The next one leapt out of the right flank, headed directly for Hassler. A hastily fired bullet caught it in the shoulder, spinning it ninety degrees and slowing its momentum. The next projectile passed through its neck with little effect. It slammed into him, slashing and biting at his face. Talons tore through his ski hat and night vision mount, slicing to the bone above his right ear. Rows of pointed teeth snapped against the polymer hand guards of his MK12 rifle. Without thinking, he drew the rifle back and pounded its face with the buttstock, showering the ground with dark fluid. The creature dropped to both knees, giving him enough time to turn the rifle and fire point blank through its forehead.
He lifted his night vision goggles while it wavered upright. It had to be the most disgustingly warped thing he had ever seen. A hairless, sinewy, translucent humanoid. He could see the thing’s heart pumping through its fucking skin! Within the span of a few visibly weakening heartbeats, he knew exactly what they were up against. Themselves—after eighteen hundred years of DNA corruption. Pilcher’s prediction had come true, but not in any way he could have possibly anticipated.
When the pale creature toppled forward and hit the ground at Nguyen’s feet, the geologist took one look and bolted. He passed Larsen and sprinted toward the cliff wall, firing his rifle wildly into the forest ahead. Earsplitting screeches ripped through the forest as most of the attacking group diverted to chase Nguyen. The unplanned diversion evened the odds and bought them some time.
“Time to move,” said Hassler.
“Me, Larsen, King and Graves form a line and bring up the rear. Stewarts navigate to the hatch. Bearing two-eight-niner. Shoot and scoot,” he said, killing two creatures that had lowered their heads to ram King.
They travelled fifty feet before having to stop and deal with the next wave. The thunderous roar of gunfire momentarily drowned out the hideous shrieks, grinding the suicidal onslaught of monsters to a halt.
“Sprint! We’ll move between waves!”
Hassler dodged trees and fought to keep his footing in slushy snow as they scrambled across the valley. The Stewarts fell behind almost immediately, forcing them to slow down. Dozens of screeches filled the woods behind them. He did the math. The next wave of monstrosities would catch up to them in thirty seconds. They had over a mile to travel. The strategy had zero chance of succeeding.
“This isn’t going to work,” he said.
“Every man for himself?” said Larsen.
“There’s no other way,” said Hassler.
“See you on the other side,” said King, sprinting southwest and disappearing below the tree line.
“Not if I see you first,” said Larsen, already headed northeast.
Hassler ran northwest, dropping into the same creek bed that had swallowed King. He followed the shallow stream north, chased by the sounds of a frenzied massacre. High above, the distant boom of a .50-caliber sniper rifle carried through the valley.
Chapter 20
Pilcher appeared in the doorway with Pam. He looked out of breath compared to his twenty-year-old protégé. Good. Maybe he’ll have a heart attack. Speed up his eventual promotion to king of the mountain. Until then, endless questions.
“How many escaped?”
“Four. Hassler, Larsen, Graves and—shit. Make that three. They just caught up with King.”
“That quickly?”
“He took the creek bed south, trying to break through their lines. Made it nine hundred and seventy feet. Further than I expected.”
“How did Graves survive?” said Pilcher.
“She chased Larsen. The pack converging on the Stewarts missed her.”
“Hassler?”
“Took the creek bed north, which turned out to be a better choice.”
“Patch me through to Hassler,” said Pilcher, stepping into the Operations Center.
“He’s not responding.”
“What do you mean he’s not responding? He better fucking respond, or I’ll leave his ass out there!”
“Sir, we’re reviewing his audio. We picked up some cues indicating a close-quarters scuffle. His unit might be damaged.”
“Well, tough luck for Hassler. Get the other two on the line for a conference call. Patch me through.”
“Sir, you’re on with Larsen and Graves.”
“Erik. Courtney.”
Silence.
“I know you’re listening. In ten minutes, I will send a heavily armed assault team to rescue the survivors.”
Pam looked at Pilcher quizzically. He shook his head vigorously and mouthed, “No I’m not.”
“Twelve men. Full weapon load-outs and body armor. I can only send this team to one location. Hassler has refused to communicate, so he’s off the list. That leaves the two of you.”
“Send the team. You know where to find us.”
“Deploying the team represents a substantial risk to the personnel involved. I need to know what they’re up against.”
“I bet. Let me make this easy for you, David. Twelve men will not be enough.”
“I’ll send more.”
“Same result.”
“What in God’s name is out there?” he hissed.
“Let’s just say that your prediction about the fate of humanity took an unexpected turn.”
“Damn it, Erik. This isn’t a joke! The fate of humanity is at stake!”
Pilcher’s face and shiny bald scalp had turned dark red.
A few more minutes of this, and I might get a promotion well ahead of schedule, thought Pope.
“If you want to know what’s out here, I suggest you suit up and take a look for yourself. Larsen and Graves. Out.”
Larsen is a dead man, if Pilcher doesn’t drop first.
“Erik? Courtney? Answer immediately!”
Nothing.
“He’s protecting Graves. Pope, order Mustin to target Graves. I want her out of the equation.”
