“Pilcher, this is Hassler. Radio check.”
“Stand by.”
No more standing by. He strapped the mount over his bloodied head and raised his rifle skyward. Boom. Boom. Boom.
“I’m coming in hot, motherfuckers. You better be ready,” he said and took off running.
Chapter 24
“He did what?” said Pilcher into his radio.
“Your boy just compromised his position—on purpose.”
“He’s not my boy, Arnold, and you better watch your tone. Patch him through, and get down to the armory. We’re opening the hatch.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea, sir. At this point we know everything we need to know about these things. They’re fast, lethal and they hunt in packs. We have to gas the valley. End of story.”
“Pope, when I want your opinion about the greater mechanics of running the project—I’ll ask! Just do what I say, and that’s it. Why am I not talking to Hassler?”
He turned around to see Pam standing in the armory door with that unnerving smile. God, he hated that look. It made her look psychotic.
“The grenade launcher has been delivered,” she said with the look still plastered on her face.
“Mustin understands what to do?”
“He just needs a launch bearing,” she said.
His radio crackled.
“Pilcher, this is Hassler.”
He stepped past Pam, entering the hallway outside the armory. He didn’t need Alan’s security crew overhearing another heated exchange with someone that didn’t appear to respect his authority.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“Ensuring my survival.”
He sounded out of breath, like he was running.
“All you had to do was arrive at the hatch. Now things are complicated.”
“I work better under complicated conditions,” said Hassler.
“You’re sounding less like Special Agent Hassler every time I hear your voice.”
“What can I say? The experience has been cathartic.”
A screech registered in the speaker.
“I hope you know what you’re doing,” said Pilcher.
“I think I have this under control. Out.”
Pilcher rushed back to the armory.
“Alan! Get your men down to the hatch!”
“Same deal with Hassler?” said Alan.
“Same deal, but make sure he’s close enough. I want good video. Lots of specimens too.”
***
Mustin followed Hassler through the AN/PAS-13D thermal scope attached to his rifle. The scope was essentially useless for shooting a moving target at this range. At 10X magnification, Hassler was little more than a white speck, and he was moving too fast. They’d been lucky with Graves. Calculations had put her range at 4,793 feet when Pilcher ordered her death. The three of them had fired simultaneously at her heat signature, hoping for the best. One or more of them hit the mark during the first volley.
“Overwatch, this is operations. Fire three rounds from the MGL along bearing zero-nine-zero. Over.”
“Overwatch copies. Three rounds bearing zero-niner-zero,” he said, pushing himself onto his knees.
He leaned over and grabbed the M32 Multiple Grenade Launcher laying on the rock next to him. Pointing it directly across the valley at a thirty-degree elevation angle, he fired three 40mm grenades in rapid succession. The grey projectiles arched high and dropped, disappearing from Mustin’s view long before they penetrated the fog layer. They hadn’t sailed as far away from the western mountain peak as he’d expected. He hoped Pilcher’s math was right, because he’d just fired the grenades near Hassler’s approach bearing.
Chapter 25
A single creature loped through the trees on a perfect intercept course. Let’s see if you’ve learned anything. Hassler slid to a stop and braced his rifle against a tree, observing the beast’s reaction. Purely instinctual. The pale thing skittered through the snow on all fours, quickly adjusting its trajectory. This was a single-minded, predatory animal. Its primal instinct to feed superseded any basic survival instinct. The rifle kicked into his shoulder, leaving a reddish-pink mist beyond the thing’s head. More screeches to the north—a little closer than he had hoped.
He took off running, seriously wondering if he could span the remaining five hundred yards before the rest of the pack caught up with him. His plan at the hatch had a lot of moving parts, and it wouldn’t work if they attacked before he reached the hatch. Three deep crunches sounded due east. Familiar sounds from a different life. He knew what had happened before Pilcher’s voice filled his earpiece.
“That’s your only diversion. I suggest you refrain from firing your rifle unless you have a personal emergency. We’ll be waiting.”
