised eyebrow from Ted.

  “I’d rather deal directly with you.”

  “Unfortunately, that’s not an option right now, but if we play this smart and work together—you never know,” said Pope.

  Chapter 5

  He kept telling himself this had to be a joke—half-expecting Pilcher and a white-hatted chef to appear in the doorway carrying a silver platter containing an exquisitely prepared surf-and-turf dinner. Everyone stands and claps, laughing about the grey plastic tray containing indistinguishable scoops of nutrient slop. Slapping him on the back and congratulating him as he cuts into his juicy, red steak. Instead, he finished the meal in abject silence, questioning his decision to pursue Theresa Burke eighteen hundred years into the future.

  His first twenty-four hours in the year 3813 hadn’t been impressive. Substandard living quarters, shitty food, microchipping—the list went on. He lifted a clear plastic cup above his head and muttered a toast before downing the metallic-tasting apple juice. Welcome to the future. If he was actually in the future. Pilcher was a megalomaniac with more power and control issues than ten African dictators combined. Add enough money to recreate the superdome inside of a mountain, and you had an extremely dangerous man. He’d abducted several hundred civilians for the project, on top of kidnapping and murdering federal agents. Contrary to his disarming appearance, David Pilcher sat at the very top of Hassler’s twisted sociopath list.

  The more he thought about it, the more he wished he had shot Pilcher dead at the Volunteer Park Water Tower. He could have blown the Wayward Pines investigation wide open, simultaneously exposing Pilcher’s insane plan and solving hundreds of missing persons cases. The publicity alone would have guaranteed him a fast-track to a director-level position with the Secret Service. He held the winning ticket to a golden life in the twenty-first century, but he didn’t keep it. Killing Pilcher brought Ethan Burke back from the dead—and the thought of losing a chance to spend the rest of his life with the woman he loved ultimately kept his pistol holstered.

  He just prayed this wasn’t a sick hoax, with Pilcher and his band of misfits at the helm. What if Pilcher had sunk most of his fortune and the better half of his life into the pursuit of this dream, only to discover that it didn’t work? Would he abandon the project? How would he respond to the realization that he would never get to shepherd humanity’s last outpost? There was no way he could have abandoned his dream. This crazy fantasy had to be more than an altruistic act to preserve the human race. Pilcher had God-complex issues. That was obvious from the start.

  Now Hassler was genuinely worried for the first time since “reanimation.” For all he knew, they could have gassed everyone after the New Year’s Eve party and woken them up four hours later. How would anyone know? Pilcher announces that the atmosphere in 3813 is toxic and they have to spend the rest of their lives inside, with him as their camp commandant.

  Why didn’t I think of this before stepping into Pilcher’s ridiculous-looking machine? Theresa Burke. His obsession had blinded him to the possibilities, and Pilcher used it against him. Pilcher knew he didn’t come to the water tower to put a bullet in his head. He wouldn’t have allowed him to set foot in the tower with a weapon if there had been any doubt. Every step of the way had been meticulously calculated to coax him into this cave, and he’d missed every clue. He could live with that, if the year was 3813. He’d break Pilcher’s fucking neck if they were still in the twenty-first century. The digital clock mounted on the cafeteria wall read 15:11. He decided to take another look around before heading to the operations center. The moment of truth rapidly approached, which might necessitate a better understanding of the superstructure’s layout.

  Chapter 6

  A quick stroll through the cafeteria level revealed little beyond what he had already seen on his quest to locate the showers. Laundry room with several pairs of front-loading machines. Exercise room with less equipment than your typical chain hotel. Rec area that didn’t meet the minimum standards of an army barracks TV room. Library featuring half-filled shelves. Once again, he couldn’t shake the feeling that this had to be a joke. Does Pilcher really expect people to live out the rest of their lives hidden inside this fluorescent tomb—while a picturesque town flourishes below them? He had to be missing something.

  Hassler descended two flights to the first level and turned into a long, black
and white tiled hallway directly opposite the cavern entrance vestibule. The hallway extended at least a hundred yards to another stairwell that rose through all four levels of the facility. He walked a quarter of the way down the hallway before deciding he’d seen enough. Evenly spaced doors featuring compact observation windows and keycard slots marked the rest of the hallway. It reminded him of a CIA detainee facility he had utilized on several occasions in Diego Garcia, but on a much larger scale.

