The Last Town

by Blake Crouch

  She was in Seattle, their old home in Queen Anne—her family in the backyard on one of those perfect summer evenings when you could see everything. Rainier. The Puget Sound and the Olympics across the water. Lake Union and the skyline. Everything cool and green and the water shimmering as the sun fell. All that suffering through the chill, gray days of endless drizzle was rewarded with nights like this. The city almost too beautiful to take.

  Ethan stood by the grill, cooking salmon filets on planks of wine-soaked cedar. Ben strummed an acoustic guitar in a hammock. She was there. Everything so vibrant, the dream verging toward lucidity. She even questioned the reality as she moved to her husband and placed her hands on his shoulders, but she could smell the fish cooking, could actually feel the sunlight hit her eyes, and the good bourbon she was drinking was a pleasant lethargy in her legs.

  She said, “I think those look ready,” and then the world began to shake and even though her eyes were already open, she somehow opened them again to find Ben shaking her awake.

  She sat up from the cold rock floor of the cavern, her bearings lost. For a moment, she had no idea where she was. People were running past her toward a heavy log door that now stood wide open.

  The dream was fading fast, the real world rushing back in like a pounding hangover. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d dreamed of her life before, and the timing now seemed especially cruel.

  She looked at Ben and said, “Why is the door open?”

  “We have to leave, Mom.”

  “Why?”

  “The abbies are coming back. One of the watchers saw a swarm of them scaling the cliffs.”

  That jerked her back into full consciousness.

  “How many?” she asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Why’s everyone leaving the cavern?”

  “They don’t think the doors can handle another attack. Come on.” He took hold of her hands and pulled her up onto her feet.

  They moved toward the open door, panic intensifying in the cavern, people bunching closer as they neared the exit, elbows jabbing into ribs, skin brushing hard against skin. Theresa reached down and grabbed Ben’s hand, pulling him in front of her.

  They pushed their way through the threshold of the massive door.

  The tunnel echoed with voices, everyone fighting to reach the daylight at the opening.

  Theresa and Ben emerged under a midday sky so blue it looked fake. She stepped right to the edge of the cliff and took a stomach-swimming glance straight down.

  Said, “Oh Jesus.”

  At least twenty abbies had begun to scale the cliff.

  Another fifty were gathering at the base, three hundred feet below.

  More still coming out of the forest.

  Ben moved toward the edge, but she held him back. “Don’t even think about it.”

  What had started as chaos inside the cavern was escalating toward hysteria out in the open. People had seen what was coming. Some had fled back into the tunnel. Others were trying to climb higher up the mountain. A few had become frozen with fear, sitting down against the rock, trying to tune the world right out.

  Those whom Ethan had armed were getting into positions along the uppermost ledge, trying to take aim on the abbies that were already climbing the wall.

  Theresa watched one woman drop her rifle.

  Saw a man lose his footing and fall screaming into the forest.

  The first gunshot rang out from the ledge.

  “Mom, what do we do?”

  Theresa hated the terror she saw building in Ben’s eyes. She glanced back at the rocky path leading into the cavern.

  “Should we have stayed inside?” Ben asked.

  “And prayed the door held? No.”

  To the right of the cave opening, a narrow ledge extended around the mountain. From this distance, Theresa couldn’t tell if it was navigable, but it was something.

  “Come on.” She grabbed Ben’s arm and hustled him back up the path toward the tunnel as more gunshots broke out behind them.

  “I thought you said—”

  “We aren’t going back into the cavern, Ben.”

  When they reached the opening to the tunnel, Theresa got her first good look at the ledge. It couldn’t have been wider than a foot. There were no planks, no cables. It looked right on the edge of plausible.

  She faced her son as people streaked past them, heading back into the tunnel.

  Somewhere in the forest below, an abby shrieked.

  “We have to follow this ledge,” she said.

  Ben stared at the slim, natural path across the cliff face, and said, “That looks scary.”

  “Would you rather be trapped in that cavern when fifty abbies break the door down?”

  “What about everyone else?”

  “My job is to protect you. You ready?”

  He gave a quick, unconvincing nod.

  Theresa felt her stomach clench. She stepped out onto the ledge and pressed her chest against the wall, her palms trailing across the rock. Taking small, shuffling steps, she clutched handholds where she could find them. After five feet, she looked back at Ben.

  “See how I did that?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Your turn.”

  Hard as it had been leaving the safety of that wide path into the mountain, it was infinitely more excruciating to watch her son step out onto the ledge. The very first thing he did was look down.

  “No, don’t do that, honey. Look at me.”

  Ben looked up. “It’s a lot scarier in the daylight.”

  “Just focus on taking safe steps, and keep your hands on the wall like I am. Sometimes there will be places to grab.”

  Ben started toward her, step by step.

  “You’re doing great, honey.”

  He reached her.

  They went on.

  After twenty feet, the exposure opened up wide beneath them, a four-hundred-foot drop straight down to the forest floor. So vertical, if you fell you wouldn’t bounce off anything until you hit the ground.

  “How we doing, buddy?” Theresa asked.