He hesitated. Pilcher tended to make rash decisions when he was angry, often requiring significant cleanup on his part. Abducting Secret Service agents was one of Pilcher’s worst calls, jeopardizing the entire operation and delaying Pope’s suspension for several years. Was there a downside to killing Graves, other than lowering the odds that they would collect valuable information?
“Pope! This is not the time for internal debate. Target Graves. Once it’s done, give Larsen until 9 AM to return to the hatch, or his golden ticket will be permanently revoked. Where is Hassler?”
“Still moving north,” said the technician.
“Any hostiles blocking his path home?”
“Impossible to say, sir. IR signatures have faded into the background.”
“Fucking Hassler!” he said, storming out of the room.
Pam hovered in the doorway, grinning at him like a mental patient. “Watch your shit,” she said and closed the door.
Watch yours, you stupid bitch. Pope sat on the edge of the table behind the technicians.
“Let’s see it from start to finish again.”
“The whole thing?”
“No. Start it when they get to Nguyen.”
A time-stamped, IR camera feed appeared on the seventy-inch flat-screen. Transposed against a grey background, a white figure pitched sideways like the victim of an invisible hit and run accident. He should have stayed with the team. The figure thrashed on the ground, kicking and punching. He struggled for a few more seconds before giving up completely. Then it happened. Specks of white started to move away from Nguyen, in the direction of the Stewarts. Dozens of creatures taking a warm chunk of Nguyen’s flesh with them. Heat signatures. He’d ordered Mustin’s team to engage any small IR signatures in the vicinity of a confirmed team casualty. The Stewarts kept Mustin’s snipers busy for more than fifteen minutes.
Chapter 21
The back of Hassler’s head snapped against the tree trunk, jolting him awake. Shit. How long have I been out? He didn’t dare move his hand to check his watch, not that it mattered. Based on the light
filtering through the trees, he knew the answer to the question. Too fucking long. The last time he’d checked had been 3:44 AM.
He pressed his throbbing skull against the bark and listened. Pine boughs softly rustled from a crisp breeze. Birds chirped. The stream rippled. So far, so good. Moving slowly, he leaned his head over each shoulder, scanning the snow for footprints. Clear. He couldn’t see behind the tree.
A bright light hit his face, forcing him to squint. He fought the urge to cover his eyes with one of his hands. The flash persisted. Peering through the branches at the western mountain peaks, he located the source of the light. It had to be a signal mirror. He crept his right hand up to his cheek and gave them the middle finger.
A quick flash, long flash and a quick flash hit his face. I’m awake, assholes! The series of flashes repeated—twice. They were trying to communicate with him. Two thousand years in the future and they were using one of the oldest methods of communication in the book. He debated what to do next. The fact that they had a clear line of sight to him didn’t bode well for his survival prospects. Without the fog, his information about the creatures lost significant value. The longer they spent watching the valley, the less they needed him. He needed to get to the hatch as soon as possible. He stared into the mountains and nodded. The flashes continued.
Radio?
He blinked broken.
Hatch by 9.
AM?
Yes.
Bearing?
Two. One. Eight. Point nine miles.
Roger. Survivors?
Larsen. Enroute to you. Link up.
Hostiles?
Unknown. Quiet since one.
Roger. Scotch?
Waiting.
Apparently, Pilcher still needed him. Time to get moving—before that changed. He loosened the quick release knots holding his legs to the thick branch, careful not to let the lengths of line fall to the forest floor. After securing the lines to his vest, he eased his stiff legs out of the camouflage bivvy bag and straddled the limb, lowering his legs in slow motion. He stopped and listened for several seconds before continuing. After tying the insulated, waterproof bag to the tree, he released one of the hitches holding his torso against the mature spruce, leaving the second in place for stability.
Something splashed in the creek behind the tree, freezing him in place. Larsen? He had no intention of leaning over to check. Larsen knew where to find him. A distinctly human voice whispered his first name. Definitely Larsen. He twisted far enough to see around the tree. Larsen kneeled in the snow on the near side of the creek bed, examining the tracks leading to Hassler’s hide site. He stared into the spruce boughs.
“Adam,” he whispered forcefully. “Get your ass down. We have to get moving.”
Hassler reached for the last hitch pinning him to the tree, his hands dropping to the rifle instead. The birds had gone silent. Searching through the pine spurs, he spotted two pale creatures darting through the trees “on all fours,” headed toward Larsen. He shifted the MK12 rifle across his chest and pressed the magazine into the crook of his left elbow, steadying the rifle. Leaning as far as possible around the tree, he placed the ACOG scope’s green reticle center mass on the closest aberration. His face came out of the scope. Sorry, brother.
Larsen detected them at the last possible moment, managing to duck and fire two bullets into the first beast. Already in midair, the thing crashed into him at an incredible rate of speed. Knocked senseless, Larsen had no chance against the second creature. Talons and teeth slashed furiously, spraying the pristine snow with crimson ribbons. The former Green Beret struggled against the weight of the gruesome beast, gurgling for breath. Hassler closed his eyes, unable to watch. What have I done? A dozen nearby screeches answered his question. He’d kept himself alive—for now.