  He spent a few minutes inside the sliding doors to the cavern, studying the peculiar work project underway several football fields away. Reaching the second level, he passed the surgical room and windowless doors labeled as laboratories. He passed a conspicuously unmarked door with a keycard slot and smirked, wondering if he’d just discovered the entrance to Pilcher’s secret lair. A few more steps brought him to another unmarked door, which opened as soon as he arrived. An unfamiliar face greeted him.

  “Alan Fletcher. Head of security,” he said, gesturing for Hassler to enter.

  Dressed in the same earth-tone outfit worn by the rest of the superstructure’s population, Fletcher sported a few extra items. A thick, rigger’s belt suspended dual radio holsters on his left thigh, opposite a pepper spray pouch, black knife sheath—estimated five- to six-inch blade—and handcuffs. The radios looked smaller than a typical Motorola. Almost futuristic. A wireless earpiece peeked through the thick tuft of brown hair that escaped his olive green ball cap. Hassler nodded and entered, noting that Fletcher didn’t offer a handshake—or the slightest change of expression. If this had been the start of an undercover “meet and greet” in a Lake Oswego apartment block, Hassler would have walked away. He didn’t have that choice here.

  The unpleasant vibe continued two doors down in a spacious conference room lined with flat-screen workstations. Pilcher nodded at Fletcher when they entered, silently dismissing him to go wherever the head of security for a self-contained, sealed mountain fortress goes when not playing bouncer at unmarked doors. The door closed, leaving him alone with Pilcher and another utterly baffling recruitment choice. Arnold Pope.

  Dismissed with prejudice from the York County Sheriff’s Department in 1999, Pope spent three inglorious years chasing one slippery security job after another across New England, until he filed for and received an Idaho driver’s license in November 2002. By March 2003, he held forty-two concealed-carry firearms permits, covering every state that required one—including Maine, where the state’s attorney general had publically promised that Pope would never carry a weapon in public again.

  He broke that promise three years later. Pilcher’s money tended to inflate bank accounts and induce selective amnesia wherever and whenever it appeared. Overnight, Pope went from midnight-shift security guard at a large lumberyard outside of Hartford, Connecticut, to one of Pilcher’s henchmen. The trend was disturbing, and no doubt extended to everyone that had volunteered for duty in the superstructure. Everyone here left unwanted baggage behind—including himself.

  “Adam, you’re looking much better. Please, take a seat,” said Pilcher, indicating a chair next to Pope.

  “You remember Arnold?”

  “Of course,” said Hassler, noting Pope’s forced smile.

  Pope wore the same gear as Fletcher, minus the pepper spray and handcuffs. Hassler added a knife to the mental inventory of gear he would possess within three seconds of discovering that he was a prisoner in Pilcher’s mountain gulag.

  “I assume you’ve noticed that most of the crew is awake and hard at work on Wayward Pines,” started Pilcher.

  “I had hoped they might be finished, but the warehouse looked untouched,” said Hassler.

  “Wishful thinking, Adam. I woke you twenty-five days past the first reanimation wave, roughly thirty-five days earlier than scheduled. Rebuilding Wayward Pines will be an all-hands effort, and I can’t spare a single hand. I don’t blame you one bit for hoping, though. We have a long two years ahead of us.”

  “Two years?”

  “At least. It’s April 25th, which is right around the first day Wayward Pines sees an average daily temperature above freezing.”

  “You woke the first wave on April Fool’s day?” said Hassler.

  “Ninety-nine percent of the decision was practical,” he said, cracking a smile. “We can’t start excavating until the ground is more pliable. As you can imagine, there’s more to recreating Wayward Pines than building houses and planting flowers. It has to feel authentic on every level, from the creek running through the middle of town to the hill beyond the playground—”

  “Most of the people in deep freeze never saw Wayward Pines,” said Hassler.

  “But many of them have seen it. Some were residents—”

  “You took residents? What was the total population of Wayward Pines?”

  “1,132.”

  “Jesus. It’s a fucking miracle your operation didn’t attract more attention than it did.”

  “I have you to thank for that,” said Pilcher, eliciting a grin from Pope.

  “Back to the two years?”

