Crick. Marcus squinted, staring at a fixed point deep in the trees directly ahead of him.
“Possible contact. Twelve o’clock,” he whispered into his headset.
Another snap drew his attention to the right. A shadow moved through the trees—followed by a second.
“Two hostiles moving left to right across my twelve. Engage with suppressed weapons,” said Marcus.
“I see them,” replied one of the officers.
Marcus noticed that the mechanical screwdriver had stopped, the technicians no doubt sitting on the ATVs, waiting to be dragged away to safety. He took his eyes off the movement and continued scanning. A second group moved right to left. One of the officers on his left flank caught the activity.
“I have a group approaching on our ten. Moving pretty—fuck—engaging!”
The whump, whump of subsonic bullets peppered the air, instantly answered by inhuman screeches. A pale mass of muscle and sinew burst through the trees in front of Marcus, dodging the trunks between them. The erratic movement hampered his aim, many of his bullets splintering trees or sailing harmlessly past the creature. Instinctively, Marcus shifted to a nearby pine, keeping his holographic sight centered on the creature’s line of approach. His .308 bullets started to connect several feet out, knocking the abby off balance. The beast hit the tree with a sickening crunch, sliding motionless to the ground next to him while he reloaded.
“Marcus, I have more movement out there,” he heard.
“Copy. Load up the ATVs and head back to the construction site,” he said. “I’ll bring up the rear with Dana. Move! Wagner, we’re coming in hot. Make sure your gunners identify their targets.”
“I just moved my picket line into the trees. Don’t run them over,” said Wagner.
Marcus reached his ATV and slapped Dana on the shoulder before climbing into the passenger seat.
“Get us out of here!” he said, as the rest of the 4X4 ATVs sped away.
He twisted in the seat, pushing his rifle’s vertical fore grip into the top of the seat. Two abbies raced toward them from different directions, forcing Marcus to make a split-second decision. He centered the green reticle on the creature loping toward Dana’s side and rapidly pressed the trigger. When a bright red spray covered one of the trees next to the abby, he turned his attention to the monster approaching the ATV from the rear passenger side.
Before he could move the rifle, a taloned hand swept through the air, tearing the headrest from the seat. The abby leapt onto the back of the ATV, simultaneously slashing with the other claw. A warm splash of blood hit his face, followed by a distinctly human cry. Marcus drew the semiautomatic pistol from the holster attached to his chest rig and fired without extending his hand. Bullets tore through the abby as it drew its arm back for a razor-sharp swing likely to decapitate one of them. Before it could lash out at either of them, the .45 slugs pushed the monster off the careening vehicle, dropping it into the forest behind them.
He turned in his seat moments before the ATV struck a short section of rotting log, burying the fifteen-hundred-pound vehicle’s nose and catapulting them out of the front seats. Marcus was thrown clear of the wreck, piling through a rough patch of low-lying evergreen bushes.
His first reaction was to raise his rifle in the perceived direction of the abby threat. Disoriented and lying supine, he wasn’t sure which way to aim, so he covered a wide field of fire, expecting one of the creatures to leap over the bushes at any second. When nothing immediately materialized, he turned over and crawled to the closest tree, sliding behind it. A quick body scan told him nothing was broken. He wouldn’t know for sure until he got out of the forest. If he got out of the forest.
“Dana, you there?” he whispered, realizing his headset was missing.
Shit. He didn’t want to call out with those things swarming around. If they stayed quiet, the next wave of abbies might miss them and go straight for the rest of the ATVs—like lambs to the slaughter. He rose to a crouch and searched for Dana.
The forest was still, except for the buzzing sounds of the ATVs. He didn’t like it. The abbies had demonstrated an unsettling amount of patience compared to earlier days. They still chased larger sounds, at least most of them did, but showed a deviously intelligent approach to smaller groups of humans. Attacks against the heavy machinery and the security vehicles had slowed to a trickle, but the few attacks perpetrated had been incredibly opportunistic. Marcus didn’t buy Pilcher’s speech about their intelligence. Not after what he had seen.
Something moved in the bushes near the ATV, causing him to raise his rifle and apply pressure to the trigger. A low moaning sound followed.
“Dana?” he hissed.