His lungs burned as he scrambled through the trees, passing medicine-ball-sized chunks of granite. He searched every direction for the creatures, hoping they had taken Pilcher’s bait—for now. Dark grey rock peeked through the dense stand of trees ahead. Maybe three hundred yards.
“Operations. Hassler. How do I look?” he said, out of breath.
“Looking good. You’re on course for the hatch.”
“Is the security team in place?”
“Stand by.”
They’re up to something. Stand by had become synonymous with “let me clear this information with Pilcher.” Several seconds later, the sanitized version of the real answer arrived.
“They’ve just arrived. Continue on your present course.”
“How far do I have to go? I need a break.”
He didn’t plan on stopping, but thought it might scare Pilcher enough to get him a quicker answer.
“Three hundred yards.”
“See you in a few minutes,” he said, picking up the pace.
Hassler stopped at what he estimated to be one hundred fifty yards and leaned against a tree, facing east. He shouldered his rifle and scanned for hostiles. Nothing. The diversion had worked.
“Why have you stopped?” demanded Pilcher.
“Just needed to make sure I didn’t have a surprise following me. These things are sneaky and lethal. I’ve never seen anything like it, besides humans,” he said, wondering if Pilcher caught the hidden message.
“Hurry up, we can’t risk a second pack arriving from the south.”
“On my way.”
Instead of heading in a straight line for the hatch, Hassler ran ten yards at a time, stopping briefly to check the eastern approach for hostiles. He caught clear glimpses of the hatch while running. They had opened it a little further than before. Figures in camouflage lined the ledge, superimposed against the shadowy depths of the superstructure. He didn’t see a rope waiting for him. Twenty yards closer to the hatch, he spotted a car-sized boulder next to a thick tree trunk. Perfect.
“Adam, we can cover you from here. Please proceed directly to the hatch.”
“Copy,” he said and took off sprinting.
He ducked behind the boulder and pressed his back into the rough stone.
“Dammit, Hassler, you’re only fifty yards away! I have more than enough guns up here to protect you!”
Fifty yards? He peeked over the boulder. Looks about right. A few deep breaths later, Hassler shouldered his rifle and pointed the barrel east. He fired the rest of his magazine into the forest and reloaded the rifle. A cacophony of screeches erupted in the distance.
“Hassler! I’m fucking done with this game! Get to the hatch right now! Last chance before I close the door on you for good!”
He removed two olive green cylindrical canisters from the drop bag attached to his tactical vest, setting one on the ground next to him.
“You want to know what’s out here? I’m about to show you.”
Silence followed by inhuman screeching.
“You still there, David?”
“I don’t need you anymore, Adam.”
“Is that so?”
“I can draw them to the hatch with gun
fire after they dispose of you. We’ll shoot a few and close the hatch. Collect the bodies later. Video cameras hidden in the cliff wall will record everything I need to see. With any luck, we’ll get to watch a feeding frenzy first hand.”
“Here they come,” said Hassler, spotting the lead aberration.
Three more appeared between the trees, followed immediately by dozens. Hassler pulled the pin on one of the cylinders and stood, heaving the object toward the open ground beneath the ledge. He quickly ducked and shuffled to the other side of the boulder, reappearing long enough to throw the second canister. The metallic object bounced off one of the boulders below the hatch and rolled in the snow. He crouched and waited, nervously watching the oncoming swell of pale, semi-translucent monstrosities.
“You son of a bitch,” said Pilcher.
“Told you I was coming in hot,” he said and charged the hatch.
A thick, brilliant red cloud of smoke had completely obscured the hatch, rendering his approach unseen. Hassler entered the haze as the first creatures bounded over the boulder he had used seconds ago. Automatic gunfire exploded above him, followed by intensified shrieking. He kept running until the smoke suddenly darkened, and he slammed into the cliff wall.
