Wayward Pines- Genesis Collection

by Steven Konkoly

  “Pain in the fucking ass,” mumbled Pope, stepping out of sight to make the radio call.

  Forty minutes later, they staged the weapons and loaded magazine rigs in ready racks next to the door leading into the main hallway. He had been right about a secondary access point. He stared at the rifles and ammunition carriers. It had seemed like an inordinate amount of firepower to bring outside until he noticed one of the sniper rifles missing from the far wall. Someone deemed it necessary to watch over the valley with one of the armory’s .50-caliber Barrett M107 rifles.

  Chapter 10

  A convoy of Jeep Wranglers delivered the survey team to the exit hatch. The ride lasted eight minutes, driven in low gear at twenty miles per hour. The trip felt infinitely more harrowing on the way down than the way up. The grade was reasonable, maybe fifteen percent, but one mistake could send them on an uncontrolled, two-mile descent into a solid wall of steel. Just the thought of it turned his stomach. He cast a look at his grizzled driver. With Pilcher’s affinity for recruiting misfits, he was probably staring at a man who had killed his family in a drunk driving accident.

  The tightness in his chest eased as the Jeep slowed. Pilcher and his two monkeys stood behind a row of Jersey barricades located twenty feet from the steel door. Pam and Pope carried assault rifles slung over their shoulders. They stood in front of the team’s weapons, which Pilcher had insisted on delivering to the door. Hassler hit the pavement as soon as the Jeep lurched to a stop.

  “Adam! I can’t tell you how excited I am. We’ve attached two forty-foot climbing lines to the barriers. More than enough to get you to the forest floor. It’s only a ten-foot drop from the hatch, so nobody should have a problem getting down.”

  “Sounds good. We have solid comms with Operations. Wireless camera feeds are functional,” said Hassler, tapping the headband-mounted miniature camera protruding under the left side of his grey ski hat.

  “Excellent. It’s imperative that this gear remains functional at all times. We need to record everything. If the communications gear fails for any reason, you are to fire one or more of the star cluster flares and report immediately to the hatch. We’ll be waiting for you. If you can’t move the group, for whatever reason, mark your position with one of the smoke grenades, and we’ll send someone out to get you.”

  The communications equipment was voice activated, apparently sourced after 2013. No buttons to press, which also meant they were under constant audio surveillance. He suspected the same with the cameras. He’d been told that they were motion activated, which meant they would constantly feed data to the mountain. Microchipped and under constant scrutiny, a new thought crossed his mind. Maybe the .50-caliber sniper rifle served a different purpose.

  “Got it,” said Hassler, watching his team gather in front of the Jeeps.

  “I don’t anticipate any trouble, but I’m unexpectedly nervous about this. I’ve tasted the air and stood on the cliffs, but strangely enough—I still feel like I haven’t left 2013. Dropping you into Wayward Pines is our first real step into the future. I think I might be jealous. Ha! Can you imagine that? If only I was twenty years younger.”

  Pilcher put a hand on Hassler’s shoulder. “This puts you in league with Neil Armstrong. Ahead of him, in my humble opinion. Think about that!”

  “I guess I never thought of it that way.”

  “Of course you didn’t. Up until about two weeks ago, this was all theory—which makes your leap of faith all the more impressive. Get the team fully geared up and assembled. No big speech today. Just out the door into our future.”

  Several minutes later, they stepped in front of the barriers with four heavily armed members of the superstructure security team. Just a precaution, he had been assured by Pilcher. Right along with the .50-caliber sniper rifle watching over them. Everyone played it cool, but he sensed more tension than excitement. Larsen and King picked up on the same vibe, glancing at him as they approached the twenty-foot-tall by fifteen-foot-wide hatch. The Stewarts followed closely behind, carrying the coils of rope they would throw over the edge.

  “Let’s form a line here. All the way across,” said one of the security officers, stopping them several feet back from the door. “Security, ready your weapons.”