  “Okay.”

  “Are you looking down?”

  “No.”

  Theresa glanced back. He was.

  “Goddammit, Ben.”

  “I can’t help it,” he said. “It makes my stomach feel weird and tingly.”

  She wanted to reach out, take his hand, hold him tight.

  “We need to keep moving,” she said.

  Theresa couldn’t be certain, but the path seemed to be narrowing. Her left foot, which she kept perpendicular to the ledge and pointed into the mountain, was hanging off the edge by an inch or two.

  As they arrived at a bend in the mountain, a flurry of gunfire exploded back toward the cavern. Theresa and Ben both looked. Several dozen people were retreating up the path into the tunnel with a speed and intensity that suggested they were fleeing for their lives. The scream of an abby, and another, and another broke out as those pale, translucent monsters climbed off the side of the cliff wall. When they got their talons on level ground, the abbies rushed on all fours up the path toward the tunnel.

  “What if they see us?” Ben asked.

  “Don’t move,” Theresa whispered. “Not even a muscle.”

  When the last of the abbies—she counted forty-four—had disappeared into the tunnel, Theresa said, “Let’s go.”

  As they moved around the bend, a deep, thumping sound spilled out of the tunnel.

  “What is that?” Ben asked.

  “The abbies. They’re beating on the door to the cavern.”

  Theresa hugged the cliff and stepped around the corner onto a six-inch ledge, her heart in her throat.

  Suddenly, a great chorus of screams rose up inside the tunnel. />
  VI

  HASSLER

  GAS WORKS PARK

  SEATTLE, WASHINGTON

  1,816 YEARS AGO

  Hassler flips burgers on a grill in the shadow of the remnants of the Seattle Gas Light Company, a collection of rusted cylinders and ironwork that looms in the distance like the ruins of a steampunk skyline. The expanse of emerald grass runs down to the edge of Lake Union, which sparkles under the late afternoon sun. It’s June. It’s warm. The entire city seems to be out taking advantage of this rare, perfect day.

  Sailboat masts add triangles of color to the lake.

  Kites sprinkle color in the sky.

  Frisbees slice through the air and the bright noise of children’s laughter echoes from the plant’s exhauster-compressor building, which has been renovated into a “play barn.”

  It’s the annual company picnic for the Secret Service’s Seattle field office, and Hassler can’t shake how odd it is to see his team sporting all those bare legs and sandaled feet in place of crisp black suits and pantsuits.

  His assistant, Mike, walks up carrying two empty plates and a couple of bratwurst requests.

  As Hassler spears one of the brats, he spots Theresa Burke moving away from the group she’s been standing with, heading down toward the shoreline at a pace substantially faster than a leisurely stroll.

  Hassler sets down the fork and looks at his assistant.

  “Did I mention I’m promoting you?” Hassler says.

  Mike’s eyes go wide with self-interest. The young man has only been working with Hassler for eight months, but he has, on a number of occasions, demonstrated a complete lack of awareness regarding the fact that his main purpose in life is answering the phones, pouring coffee, and typing up the special agent in charge’s dictation.

  Mike says, “Seriously?”

  Hassler lifts the white-and-red checkerboard apron over his head and appoints his apprentice.

  “Your new duties include asking people if they’d like a hamburger, bratwurst, or both. And also, not burning shit.”

  Mike’s shoulders sag. “I was getting a plate for Lacy.”

  “That your new girl?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Tell her to come over so you can fill her in on the big news.” Hassler slaps Mike on the shoulder and abandons the grill, moving down through the buttercup-dotted grass.

  Theresa stands by the water.

  Hassler walks to the shore and stops twenty feet away, pretending to take in the splendor of the view.

  The radio towers at the top of Capitol Hill.

  The house-covered hillsides of Queen Anne.

  After a moment, he glances over.

  Theresa stares hard across the water, her jaw tight, eyes intense.

  He asks, “Everything okay?”

  She startles, looks over, wipes her eyes, and musters up a pathetic smile.

  “Oh, yeah. Just enjoying the day. Wish we got more like this.”

  “No kidding. Kind of makes me wish I knew how to sail.”

  Theresa glances back toward the park where the rest of the party is mingling.

  Hassler looks too.

  The breeze carries the pleasant reek of beer in plastic cups.

  He spots Ethan Burke and Kate Hewson standing off to the side, just the two of them, Kate laughing as Ethan gestures his way through what appears to be a story or a joke.

  Hassler closes the distance between himself and Theresa.

  “You’re not having much fun, are you?”

  She shakes her head.

  Hassler says, “These work parties must be weird for the families. My agents see each other day in, day out. Probably spend more time together than with their own spouses. Then you come here, feel like an outsider.”

  Theresa smiles. “You pretty much nailed it.”

  She starts to say something else, but stops short.

  “What?” Hassler prods, venturing a step closer. He can smell her conditioner, whatever body wash she used that morning.

  Theresa’s eyes are clear and green. The electricity goes in through his eyes and travels down into the pit of his stomach. He feels, all at once—sick, exhilarated, terrified, alive.

  Radiantly so.

