Wayward Pines- Genesis Collection

by Steven Konkoly

  Lined up side by side, the feller-bunchers would open the road. Each machine carried a hydraulic tree-grabbing device—furnished with an integral chainsaw. Attached to an articulated, overhead crane, the device grasped the base of the tree and cut the trunk low to the ground. With the tree firmly clamped, the operator swung the crane arm outward and dropped the tree out of the way. The bright green forestry mulchers performed exactly as advertised, pushing their steel-teeth-equipped, rotary drums along the forest floor, shredding anything in their path—massive tree trunks included.

  The process would be slow and noisy, a dangerous combination in this forest. Even with most of the abbies located far out of acoustic or seismic detection range, Pope preferred to keep the vehicle hatch shut. Most of the tracking devices had exceeded their seventy-two-hour battery limit, leaving them exposed to a surprise attack. To make matters worse, not all of the abbies had taken the bait and left the valley. They would undoubtedly be attacked.

  “Pope, this is Black. All equipment is in position. We’re ready to start cutting.”

  “Roger. Proceed,” he said, pausing for a second. “All security vehicles take station behind the mulchers.”

  His driver gunned the engine, speeding them past two MTVRs, which carried the bulk of Marcus’s security team. Marcus was in one of the armored transports, which resembled a squat, green dump truck. Pope had joked about Marcus driving around in a trash dumpster, but on closer examination, the thing looked a shit-ton more secure than his Humvee.

  High off the ground, with thick, treaded tires, the MTVR looked like a tank compared to his vehicle. No wonder Marcus had insisted on riding with his team. He was snug as a bug in that thing. At least Black was in the same boat. He’d chosen one of the Humvee’s for better maneuverability—whatever good that would do him. Black anticipated occasionally squeezing through the trees to survey the forest ahead of them. That sounded like a recipe for getting stranded to Pope. No thanks. Especially out here. He checked his door again, making sure it was locked. He’d seen those things yanking on the door handles in a few of the surveillance feeds. Fuck that.

  Ten uneventful minutes later, they had advanced twenty-one feet according to Black’s less than enthusiastic report. Pope felt like he was sitting in the world’s slowest traffic jam. The feller-bunchers pressed forward methodically, their cranes swinging back and forth, stuffing whole pine trees through the line of forest next to the thirty-foot-wide path. Every ten feet or so, the two forestry mulchers lumbered ahead, showering the ground ahead of them with wood chips.

  Thirty minutes into the operation, Pope wanted to scream. He couldn’t believe he was sitting out here with nothing to do but stare out of the windows. There was absolutely no reason for him to be here. Nothing to coordinate. No decisions to make. Marcus and Black had it covered. Shit. He could repeat Pilcher’s orders over the tactical net from Operations. That was all he had done so far.

  Why the hell did Pilcher want him out here? The answer hit him before he finished the thought. Pam. That sneaky bitch must have convinced Pilcher that he needed to be in the field so she could undermine his role as sheriff. He’d fix the situation. Tomorrow, he’d be sitting in operations with a hot cup of coffee, watching the same scene through a monitor. Until then—he’d make the best of his time out here.

  “Wake me up if anything happens or anyone calls,” said Pope, trying to get comfortable in his seat.

  “Copy that,” said the driver.

  He started to drift off, the growl of the Humvee’s diesel engine lulling him asleep.

  “Jesus! Did you see that?” someone yelled over the tactical net, followed by a prodding hand against his shoulder.

  “Pope, we got a problem. Something jumped onto that mulcher,” said the driver, pointing at the leftmost machine.

  “What? Fuck!” he said, grabbing the handset. “Marcus, what’s going on out there?”

  “Stand by. We’re assessing the situation.”

  A pale grey creature darted out of the forest and sprang like a cat onto the side of the mulcher’s cabin, pounding at the steel cage.

  “Ragan, get down and close the hatch!” he yelled, turning in his seat and grabbing the gunner’s leg.

  “Engaging!” replied the gunner, followed by a short burst of automatic fire.