  “Right. I figure it will take us all of the spring and most of the summer to prepare the site for heavy construction. After that, we have an extensive network of roads to build. Sewer and water infrastructure. Electrical. All before we dig the first foundation. This work has to be finished by late October. We can frame houses in the winter, but we can’t dig without risking damage to the equipment. The temperatures range well below freezing in November.”

  “Well, I’m humbled that you think I’ll make that big of a difference, but I’ve never operated heavy machinery or designed towns,” said Hassler.

  “Nice try, Adam. You’re not going back into suspension. I didn’t wake you up early to learn how to drive a bulldozer. I need you to lead the first site survey.”

  “Into Wayward Pines?”

  “Into what used to be Wayward Pines,” said Pilcher. “The town is buried, based on our calculations.”

  Hassler raised an eyebrow.

  “Eighteen hundred years of sediment buildup, rock slides, decomposed pine needles, fallen trees. Probably a forest fire or two. Nature carried on while we slept. We built the superstructure’s second exit fifty feet above the 2013 surface. I was off by ten feet. The original Wayward Pines sits under forty feet of packed soil and rock.”

  “Good God,” said Hassler.

  “I’ve put together a team for the job. Land surveyor for basic calculations. Biologist familiar with most forms of flora and fauna found in mountain habitats. Tracker with expedition and military experience. Trail guides familiar with the Idaho mountains. I want a quick assessment of the site, extending out of the canyon. I foresee a twenty-four to forty-eight hour operation.”

  “Will I be doing this in a bulky orange suit?” said Hassler.

  “Is that your weak attempt to avoid asking me about the conditions on the outside?” said Pilcher.

  Hassler shrugged.

  “The air tested clean. Pristine, actually. Better than what we regularly inhaled in 2013. We took samples for two weeks straight, looking for spores, airborne viruses, and any biological adaptations that could prove deadly,” he said, shaking his head.

  “We found nothing unusual. UV radiation levels are within the normal range, indicating a healthy ozone layer, so you won’t have to wear 1,000 SPF like most scientists predicted. Without humans, the earth seems to have recovered.”

  “We’re gone?” he said, leaning forward.

  “As far as we can tell. I acquired two AN/PRD-13 signals intelligence systems for the project. I believe you’ve personally used this system before?”

  Hassler nodded.

  “Twenty-two days of recorded digital feed shows no emissions in any of the previously used radio-wave spectrums. No satellites in the night sky. No airplanes. The earth is once again quiet.”

  “You sound happy about that,” said Hassler.

  “To be perfectly honest, I wish I had been wrong about our specie
s—but I wasn’t. I’m happy I pursued this project. Humanity gets a second chance.”

  He doubted the sincerity of the first part of Pilcher’s statement.

  “So, I lead a team in, make sure the bears haven’t mutated into twenty-foot-tall, two-headed killing machines and report back to the superstructure?”

  “Are you sure he’s the right person to lead the team?” said Pope.

  “He talks!” said Hassler. “I thought you went deaf and dumb in suspension. It would have been an improvement.”

  Pope barely restrained himself.

  “Adam, please. There’s no need to be uncivil,” said Pilcher, turning to Pope. “And yes, an ex-Delta Force officer is exactly who we need in charge of this operation. I don’t expect fire-breathing dragons, but there’s no reason to throw caution to the wind. The greater Sawtooth area hosted an abundant mountain lion and wolf population in 2013. The expedition will be armed.”

  “I wouldn’t have it any other way. What’s up with the fence?”

  He registered a look of passing surprise on Pilcher’s face. Pope didn’t respond.

  “It’s a basic precaution. Part of your job will be to scout two proposed fence sites south of Wayward Pines. I have enough fencing to span the distance between the cliffs, effectively sealing out predators.”

  Or sealing in his captives. He still wasn’t convinced this wasn’t bullshit.

  “Does it look the same down there—aside from forty feet of dirt covering the town?”

  “Let’s take a look,” said Pilcher, and Hassler started to get out of his seat.

  Pilcher cast him a puzzled glance as he grabbed a remote control from the conference table. A single button press activated the eighty-inch flat-screen monitor behind Pope. A high-definition image of a fog-obscured forest materialized, panning outward until the bottom of the eastern cliff wall appeared, framing the former location of Wayward Pines. This could be footage from anywhere.

  “I was hoping to see it for myself. Breathe in some of that fresh air,” said Hassler.