The mistake inadvertently saved his life. Dazed, he looked up from the ground in time to see one of the creatures charge headfirst through the smoke. It rammed into the stone two feet above him, spraying cold, dark chunks across his face. Wet thuds echoed through the cloud as skulls struck the immovable wall of granite at forty miles per hour and exploded. The suicidal onslaught stopped momentarily, giving him time to sit up and shoulder his rifle. Now what? His organized plan more or less ended with the smoke grenades. A knotted rope landed between his feet, answering his question.
He hauled himself onto the stone ledge as the monstrosities started to blindly leap through the smoke screen. Most of them collided violently with the half-closed hatch, falling onto the ledge in bloody piles. A few landed perfectly, wasting no time before slashing away at the frantic security crew. One sailed right into the superstructure. Beautiful! Ignoring the desperate human screams around him, Hassler ducked under the door and pounded the fist-sized red button imbedded in the stone to his immediate right. The steel wall started to descend as the next wave of creatures hit the ledge.
Three creatures darted into the tunnel, dragging tendrils of red smoke under the hatch. Automatic gunfire erupted from the security team crouched behind the concrete barrier, slowing the beasts’ momentum, but ultimately failing to prevent one of them from jumping onto the nearest Jeep. It hit the vehicle’s hood with a heavy thud, immediately vaulting the rest of the vehicle. The thing bolted up the tunnel, chasing down Pilcher’s entourage, which had taken off for the last Jeep in the column. The creature barreled through Pam, slamming her headfirst into the rough-cut stone wall. Pope’s AK-47 chattered from the opposite side of the vehicle column, its 7.62mm bullets tearing through glass, fabric and sheet metal in a futile attempt to hit the creature headed directly for Pilcher.
Without hesitating, Hassler raised his rifle and fired, hitting the monster as it leapt skyward. The thing knocked Pilcher to the blacktop and rolled past, quickly righting itself for another attack. A torrent of fire from Pope’s AK-47 knocked it against the side of the tunnel, killing it instantly. With his rifle pointed in Pam and Pope’s direction, he considered firing two more bullets. Not today. Wayward Pines needs everyone. Even them.
He shifted his attention to the hatch and witnessed the last of Pilcher’s assault team squeeze underneath. The final man made it halfway through before he was yanked halfway back onto the ledge. A vicious tug of war ensued, with the surviving members of the assault team pulling desperately to save the screaming guard from a horrifying death. Alan Fletcher released the man’s arm and jammed his submachine gun under the door, breaking the stalemate by firing the entire forty-round magazine in one sustained burst. The team stumbled into the tunnel as the heavyweight door locked into place.
Through the diffuse red smoke, he could tell they should have put a bullet in his head and let the creatures have the rest. He was stripped clean of flesh from the waist down. Most of Fletcher’s men vomited. Strangely, it didn’t faze him at all. He walked down the row of vehicles, looking to have a friendly chat with Pilcher. Pope emerged between the last two Jeeps, blocking his path.
“That’s far enough!”
He kept walking.
“I’ll drop you right there!”
“You haven’t reloaded. The bolt doesn’t lock back on an AK.”
“Bullshit,” he said.
“Did you stop shooting, or did the rifle stop shooting? Big difference,” he said, continuing to approach.
“Fuck you,” he said, tightening his grip on the rifle.
“Because if the rifle stopped shooting, the next trigger pull will sound like a click, and if I hear a click—you’re a dead man.”
Pope’s face tightened.
“All I want to do is talk to Pilcher. If I wanted to kill him, I would have let the abbie do it.”
“It’s fine, Arnold. Mr. Hassler has more than earned his place among us. He’s earned my respect,” said Pilcher, standing and brushing his khaki pants.
Pope lowered the rifle and let it hang by its sling.
“Pam?” he said, looking past him.
“That thing knocked her out of the way to get at you. Ironic, wouldn’t you say? Almost like it knew who was in charge.”
“What did you call it?”
“Thing.”
“No. Before that.”
“Abbie. Aberration.”
“Why do you call it that?”