Chapter 22
“Impressive. The man has a survival instinct like no other,” said Pilcher, watching the video screen.
The vast flat-screen monitor displayed two feeds side by side, each showing the same scene from a different camera lens. The first showed Hassler superimposed over Larsen in grayscale. Small white heat signatures moved in every direction, evidence of the feeding frenzy. He hoped they didn’t look up, imagining Hassler was thinking the same thing. The right half of the screen featured a full color view of the nearly impenetrable treetop layer common to most of the Wayward Pines site. Fast-moving patches of thin fog passed through the image, adding to his misery. They’d caught glimpses of the creatures below, but nothing detailed enough to study. They needed to retrieve Hassler alive.
“Sir, I have some wild movement on Larsen’s microchip,” said one of the technicians.
“No way he’s still alive,” said Pope.
“Put it up on the screen,” ordered Pilcher.
A digitized map of Wayward Pines appeared, centered on Larsen’s tag. Pilcher read the data. Thirty-three miles per hour? That wasn’t Larsen.
“This is all being recorded, right?”
“Affirmative, sir.”
The tag moved north, increasing its speed to forty-one miles per hour. Incredible. He made a mental note to change the microchipping procedure. Bury the tag deeper—maybe in the thigh.
“Are they all headed north?” said Pilcher.
“The ones that dined on Larsen appear to be headed in that direction,” said Pope.
“We need to ensure a clear path for Hassler. What is the range of the grenade launcher?”
Pope continued to stare at the screen.
“Sorry to interrupt your personal entertainment, Arnold—but if Hassler doesn’t make it back alive, guess who’s leading the next expedition?”
“Uhhhh. I think they can go out to, like…”
“Four hundred meters. Maximum range,” said Pam, feigning a smile at Pope.
“We’re roughly 1,300 meters up, which means…we should be able to double that range.”
“That’s a long time of flight, David. Impossible to hit a moving target,” said Pope, gesturing toward the screen.
“I’m thinking more along the lines of a diversion. If we can land grenades a half mile out in any direction, we should be able to draw them far enough away to give Hassler a chance.”
“He’s too far away to make that work,” said Pam.
“Then he’ll have to close some of the distance without our help.”
“I don’t think that’s going to work,” said Pope, staring at the screen.
The live image minimized in the right corner of the screen was completely white.
“Put the bottom right image back up and pan out,” said Pilcher.
The entire screen turned greyish-white, unchanging until the eastern cliff walls appeared. Fog had reclaimed the valley.
“I guess it’s all up to Hassler,” said Pilcher.
“Start picking your team, Arnold,” said Pam.
Pope stared at her with the kind of murderous look that Pilcher knew would become a problem if left unaddressed. He filed the thought away for later.
“I don’t know. He’s proven deviously resourceful so far. We need to make every effort to get him back alive. I want Alan’s people ready at a moment’s notice.”
Chapter 23
Thirty minutes had passed since the last creature scrambled north. The birds had returned, twittering and flitting between branches. Hassler relaxed his left arm, lowering the rifle. He trusted the birds. A few minutes later, his feet gently touched the snow beneath the tree. Scanning the trees with his rifle, he visually cleared 360 degrees before proceeding to Larsen’s body.
They had literally torn him to shreds, taking most of his flesh and internal organs with them. He’d been reduced to a gore-encrusted skeleton, bones picked clean along the arms and legs. He’d never seen a body destroyed so completely—and he’d seen his fair share of broken bodies. A wide patch of blood-soaked snow surrounded Larsen’s body. His equipment lay scattered next to him. Loose rifle magazines. Backpack. Shredded boots. Rifle. Anything they couldn’
t eat. He circled the blood, looking for Larsen’s radio headset, but he didn’t see it.
He glanced up at the mountain, finding his view of the peaks obscured by fog. Good. His watch read 8:12. Forty-eight minutes to reach the hatch, though he suspected Pilcher would make an exception in his case, unless the fog broke. He kneeled next to a tree and set his course with the compass. Two-one-eight. Just under a mile. He could do this, as long as the birds kept singing.
Thirty minutes later, he had covered half of the distance, stopping several times to listen and scan the forest after hearing a distant screech. He glanced nervously skyward. The landscape was considerably brighter than yesterday. If the fog lifted for good, he was in trouble from above. A chilly breeze revealed a sickly sweet smell, sending a wave of adrenaline through his system. He recognized the scent. He’d found what was left of Pilcher’s A-team.
Hassler followed a trail of brass cartridges to four savaged corpses arranged in a tight formation. The brass pattern in and around the brownish red pile suggested they had fired in every direction. He picked up one of the rifle cartridges. .308. At least one of them had the sense to bring an appropriate weapon. Pistol cartridges outnumbered rifle cartridges three to one at his feet. A few feet outside of the carnage, he hit the jackpot. A perfectly intact head mount lay in the snow, tucked next to a bullet-riddled tree trunk. He inserted the earpiece, leaving the mount hanging by the wire. A few button pushes later, he heard background static in his earpiece.
Wayward Pines- Genesis Collection Page 7