  Hot brass dropped through the open hatch onto his arm, singeing his jacket and forcing him to let go. He peered through the windshield in time to see the abby hit the ground. A second burst from Ragan’s machine gun stitched across the creature’s back, spraying the wood chips with blood.

  “Pope, this is Marcus. We still have one abby on the front of that mulcher. None of my gunners have a shot. I’m heading outside to clear it,” he heard over the radio.

  “Uhhh, right. All security units will cover you. Good luck,” he said, shrugging his shoulders.

  The rear compartment door to one of the MTVRs opened, disgorging two men in full tactical gear. They ran in a staggered formation between the two mulchers and fired quick bursts at an unseen threat.

  “Target neutralized. Heading back,” said Marcus.

  He watched them sprint to the armored vehicle, expecting abbies to swarm them at any moment, but they arrived safely and disappeared inside the truck. Cheers sounded over the tactical net, making Pope feel like an ass for trying to pull Ragan down from the turret.

  He needed to be more like Marcus if he hoped to garner any real respect around here. He had no immediate plans to jump out of his armored haven, but he’d have to abandon his obsession with closing the turret hatch—and his dream of sitting this one out in Operations.

  Chapter 46

  Pam stomped up the stairwell, infuriated by the interruption to her cross-fit routine. What the fuck was wrong with these men? Pilcher’s recruitment team should have screened them better for signs of chicken-shit syndrome. She’d never seen anything like it. The first sign of trouble out there, and they all scampered inside with post-traumatic stress disorder or some bullshit excuse why they couldn’t go back out. She kicked open the door to the fourth floor and stormed toward Tim Barry’s residence.

  She had no tolerance for this kind of shit. Nobody had ever heard her grumble about hardship. A string of abusive foster homes and two years on the mean streets of Chicago had taught her everything she needed to know about complaining. Lesson one: Nobody cared. Lesson two: Complaining got you nowhere. Lesson three: See lesson one. She intended to distill these lessons in Mr. Barry with a short, hopefully violent session in his dorm room.

  Pilcher had authorized her to use any and all methods to convince the heavy machinery operator to return to duty, including the unthinkable. Pam shuddered at the thought of it. She’d rather beat this man to death and learn how to operate the machine than turn another trick for Pilcher. One time was the limit for the man who gave her a second chance.

  Pam arrived at room 438 and stood in front of the door, gathering her composure. After several deep breaths, she swiped her key card and opened the door after the lock disengaged.

  “Hey! You can’t do that. This is private!” yelled a broad-shouldered, dark-haired man in grey coveralls.

  Pam pulled the door shut. “What the fuck is going on, Mr. Barry? We’re ten minutes from showtime, and I get a call that you never showed up? You need to get your ass down to your machine.”

  “No way. We were told the valley was clear of those things. Bullshit. They’re all over the place,” said Barry.

  “You’re in a steel cage! They can’t break in,” she said, pointing to the door. “Man up and get out there before Pilcher throws a fit.”

  “They broke the goddamn glass on Harry’s rig. How the fuck did they break the glass?”

  “So what if they broke the glass? They can’t get through the steel bars. What part of that are you having trouble understanding,” she said, shrugging her shoulders.

  “I don’t see your ass out there,” he mumbled.

  “Excuse me?”

  Tim took
a step forward and pushed out his chest. “I said, I don’t see your ass out there. Must be nice sitting in here all day.”

  Pam’s eye twitched. “Mr. Pilcher ordered me to remain in the superstructure. I follow orders. I suggest you do the same and get to your station.”

  “I wonder what you did to win the do nothing lottery?” he said, muttering something else under his breath.

  “What did you just say?” she said, feeling the urge to pound Tim Barry’s head into the desk until his useless brains spilled onto the linoleum.

  “Nothing,” he said, smirking—with a faint look of fear hidden behind the grin.

