Wayward Pines- Genesis Collection Page 5

  Crack! Hassler closed his eyes and imperceptibly shook his head. Nguyen had fired the second Betsy gun slug at the hospital site, trying to determine if any of the ancient structure remained intact deep below the rocks and soil. The four-story, brick hospital had been the largest, most durable structure in Wayward Pines, representing the biggest cave-in risk during the rebuild. Constructing the hospital another hundred and fifty feet down Main Street wasn’t an option. Authenticity. Who the fuck cares? How many of the future citizens had even seen the hospital? Most of them had been kidnapped from locations around the country, and the ones taken in Wayward Pines were mostly victims of “accidents” that earned them a one-way trip into the mountain.

  “Survey team, this is Ops. Readings indicate that the hospital is completely collapsed. Once Diaz places his stakes, request that you head southeast on bearing one-three-zero. This should put you in the vicinity of the first proposed fencing anchor site along the eastern cliff wall. If time permits, we’ll move you further south to the second site.”

  If time permits, or we’re still alive? Larsen read his thoughts and turned his head far enough to make eye contact, but not far enough to bring Hassler into camera view. He could feel King’s eyes burning into the back of his head. Pilcher was moving the team into position to record the final data set, which had nothing to do with the fence. They left the hospital site with an hour of direct sunlight left in Wayward Pines. One mile into the two-mile trek, Dean Stewart and Seth King stopped to examine a thick patch of snow in their path.

  “Adam, you need to take a look at this. We’re not alone out here,” said King.

  The cat is out of the bag.

  Chapter 13

  Pilcher barged into the Operations Center, shoving empty chairs out of the way to reach the wall of computer stations and widescreen monitors assigned to Hassler’s survey team. Pam stood behind the crew of technicians, studying the feeds on various screens. She turned her head and raised an eyebrow. He couldn’t read the rest of her face. Never could. She displayed such a limited range of facial expressions; he found it nearly impossible to classify her emotional state. When she did crack a thin smile or widen her eyes, it was usually inappropriate for the moment at hand. In the six and a half years he had known Pam, he was only sure of one thing. She was a ruthlessly loyal sociopath—and that was all that mattered.

  “What are we looking at?” said Pilcher.

  “Humanoid tracks,” she said, now smiling.

  “Humanoid?”

  “In a way,” said one of the technicians, “I’m putting the tracks on the big screen for comparison.”

  Pilcher watched the images appear on the screen built into the wall above the computer stations. The left side represented human foot and hand imprints. The right displayed what Hassler’s team had found in the snow. Five digits. Bear? No. Sleeker. Almost catlike, but elongated like a hominid. Good heavens.

  “Are those talon marks?” he said, fairly certain they were.

  The technician magnified the top of one of the mystery tracks, filling most of the screen.

  “Mr. Stewart certainly thinks so.”

  “So do I. Do the tracks match anything in the database?” said Pilcher.

  “We’re on our third run through the database. Spatial separation between digits and the footpad straddles the line between feline and humanoid. If I had to pick one, I’d go with humanoid based on the elongation. Then you throw in the talons.”

  “Definitely talons and not claws?” said Pilcher, squinting at the image.

  “It’s a good print. Based on snowmelt calculations, it was made a few hours ago. The two rightmost digits are conclusive,” he said, shrinking the image and matching them to images of avian tracks. “Nearly identical to a large bird of prey.”

  “Can you determine if the animal can walk upright?”

  “Computer simulations indicate that this one moves on all fours, with a feline gait.”

  A panoramic view of the pine forest floor appeared on the screen, highlighted by a string of tracks across the snow. A digital simulation of a mountain lion moved across the screen, leaving ghost tracks. The technician adjusted the lion’s tracks over the snow impressions, yielding a near perfect match.

  “Almost a direct register gait, where the hind feet are placed directly in the impressions made by the front. This one is slightly indirect, falling a few inches behind.”