  Larsen and King flipped their rifles’ selector switches off safe. He’d already discussed weapons protocol with the team. The three ex-military types would constantly assess the situation and exercise their best judgment about weapons posture. The rest would follow directions given by Hassler. He glanced over his shoulder and saw that Pam and Pope had taken cover behind the concrete barriers, rifles pointed in their direction. So much for muzzle discipline.

  The lead security officer gave a thumbs-up and crouched. A few seconds later, the enormous door started to rise like a garage door, filling the entrance with moist, cold air. Hassler crouched to see beyond it. Misty forest. The door stopped about four feet off the ground. Pilcher was worried about something out there. After scanning left and right with their rifles, the security team moved forward and ducked under the door.

  “Clear. Bring your team forward. Hurry up!” said one of the voices from the other side.

  “Let’s go,” said Hassler.

  “I’ll be waiting with an expensive bottle of scotch!” said Pilcher.

  “Better make that two,” Hassler yelled back before scooting under the door.

  They emerged on a ledge suspended over the snow-covered forest floor, weapons sweeping the shadowy world of Wayward Pines. Massive chunks of granite littered the dense pine forest beyond the exit, gradually tapering off until the trees and snow. He held his breath and listened. Silence on a scale he couldn’t recall. Only the low rustle of the nearest spruce boughs.

  “Throw the lines,” he said, stepping aside to make room for the Stewarts.

  They easily descended into the slushy snow, fanning out from the ledge to form a hasty perimeter. Nguyen was the last down, requiring the security guards to tie one of the ropes to his harness and lower him. The instant Hassler released the knot attached to Nguyen, the lines and the guards disappeared. Moments later, the door descended, locking them into Wayward Pines.

  “Ops, this is Hassler. Radio check.”

  “This is Ops. Solid copy.”

  “Same here. Out.”

  He turned to the team, which faced outward, staring into the murky forest.

  “Comms are good. Let’s take a bearing and head to the primary survey site. Seth, take us out when you’re ready.”

  King nodded and went to work with his compass. All of the bearing lines they would use had been calculated by Operations and double-checked by Hassler. The first bearing, zero-three-five, took them 1.2 miles northeast to the former site of Wayward Pines Consolidated School.

  A generous donation to the town in 2008, by Pilcher of course, paid for the construction of a cutting-edge school. Construction crews, once again hand-selected by Pilcher, buried a total of four equidistant stainless-steel rods underneath the structure. Two feet in diameter and thirty feet tall, the rods should theoretically be visible to Nguyen’s seismic readout. Diaz would start his survey from the center point created by the rods, assuming they hadn’t been pilfered or significantly displaced. If that turned out to be the case, they would attempt to triangulate the location using markers cut into the surrounding cliff walls prior to the final wave of deamination.

  “Anyone see anything out of place for 2013?” said Hassler.

  Dean and Kris Stewart had started to examine the low branches, studying the pine needles. They didn’t have a lot of flora to work with at this point, since most of the underbrush wouldn’t start to grow for another month or two when the snow was gone and temperatures regularly hit fifty degrees. From what he could tell, the snow had a few more weeks until it completely disappeared, unless they had an unexpected mountain storm, which wasn’t out of the question in Idaho.

  “Looks like a Douglas fir to me,” said Kris Stewart, holding a small sprig of pi
ne. “Do you want me to take samples now?”

  “Not yet. You’ll have all the time in the world over at the school site.”

  King turned around. “Ready to roll.”

  Chapter 11

  The short hike to the estimated school site yielded no surprises on the ground. Spruce and lodgepole pines dominated the trip, with the occasional intrusion by a native aspen. The Stewarts lost interest in the trees halfway to their destination, focusing more on the birds than the relatively uniform forest. Everyone appeared to be encouraged by the sight of birds. Despite the familiarity offered by the pine forest, seeing another living creature delivered the next level of comfort and normalcy. He needed to see something bigger, even if they had to kill it. Birds were one thing, mammals were another. Peering through the endless sea of quiet pines, he wasn’t optimistic. The birds would suffice—for now.