  “Should I be worried?” she asks.

  “Worried?”

  She lowers her voice. “About them. Ethan and”—it’s like she doesn’t even want to say the word, like it brings a bad taste to her mouth—“Kate.”

  “Worried how?”

  He knows. He just wants to hear her say it.

  “They’ve been partners, what? Four months now?” she asks.

  “Yeah, something like that.”

  “That’s an intense relationship, right? Partner-partner?”

  “Can be. You work cases together. Often long hours. You have to trust each other with your lives.”

  “So she’s like his work wife.”

  Hassler says, “I’d be hard-pressed to name any pair of agents under my supervision who aren’t close. The nature of the job pushes people together.”

  “It’s just hard,” Theresa says.

  “I can’t imagine.”

  “So you don’t think . . .”

  “I haven’t personally seen anything that would make me suspect Ethan is anything other than a devoted husband to you. He’s a lucky man. I hope you know that.”

  Theresa blows out a sigh, puts her face into her hands.

  “What’s wrong?” he asks.

  “I shouldn’t have—”

  “No, it’s fine. Please.”

  “Do me a favor?” Theresa asks.

  “Name it.”

  “Don’t tell Ethan about this conversation. You don’t know me that well, Adam, but I’m not a jealous person. It’s just . . . I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

  “Lips are sealed.” Hassler smiles. “And you should know, I’m pretty good with the whole confidentiality thing. The word ‘secret’ is in my job title, for chrissakes.”

  Now Theresa smiles at him and he can barely stand it, knows he will think of little else in the days to come.

  “Thank you,” she says, and puts her hand briefly on his arm.

  He could live a year in this moment.

  “I could stay here,” he offers. “Keep you company . . .”

  “Oh no, you’ve got a party to get back to, and I’ve got some big girl panties to pull up. But you’re sweet to offer.”

  Theresa starts back up the grassy slope and Hassler watches her go. What it is about this woman that rips his heart out, he can’t exactly say. Truth be told, they’re just acquaintances. Have talked only a handful of times.

  When she breezed through the office to bring Ethan something.

  A bump-into-each-other at the symphony.

  A cookout he was invited to at the Burke house.

  Hassler has never been married, hasn’t been in love since high school, but in this moment, as he stands on the shore of Lake Union watching Theresa arrive at Ethan’s side and wrap her arm around his waist, he feels a flicker of blinding jealousy, as if he’s watching the woman who belongs with him falling for another man.

  ETHAN

  He crashed the CJ-5 through the rock-facade door. A piece of metal struck the windshield, sent a long, branching crack straight down the middle of the glass.

  Ethan had half expected a brigade of Pilcher’s men to be waiting for him, but the tunnel stood empty.

  He shifted into third gear.

  Thirty-five miles per hour up the steep grade was the best he could do.

  Lights streamed past overhead.

  The bedrock dripping on the fractured windshield.

  Every time he rounded a curve, he expected to see a roadblock, a line of Pilcher’s men with assault rifles and orders to s
hoot on sight.

  Then again, it was possible Pilcher’s people had no idea what he’d done.

  The only camera feeds in the superstructure were in surveillance HQ and Pilcher’s office. Surveillance techs could be sealed off, locked up, bribed, killed. Pilcher’s inner circle no doubt held a delusional sense of loyalty toward the man, but Ethan couldn’t let himself imagine all of them just standing by while he murdered the last of humanity.

  His ears popped.

  He was getting close and still no sign of resistance.

  If he had to bet, Pilcher was planning to make certain that every last resident of Wayward Pines had been wiped out and then tell his people there had been a terrible accident. A fence failure. Nothing to be done.

  Ethan eased his foot off the gas as the entrance to the superstructure came into view around a long, gentle curve.

  He rolled into the massive cavern and brought the Jeep to a stop.

  Jammed the gearshift into first.

  Killed the engine.

  He picked the Desert Eagle up off the floorboard, tugged the slide back and let it reset so the gun looked loaded. Digging through his pockets again, he only found two boxes of twelve-gauge slugs and his Harpy.

  Opening the door, he stepped down onto the stone. The ark was quiet, no sound but a soft hiss—the rush of forced air—coming from the blue-lit suspension center.

  Ethan unzipped his parka and tossed it into the Jeep, shoved the impotent Desert Eagle down the front of his mud-smeared, bloodstained Wranglers.

  Approaching the thick glass doors that led into Level 1 of the complex, it dawned on him that he didn’t have a keycard.

  A camera pointed down at him from above the doors.

  Are you watching me now?

  You must know I’m here.

  A voice behind him said, “Put your hands on your head. Interlock your fingers.”

  Ethan raised his hands and turned slowly.

  A kid in his early twenties with a bandage around his head stood fifty feet away beside the closest of the massive cylindrical reservoirs in the ark, pointing an AR-15 at Ethan.

  “Hi, Marcus,” Ethan said.

  Marcus moved toward him, and in the jaundiced illumination of the hanging globe lights, looked mad as hell. To be fair, he had cause. During their last encounter, Ethan had pistol-whipped him.