  Pilcher felt simultaneously exhilarated and nervous. They had stumbled on some kind of adaptation, possibly an aberration of the human species. It was far too early to draw any conclusions. He needed more data.

  “Estimated weight?”

  “That’s a tough one. One to two hundred pounds. It’s nearly impossible to tell without seeing the animal. The weight distribution indicates a reliance on its rear legs, which is pretty typical for most quadrupeds.”

  “Nothing on infrared?”

  “Forty-eight hours of infrared imagery at this same location showed nothing. Mr. Hassler is requesting instructions.”

  “Right. Any indication beyond the tracks that they know about the other team?” he said, directing the question at Pam.

  “None. We’ve scoured the video feed and listened to every second of conversation. This is the first sign of animal life besides the birds.”

  “Very well. Patch me through,” he said, picking up a headset.

  “Adam, it seems that you’ve found something of interest,” he said, followed by an intolerable pause.

  “I’d say so. Our resident zoology expert says we’re looking at a new species. Something large with talons. Walks like a cat—but I assume you already knew that.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean,” said Pilcher.

  Hassler’s next response determined whether they lived or died.

  “Don’t tell me your computer wizards haven’t analyzed the prints,” said Hassler, buying himself more time.

  “Of course. We estimate the weight to be anywhere between one to two hundred pounds, so yes, you could be looking at a formidable catlike animal. Nothing a few .308s can’t handle.”

  “During the day, yes. At night, I’m not so sure. Night vision equipment has its limitations. We’re less than a mile from the superstructure entrance. I’d like to bring the team in for the night and resume our survey tomorrow.”

  “I’m not worried about a curious mountain lion, Mr. Hassler. Even if it has talons.”

  “Easy for you to say. You won’t be sleeping with one eye open all night. We’ll leave at first light and be back by noon.”

  “I’m not changing the plan based on one mountain lion, or one bear, or anything that you can adequately dispatch with the vast arsenal at your disposal. We’re working around the clock in here to get the fence ready. I want to start construction on the eastern side tomorrow. I need Diaz and Nguyen to assess the preselected locations so we can adjust the fittings as needed.”

  “Diaz and Nguyen look like they’ve seen a ghost. This cat thing weighs more than the two of them combined.”

  “Then do your best to convince them they are safe. That’s why I put you in charge of the expedition,” said Pilcher.

  “Just man up and do your fucking job!” yelled Pam.

  “Is that my favorite college student? Most kids don’t enter college when they’re fourteen, but Pammy must have been a child prodigy. Emphasis on the prodding,” said Hassler.

  Pilcher held a hand out to Pam before she could react. Blank faced, she visibly shook in place. Given what he knew about Pam’s early teenage years, he could see this instantly spiraling out of control. Hassler had evidently done some research into Pam’s background and knew exactly how to short-circuit her ice-cold exterior. What else does Hassler know about my crew? It didn’t matter. He’d most likely be dead before sunrise.

  “Adam, she’s right. I think your team’s combined combat skills are more than sufficient to handle the threat. Proceed to the next set of coordinates. Out,” he said and removed the
headset.

  “Get a second shooter up on the ridge with Mustin. Thermal scopes,” he said, “and Pam?”

  She stopped in mid-stride, avoiding his eyes.

  He approached close enough to whisper, “Your old life ended in Chicago nearly two thousand years ago. Here, you’re better than all of them. Don’t ever forget that. I won’t.”

  She barely nodded, which was more than he typically elicited from her. She’d come a long way. One of his most prized possessions.

  Chapter 14

  Hassler shrugged his shoulders. There wasn’t much he could say without tipping his hand, and that didn’t seem like a wise idea. He got the distinct impression from Pilcher’s tone that the wrong words might result in a game of dodge the .50-caliber projectile. They’d have to play along and hope for the best. Maybe Dean was right, and they had nothing to worry about. Large predatory cats were solo creatures, often ranging vast, established territories. They rarely attacked humans—in 2013. Pilcher had no idea when humans “vanished.” Thirteen hundred years ago was his best guess. Hassler wasn’t a world-renowned scientist, but he was willing to venture a guess that it wouldn’t take more than a three hundred year human absence for most animals to shuck their “scared of people” programming. After a thousand years? He didn’t plan on wandering off without his rifle.