  They arrived at the calculated location, which looked no different than the rest of the forest they had traversed. Now he truly understood why it would take so long to rebuild Wayward Pines. Just clearing the forest was a monumental task. Never mind building an entire town from scratch. Two years sounded like a conservative estimate. There was no way he could wait that long to be with Theresa. Every delay would be torturous, knowing what waited for him at the finish line—and he’d suffer alone. Nobody had the same reward on the other side of that line. All they had was a long, fruitless life in Pilcher’s superstructure, watching people like him live normal lives. Sucks to be them.

  “I hope the markers are still in place,” said Hassler, staring skyward.

  The fog continued to obscure their view of the cliffs through the pine branches.

  “We’ll soon find out,” said Nguyen, dropping his oversized pack on the snow.

  “Courtney, do you mind helping Raymond and Victor set up their gear?”

  “Sure. You can call me Court,” she said, keeping her stoic expression intact.

  “Thanks, Court. Once we get up into the canyon, I’ll turn you loose to have some fun in the rocks. Until then, I don’t have much to offer.”

  She must have fucked up big time to end up on this dream team. This was the last place he would expect to find a Bohemian extreme adventurer type. Pilcher didn’t strike him as the kind to start a medical marijuana dispensary, especially under the living conditions he witnessed in the superstructure. No. “Court” was doomed to spend the rest of her days in a sober, unaltered hell. No wonder she always looked like she just swallowed a turd.

  “Erik, would you mind escorting the Stewarts on a nature hike to gather specimens and make observations? We’re going to be here for a while. Comms check every ten minutes if you’re out of sight.”

  “How close do you want us?” said Larsen.

  “Once Diaz takes his initial sightings here, we’ll move north to the top of Main Street. You could range north and meet us when we arrive. As long as we have good comms, I’m not worried.”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  “If anything doesn’t add up out there, head back immediately,” said Hassler.

  Larsen patted his rifle. “I don’t anticipate anything I can’t handle.”

  “Watch out for poisonous squirrels.”

  “Right. I almost forgot about those,” said the ex-soldier.

  “Seth, you and I get the exciting job of watching over these three.”

  “Easy enough. If you don’t mind, I’ll patrol out a hundred yards and circle the site. Look for tracks. Listen for anything bigger than a finch.”

  “Keep yourself from slowly going crazy out here?” said Hassler.

  “Something like that.”

  “You know where to find us,” said Hassler.

  Nguyen and Diaz spent the next thirty minutes preparing the Betsy gun for the seismic survey. Their biggest challenge was boring a twenty-four-inch hole in the ground to accommodate their modified version. Unlike most applications of the Betsy gun, which fired an eight-gauge, 90-gram slug directly into the ground, the barrel of this particular gun would penetrate twelve of the twenty-four inches bored into the ground. Someone long ago had determined that firing a solid slug at frozen ground was a bad idea.

  The Betsy gun was a simple device, resembling a stainless-steel section of pipe with a cross handle near the top. A basic loading chamber held the eight-gauge, 90-gram slug; the percussion cap screwed into place once the shell was loaded. Nguyen would strike the cap with a mallet, detonating the round. The slug’s impact sent a seismic shockwave downward, which was reflected back and recorded by ground probes connected to a wireless seismometer. A few minutes later, Ops would tell them what to do. “Monkey see, monkey do.” Sort of.

  “Victor, have you done this type of firing before,” said Hassler.

  “All the time. It’s completely safe.”

  “Even through frozen ground?”

  “No, but the concept is the same.”

  “Do me a huge favor. Attach the mallet to a long, flexible branch. I think that thing’s going to take off like a rocket. It won’t go far, but it could fuck up your hand.”

  “I’ve never seen one come out of the ground.”

  “It’s your show.”

  Several minutes later, Nguyen finally hit the percussion cap with the wobbly mallet. Hassler had almost given up watching Nguyen swing the branch when the Betsy gun detonated, launching several feet into the air. He guessed broken wrists were common in Diaz’s line of work. While they waited for the results, King returned from his patrol with a neutral stare that seemed off-kilter.

  “See anything?”

  “Pine trees. Snow. A few birds,” he said, stopping next to Hassler.