  She heard the word “suck,” and that’s all she needed to hear to understand exactly where she stood in his estimation. Time to make an attitude adjustment. Without warning, she crossed the room and punched him in the solar plexus before he could raise a hand. He stood there with a dumb look on his face, unable to draw a breath. She wanted to do so much more to him, but Pilcher insisted that he be able to operate his machine when she was finished. Barry staggered forward a few moments later, feebly swinging one of his arms at her head. She grabbed the arm and twisted it behind his back, applying pressure to the elbow joint.

  “You and I are going to take a walk. Nod if you understand.”

  He tried to shake free, but she placed her left forearm under his neck and pressed the elbow even further. Barry nodded.

  “If you won’t do your duty, then you can’t be part of the team. We’ll put you in a holding cell until you change your mind.”

  Barry squeezed a few raspy words out of his mouth. “Better than out there.”

  “We’ll see,” she said and ushered him to a private service elevator.

  They emerged on the first floor, across from the laboratories.

  “Over there,” she said, pushing him to a door with a darkened window.

  “You’re really going to put me in a jail cell?” He coughed.

  “Unless you’re willing to turn around and take one of the jeeps down to the hatch,” she said, pushing him against the door.

  “People are going to hear about this. They won’t like it,” he said.

  She spun him around and considered kneeing him in the groin. Instead, she backed off and shook her head. “You better hope not, because anybody worth a shit around here has done their time outside. I don’t see anyone taking your side—especially the guys that will be pulling back-to-back shifts while you sit in a jail cell. What’ll it be?”

  “I’m not going back out there until the valley is clear,” he said. “Sorry.”

  “Don’t apologize to me. I don’t give a shit,” she said, swiping the key card over the reader next to the door.

  The door hissed, its internal mechanisms clacking.

  “Get inside,” she said.

  He looked at the dark window. “No lights?”

  “You afraid of the dark too? I’ll turn the lights on when the door is secure. If you change your mind, dial 773 on the intercom system and ask Operations to contact me.”

  Barry opened the door and stepped slowly into the darkness. Once the door mechanisms locked into place, she activated the lights. The room was stark white and featureless—except for the grey monster huddled in the far right corner. The equipment operator froze. She imagined he was weighing his options. Run and pound on the door or stay perfectly still and hope the abby didn’t see him. If only she could see his face right now. It had to be the perfect combination of terror and resignation—her favorite look. What’s it going to be, Tim? Run or piss your pants where you stand?

  The abby charged out of the corner, clearing the distance to Barry in a fraction of a second. The man stumbled backward, crashing to the floor as the abby slammed into the clear, shatterproof barrier several feet in front of him. The thing shrieked loud enough to be heard in the hallway, spurring Barry to his feet. The equipment driver’s desperate face filled the glass viewport, followed by the sounds of rapid pounding on the metal door. Pam pressed a button on the flat, digital panel above the key-card reader.

  “Let me know if you get lonely,” she said over his screams.

  “All right! All right! I’ll go back to work. Get me out of here!” he said, looking over his shoulder.

  The abby punched the glass behind him, visibly shaking the barrier. “What the fuck is wrong with you! I told you. I’ll go back to work!”

  “He doesn’t believe you,” she said, wondering what it would be like to see him torn to shreds.

  “What? Who doesn’t believe me? Pilcher? Tell him I won’t fuck up again. I promise!” he said, hitting the door repeatedly.

  “No. He doesn’t believe you,” she said, staring at the abby.

  “Pam. Pam. Whatever you’re thinking, it’s not a good idea. The team needs me. Mr. Pilcher said so. He wants me back out there. That’s where I’ll go. Why don’t you open the door and let’s call it good. All right?”

  “I don’t think he’s buying it. I think you need to explain it in person,” she said.

  “No! Pam! Please! Don’t open the barrier. Don’t do that! Look, I’m sorry about what I said to you. I was pissed. I wasn’t thinking clearly. Please, Pam. You’ve proven your point. I’m sorry.”

  The door clicked, and she yanked it open, spilling Barry into the hallway. She braced him against the opposite wall, forearm against his neck.

  “You pull this shit again, and I promise you a face-to-face meeting with that thing. You understand?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said, without hesitation.