  “You heard the man. Off we go. The sooner we get this done, the better. Seth?”

  “Roger that,” said King, taking a quick bearing with his compass.

  They reached the first of two proposed cliff sites at 4:08 PM, a few minutes after the last of the valley’s direct sunlight vanished behind the mountains. He didn’t see the pale yellow orb disappear, but the forest suddenly dimmed, and the blanket of fog above them darkened. Astronomical sunset for Wayward Pines was 8:14 PM, but he suspected they would run out of useful light within the next ninety minutes. Depending on how quickly Nguyen and Diaz worked their magic, the group might have a chance to reach the other side of the canyon by dark. If not, he’d keep them as close to the eastern cliffs as possible. Better to be on the edges of the valley if the cat thing wasn’t alone.

  “Hassler, this is operations. The primary site isn’t suitable for anchoring the fence. Too many easy holds and ledges on either side. Proceed to the secondary.”

  Easy holds? Maybe the fence is for keeping people in.

  “Copy. Moving a few hundred feet to the secondary.”

  They clambered over boulders and granite chunks to reach a flat, forty-foot cliff face. Nguyen panned his head-mounted camera past the trees at the shadowy granite sheet.

  “Ops, do you need us to use our flashlights on the cliff?”

  “Negative. The cameras use gen-six low-light technology. The site looks good. Give us another minute or two to run some scenarios.”

  “Roger.” Scenarios?

  “Court?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Could you climb this wall without gear and reach that ledge?”

  “Easily,” she said, stepping next to him.

  “How about your average Joe?”

  “Not a chance.”

  “There’s your analysis, gentlemen. Mind if we get this show on the road? It’s getting dark.”

  “Stand by,” said Operations.

  Five minutes later, his earpiece crackled.

  “The site has been approved for survey.”

  Diaz set up his equipment while Nguyen examined the cliff face. Hassler leaned against the cliff and stared into the rapidly disappearing forest. They planned on starting the fence tomorrow? Who is Pilcher trying to kid? They’d have to raze hundreds of trees just to create a clear path to get the trucks across the valley, let alone hundreds more to form the fence line itself. They were bait at this point.

  He sat on one of the rounded boulders, trading a furtive glance with Larsen. He understood the deal, along with King. The spoon said it all. He wondered if anyone else had started to suspect that his or her time in the valley had been extended on purpose. Doubtful. If King hadn’t discovered the spoon, he wasn’t sure any of them would have figured it out. Pilcher’s methods had been subtle. Short delays in processing their data. The Betsy gun redos. The corrupted survey data from Diaz’s equipment that had to be taken again. Walking them slightly off course. Operations constantly shaved time off their day, so they couldn’t make it back by dark. He wanted them out here at night.

  Of course. The low-light cameras. He suspected that the technician had screwed up sharing that information. He hadn’t been told by Pope that the microcameras could see in the dark. Gen six? Looks like the human race made a few technological strides before sliding into oblivion. He’d disable the camera later. Pilcher wouldn’t get any useful data at his expense.

  Watching the light drain out of the landscape, he thought about Theresa and how his obsession for her had sealed his fate. He’d become addicted to seeing her after Ethan’s disappearance, making up any reason to call her into the office or bump into her on the weekends. He convinced himself that he had always hated Ethan for cheating on her, but that wasn’t true. He’d known about Ethan’s affair with Special Agent Hewson from the start. Everybody knew, and nobody said a word. They just whispered, and he whispered with them. His feelings changed during in an informal interview at the Seattle field office. He remembered it well. She’d come in for follow-up questions, one of which was extremely delicate. Painful, actually.