“Take a look for yourself,” he said, pointing at the creature with his rifle.
“I made sure it’s dead, sir,” said Pope.
Pilcher put on a pair of laboratory gloves and kneeled next to it, examining its head. He turned to Hassler with a grim look.
“This might be the first time I ever wished that I had been completely wrong.”
“I’d like that bottle of scotch delivered to my room with a glass.”
“I’ll deliver it myself, with two glasses. I’d like to hear more about these—abbies.”
“That’ll cost you two bottles.”
“It wouldn’t hurt to show a little respect once in—” uttered Pope.
“Let me see your rifle,” interrupted Hassler.
Pope looked to Pilcher, who nodded. He unslung the rifle and handed it to Hassler, who removed the AK-47’s magazine and thumbed two rounds onto the pavement. Pope’s face turned red.
“Do you have an armorer?” said Hassler.
“We have two,” said Pope.
“Any with practical experience. Combat? SWAT? Tinkering with weapons is one thing. Employing them properly under stress is another.”
Pilcher answered the question. “We’re set for armorers, but we could use someone to run the gun range and supervise the armory. Interested?”
“That’s my job, sir,” said Pope.
“Not anymore. As Wayward Pines’ future sheriff, I think your time will be better spent getting familiar with town—starting with the fence project.”
“I don’t think it’s a smart idea to put him—”
“Are you questioning my authority again?”
Pope glared at Hassler before answering. “No, sir. I’ll have a full casualty report in a few minutes.”
“Thank you, Arnold.”
Pilcher extended his hand. “Can we work together?”
“Is the original deal still intact?”
“Theresa Burke? Of course.”
“How do I know I can trust you?” said Hassler.
“I’m giving you unrestricted access to the superstructure’s armory. Isn’t that enough?”
“It’ll have to do,” he said, shaking Pilcher’s hand.
Part II
“Last Betrayal”
Chapter 26
Marcus lay still in a patch of s
lushy, maroon-stained snow; his left shoulder nestled against the trunk of a thick pine. His eyes flitted left and right, scanning the dense forest for movement. It was no longer a question of if they would come, but when, and most insidiously, how. His boundary team had played this game for four days while Elliot Black’s construction crew cleared the forest around the superstructure’s exit. The abbies no longer threw themselves at the interlocking fields of fire established by the security team’s M240 machine guns. They cautiously tested Marcus’s defenses, sacrificing a few here and there, before committing larger numbers in coordinated, multidirectional attacks. The boundary perimeter team was due for another high-volume assault—he could feel it.
“Squad leaders, report,” he whispered.
“This is Bravo One. Three o’clock is quiet.”
“Bravo Two is clear.”
“Bravo Three reports all clear.”
“This is four. Nothing.”
“Copy all sectors quiet. Operations, this is Bravo Lead. Fire the diversions and get the construction crew moving,” said Marcus.
“Roger. Immediately advise any change to your status.”
No shit, he desperately wanted to say. Instead, he settled for, “We’ll be sure to advise. Out.”
His opinion of Operations had steadily declined over the past few days. Tucked away safely in their mountain fortress, Ted Upshaw and the rest of Pilcher’s inner circle had become disconnected from the life-and-death struggles on the forest floor. Requests to “hold the line,” so the construction could clear one more tree or dig one more fence post, had taken on an impersonal, costly edge—like they were playing a video game. People had been torn to pieces down here—eaten alive.
Even Pope was on Marcus’s shortlist. The “sheriff” of Wayward Pines hadn’t ventured beyond the mouth of the hatch since the first attack on the construction crew—but he had no problem “armchair quarterbacking” Marcus’s job to maintain Pilcher’s precious schedule. What schedule? It had taken them nearly four days of intense combat, scurrying in and out of the hatch several times per day, to secure an area the size of two basketball courts. At that rate, it might take a year to build the fence needed to keep the abbies out of the valley, if they could finish it. They’d lost eleven people already—five security officers and six construction personnel. The first day saw most of those casualties.
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