  “Any tracks?”

  “Nothing, but with this kind of melt rate, something would have to cross the snow within the last day or so to show up. Even if it was big,” he said.

  Hassler detected an object near the right side of his face, followed by a quick tap on his right shoulder. The object continued a few more inches, moving further across his peripheral vision. He understood what King was doing and didn’t turn his head. The item moved in front of his right eye and stopped. Motherfucker if I’m not staring at the same shit-brown spoon found in every military-issued MRE.

  “Not mine,” said King.

  “Not mine, either.”

  “Interesting.”

  “That’s one way to look at it.”

  If they were the B-team, what happened to the A-team? He waited a few seconds before turning. The spoon was gone, and the former Special Operations Marine’s face betrayed no knowledge of their secret. King had already run the scenarios, understood the stakes. If Hassler’s team didn’t return, Pilcher wakes the C-team. Rinse and repeat. They were expendable.

  Chapter 12

  King’s navigation turned out to be flawless. Operations moved Nguyen and Diaz thirteen feet north and called it good. They shared a look of relief when the radio transmission broadcast over their headsets. He’d saved them from having to repeat the Betsy gun process and invite every animal in Wayward Pines to join them. The first shot undoubtedly announced their presence. The second would have given their position away. Animals, especially predators, had surprisingly acute and accurate auditory processing capabilities. He just hoped that the future Betsy shots were well spaced along the east-west axis. Predators drawn into the valley would approach from the south. If two shots lined up on the north-south axis, they could end up walking into an ambush later in the day as they travelled out of Wayward Pines.

  Diaz spent the next hour and a half taking measurements with his tripod-mounted Total Station, which transmitted all of the data back to the superstructure. In case we don’t return. The discovery of the spoon put everything into perspective. Their survival was an ancillary consideration. Pilcher wanted data. Geologic data. Survey data. Threat data. The Stewarts hadn’t discovered any ground tracks on their trek with Larsen, so Hassler guessed that the threat data would be collected last, as Pilcher likely intended. Why waste your assets
?

  They finished the job at ground zero and travelled north, following the directions provided by their “eye in the mountain.” With the initial survey stake transmitting remotely, Operations could track their microchips and guide them to the next point, where Diaz would set up his gear and confirm the measurements. They had just taken “monkey see, monkey do” to the next level, which was fine with Hassler. Without worrying about navigation, his security team could worry about more important things— like keeping an eye out for whatever necessitated a twenty-foot-tall, electrified fence around Wayward Pines.

  The rest of the morning was spent hiking from one proposed building site to the next. Nguyen would fire a Betsy slug into the ground, causing King and Hassler to cringe, while Diaz set up his equipment to take more measurements. Courtney Graves napped against a tree most of the time while the Stewarts made the same observations over and over again, to nobody’s surprise. Same trees. Same birds. Nothing had changed from 2013, except one thing. No signs of the human race. During a short lunch break, King showed Larsen the mystery spoon, bringing him into the inner circle.

  They changed tactics as the group moved further south. King walked point, and Larsen brought up the rear. Hassler stayed with the main group. He wondered if Operations had noticed the shift in their defensive posture. It probably didn’t matter. As long as they continued on schedule, Pilcher wasn’t likely to interfere. He peered through the trees, catching a glimpse of the western cliffs through a break in the persistent fog. The superstructure was buried somewhere in that rock. A flash near the southernmost peaks caught his eye. He’d just been glassed. 4,000 feet is one hell of a shot, even for a .50-caliber rifle. The mountains faded as the fog quickly repaired the small window out of Wayward Pines.

  They reached the last site at 2:06 PM, leaving them about two hours of direct sunlight. The imposing cliff walls limited the sun’s hang-time over Wayward Pines, resulting in wild temperature swings, especially during the summer months. A high seventy-degree afternoon in July could dip into the mid-thirties twelve hours later, catching ill-prepared overnight hikers unprepared. The Stewarts ensured that the team packed cold weather gear and tents. They expected temperatures in the low twenties tonight.