  As weeks bled into months, with no forward progress in the criminal investigation, different theories started to emerge. Harsh theories requiring blunt questions. The intimate connection between Kate Hewson and Ethan Burke led to implications. Only the simultaneous disappearance of Kate’s partner, Bill Evans, kept internal affairs from coming right out and accusing them of orchestrating Ethan’s accident and vanishing together.

  At the end of the interview, he no longer saw her as Ethan Burke’s wife. Burke had destroyed that bond. Shattered that trust. Theresa Burke deserved better. He resolved to be there when she finally understood this. Pilcher’s plan to grab Theresa and her son threatened to ruin everything, so he sold his soul to the devil in the mountain. He should have known better. Pilcher had no intention of separating the Burkes. Hassler had been played from day one.

  A screech echoed through the valley, turning their heads. Echoes from the rock walls reached them a few seconds later, sounding oddly human. A second shriek followed immediately, emanating from the same direction. North.

  “Operations, did you copy that sound?”

  “Affirmative. Sounded like a bird of prey. We’re analyzing for a match.”

  Awfully big bird. There was no point engaging Pilcher’s lackeys at this point.

  “Court, would you mind joining Seth and Erik on the perimeter?”

  She unslung her rifle and walked toward Larsen, who was closest.

  “Dean?”

  “Uh-huh?” he said, holding his wife’s hand and staring into the forest.

  “What did that sound like to you?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Did it sound human?”

  Dean nodded. “Somehow.”

  A more distant screech penetrated the silence. Hassler turned his head south. So much for the lone cat theory.

  “Dean, why don’t you check in with Seth and see if he could use a hand filling in the gaps in our defensive posture.”

  The Stewarts exchanged a brief kiss, and Dean left for King’s position south of the survey site.

  “This is Operations. Analysis confirms that you heard a bird of prey. High probability match to a golden eagle.”

  Now they were just fucking with him.

  “The sound came from two directions. Don’t tell me it was an echo.”

  “Eagles fly, Mr. Hassler.”

  “So they do. We’ll be finished in about twenty minutes. I plan to make camp here against the cliff wall.”

  “Stand by.”

  Stand by for what?

  Chapter 15

  Pilcher
leaned back in his desk chair and stared at one of the screens on the wall next to him. The image showed the projected locations of the screeches detected by their directional-finding equipment. Three passive sensors installed in the peaks overlooking the valley had collected sound-wave data, allowing his technicians to triangulate the sources. The first two “sound anomalies” originated from the hospital site. The third about two miles southwest of the survey team’s location. Connecting the two locations yielded a north/south line. If Hassler kept the team in place along the eastern cliff wall, they might avoid contact with the valley’s guests—and that would put Wayward Pines even further behind schedule.

  “Infrared sensors?”

  “Nothing at either location,” said Pope.

  He didn’t understand. They should be able to detect something using infrared.

  “Tell Hassler to move across the valley to the western anchor sites. I want them in position to finish the work first thing in the morning.”

  “He’s going to fight against that,” said Pope.

  “If he resists, threaten the entire group with indefinite suspension upon return to the superstructure tomorrow. Lean hard on the Stewarts. Tell them they will be put back in their capsules and never see each other again if they do not follow orders. I’m done playing games with this group. Just get some of them moving into the open. Mustin can mop up whoever stays behind, once we get what we want.”

  “Understood. And if they all refuse?”

  “Have the snipers target Hassler, Larsen and King. Once body parts start flying, the rest will fall in line.”

  He removed his headset and pressed a button that put all of Operation’s transmissions on speaker. Targeting the team with snipers was Pilcher’s last option; one he hoped to avoid. He didn’t relish wasting lives like this, but it was necessary. He couldn’t afford to wait weeks for the fog to lift. Construction on Wayward Pines needed to start immediately if they were to have any hope of beating the next deep freeze—and construction couldn’t start until they understood why the first team disappeared after a few garbled radio transmissions.