A bloody thumb rose over the scrub. He crawled to Dana, finding her prone behind a partially buried boulder, her right shinbone protruding through her camouflage trousers. She swept the threat axis with her rifle, seemingly oblivious to the injury.
“I think that was all of them,” she said, without looking back.
“Don’t count on it. Do you have the rest of the team on your headset?”
“Yeah. I passed our status. They’re loading the ATVs with more security. Should be here in a minute or two.”
“Tell them to bring a stretcher. You’re not going anywhere on the back of an ATV,” he said, kneeling next to her leg.
“How bad is it? I didn’t want to look.”
“Clean break. You’re going to miss all of the fun.”
“I can sit in one of the turrets with a cast,” she said.
“We’ll see,” he said, noticing the four-inch, bone-deep gash in her right shoulder.
We’ll see about this whole fucking plan.
Chapter 51
Pilcher clenched his fists. There would be no more delays. He took a deep breath and thought about how he would reply. He didn’t want to come across as heartless, but the list of excuses was growing at an exponential rate. If they stopped construction every time an abby jumped out of the trees, they’d never finish the fence. They were testing what little patience he had brought from the year 2013.
“Marcus, I appreciate your concerns, but we can’t hold up the construction effort for three days. The attacks are sporadic. You said it yourself. At this point, your team can handle a dozen abbies. I need you to continue placing the sensors.”
“Mr. Pilcher, I agree we can handle a dozen, but any more than that becomes a serious problem—especially in the deep woods. We have a hard time maneuvering the ATVs, and there’s a lot of wood between our bullets and their intended targets. I’m not saying we can’t do this. Just that it’s going to take a lot longer than one day, especially if you want us to protect the construction effort at the same time.”
Pilcher wanted to slam his headphones down on the table and scream. What part of occupational hazard didn’t these people understand! More deep breaths before responding. “Construction moves forward. What if we put two teams on the job? The teams could leapfrog each other.”
Marcus responded in a hushed voice. “Like I said, sir, we’re stretched pretty thin as it is at the fence site. I don’t think Black’s crew will respond well to a further reduction in security. Abby attacks are rare, but devilishly opportunistic. We’ve had some really close calls.”
“I wasn’t talking about security personnel,” stated Pilcher.
“Two teams of technicians?” said Marcus. “Mr. Pilcher, I can’t guarantee their safety That’s too big a perimeter for five security officers. And the deeper we go into the forest—the higher the stakes. A medium-sized pack could finish off the entire group. I don’t think you want to risk most of our technicians.”
“Dammit, Marcus! There has to be a way to keep the construction moving,” he said.
“Sir, I don’t see any other way. Give me two days and I’ll have a full string of sensors spanning the valley. I’ll need everyone on my team for that, including the vehicles.”
“That leaves the construction crews unprotected,” sai
d Pilcher.
“They’ll have to wait in the superstructure,” said Marcus.
He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Two days? Make that three, or four, once the next “obstacle” surfaced. Hell, why not make it five days for good measure! No. Wayward Pines would march forward. He wasn’t going to let a broken leg here or a close call there bring progress to a grinding halt. He’d take a different approach, but keep things moving all the same.
“Then we’ll establish a sensor perimeter around the immediate work zone. Say seven hundred and fifty feet along the proposed line. That’s roughly five hours of deforestation progress. We’ll set more sensors as the day unfolds. Does this sound like a workable solution for your team?”
“As long as Mr. Black is onboard, I don’t have a problem with your idea,” said Marcus.
“Don’t worry about Mr. Black. He’ll be onboard,” said Pilcher, disconnecting the circuit.
“Or I’ll find someone who is to replace him, and you,” he muttered, realizing he just spoke in front of Upshaw.
“You didn’t hear that,” said Pilcher.
Upshaw nodded, returning his attention to the display of icons representing the movement of microchips outside of the superstructure. The senior technician would play an important role in Wayward Pines once the town was populated. Pilcher had decided to put him in charge of surveillance. Upshaw seemed to appreciate the importance of their undertaking and the occasional sacrifices required to preserve the greater good. More importantly, he appeared to understand the need to keep these things private. Two important characteristics required to run Wayward Pines’s equivalent to the National Security Agency (NSA). With a little more grooming, Ted would be ready.
Chapter 52
He heard the whistles first.
“Multiple contacts! Southwest. Two hundred feet ahead of the construction line!” blared the dashboard speaker.