  She stepped back and crossed her arms, letting him catch his breath.

  “And Tim?” she said, glaring at him. “If you ever say something like that again, to me or anyone else, I’ll kill you. Are we clear?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said, with a complete look of obedience—her second favorite look.

  Chapter 47

  Pilcher stepped into the Operations conference room, immediately taken by the smell of diesel fumes and sweat. Marcus, Pope and Black had reported directly from the warehouse after securing their respective teams for the evening. They looked exhausted, the products of a day spent cramped into a small space—anticipating the worst. The chairs started to squeak as the group, including Pope, made the motions to stand.

  “Gentlemen, please. Stay seated. It’s been a long day. I know none of you have eaten, so I won’t keep you long,” he said, taking his seat at the head of the table.

  He stared at them for a moment, searching their faces for signs of contempt or resignation. Anything that might indicate a problem. That’s why he assembled them before they could eat and shed the day’s filth. Before they could reset their emotions.

  “So, it sounds like we’ve made incredible progress. We’re a few hours from clearing the western anchor site?” he said, looking at Elliot Black.

  “Correct, sir. Two to three hours max to work the areas next to the cliff. It’s difficult terrain due to the boulders and incline. We’ll have to use one of the crane-lifted mulcher heads to grind the stumps…the bigger mulchers can’t maneuver there. I might have to deploy some ground teams to chainsaw several trees close to the rocks. We’ll need some serious protection for that.”

  “We can handle it,” said Marcus. “Attacks have been persistent, but light. The vehicle-mounted two-forties can handle most of the action. I’ll add some snipers and personal escorts for any teams you put on the ground.”

  “Sounds good,” said Black.

  “Perfect,” added Pilcher. “Two days and zero casualties. I want to carry this trend through the completion of the fence. Pope, have you and Marcus decided when to deploy the sensor array?”

  Pope shifted in his seat and stifled a yawn. “The teams will deploy and test a four-hundred-yard stretch of sensors at first light tomorrow. This will give us motion detection capability for the first few days of construction. We’ll assess the effectiveness of the sensors and weigh that against the risk of sending teams deeper east.”

&nbs
p; “Ideally, we would have a sensor array stretching from one side of the valley to the other, but I understand the restrictions. How far away from the construction line will you plant the sensors?”

  Marcus answered for Pope, which didn’t seem to bother the disinterested sheriff at all.

  “One hundred and fifty yards. At thirty miles per hour, it will take a frenzied abby about ten seconds to reach the construction line. That gives us enough time to move exposed personnel into an armored vehicle. At least one MTVR will be in close proximity to the ground crew at all times.”

  “Define close proximity again,” said Black.

  Marcus smiled. “As close as we can park one of those things without running over any of your people. I’ll provide small teams to accompany your folks—to help them react.”

  “Ten seconds goes pretty damn fast,” said the engineer.

  “The guns will buy us more time,” said Marcus, earning a skeptical nod from Black.

  “I have no doubt Mr. Marcus will take good care of your crew,” said Pilcher. “Have you assessed the possibility of energizing completed sections of the fence—to keep the abbies from slipping in behind us?”

  “We can’t energize during construction. It’s too risky for the crews. I suggest added sniper support to keep the abbies off the fence,” said Black.

  “Very well. Mr. Upshaw will coordinate this with Mustin’s overwatch team,” said Pilcher.

  “Right away, sir,” answered Upshaw.

  Pilcher nodded at the group and stood up. “I won’t hold you any longer. Stay focused tomorrow. We have a mile of fence to construct. Based on the past two days’ progress, I expect us to clear an eighth of a mile per day. Eight days from tomorrow, I want to energize that fence. Focus. Right, Sheriff?” he said, purposely drawing attention to Pope.

  Pope jerked his head in Pilcher’s direction and nodded, clearly drawn away from something far more interesting. Had he underestimated Pope’s stamina for this project? It seemed like the perfect job for him. Little decision-making responsibility in a cushy, respected position of authority.