Pope fumbled with the lid to his thermos, dousing his lap with coffee before giving up and tossing the container into the foot well. He slammed his door shut and turned in his seat.
“Make sure your doors are—what the fuck?” he yelled at the empty seats—and open doors.
He glanced through the front passenger window, seeing both of the security officers sprinting diagonally away from the Humvee to join the team assigned to the tree line.
“Ragan, shut and lock the rear compartment doors,” he yelled through the turret hatch, extending his right hand to thumb the lock on his own door.
“Negative. I’m the only gun covering the northern trees.”
Pope put his hand on the door handle, hesitating to open it. He’d seen one too many close calls out here.
“Mr. Pope, you still have plenty of time to close the door and get back in the vehicle,” stated the driver.
He peered through the front window, watching members of Marcus’s team help the construction crew through the rear hatch of the nearest armored vehicle. Better now than later, when there were fewer dining options to choose. Pope hopped out of the vehicle, pushing the rear passenger door shut. He preferred to keep the doors locked, but knew that wouldn’t sit well with the returning officers. Tensions ran high enough between Marcus’s security team and “management.” If one of them were killed pulling on a locked door handle, he’d have more than just the abbies to worry about.
When he reached the back of the Humvee, he froze. Staring at him from the edge of the forest, two abbies slowly bent their back legs, preparing to pounce.
“Ragan. Contact. Seven o’clock,” he said, tightening his grip on the AK-47.
He fired from the hip, the rifle’s selector switch on full automatic. His bullets exploded across woodchips, stitching a line of dark red holes up the first abby’s torso. With his finger locked against the trigger, the rest of his thirty-round magazine emptied into pine branches above the mangled creature. The second abby charged, forcing Pope to scramble behind the Humvee.
Sprinting toward the open front door, he fumbled for the pistol in his drop holster, clawing at the nylon contraption with no success. A scream inside the Humvee froze him in place. The ballistic window next to him turned bright red, immediately followed by the sound of rapid gunfire inside the vehicle. Two more gunshots exploded inside the Humvee, spraying the armrest and window of his door with a thick, crimson jet. He yanked his pistol out of the holster, tearing one of the straps, and aimed it at the opening. Pope advanced slowly, his hands trembling.
“Ragan. Wallace!”
“All clear,” replied Ragan through his headset. “Better get inside, Mr. Pope.”
Gunfire from the nearest MTVR reinforced the driver’s point. He jumped into the front passenger seat and pulled the door shut, taking a warm gush of blood across the right side of his face. When he turned to search for the source of the spray, he found himself staring into the lifeless eyes of an abby. Pope recoiled, lashing out with both hands at the creature.
“It’s dead,” said the driver, tapping the steering wheel with the barrel of a smoking-hot pistol. “Finally.”
Pope couldn’t tell if Wallace was injured. His arms and head were covered in blood and gore.
“You all right?” said Pope.
“I’m fine,” he said, sounding distant. “Somehow I’m fine.”
Over his headset, Marcus reported that the threat had been neutralized. Was he even aware of the sneak attack against Pope’s vehicle? Something hit the rear driver’s side door, casting a shadow through the crimson-stained window. The door flew open, and Pope jammed his pistol between the front seats, aiming at the opening.
“Jesus. Are you kidding me?” said a security officer, sticking his head through the door.
The door behind Pope swung open. “Motherfuh—what the hell happened?”
“Don’t ask. Just get this thing out of here.”
While one of the officers pulled the dead creature across the back seat, Pope examined his surroundings. Generous streaks of blood covered the dashboard and center console. The metal roof dripped like a moist cave, occasionally releasing a small lump of flesh. To top it all off, the compartment smelled like shit. Literally. And they still had five hours of daylight. He wiped the windshield in front of him with his sleeve, managing to make it worse. Wonderful.
After the rear doors slammed shut, Pope stuck his head between the seats.
“Can the two of you do me a big favor?” he said, continuing before they had a chance to respond.
“Please keep the fucking doors shut.”
Chapter 53
Pilcher cut into the flaky pastry layer surrounding the tenderized filet, marveling at Chef Tim’s brilliance. He had found a way to cook the rehydrated steaks without saturating them in wine, butter or another flavor-masking ingredient. The thin pastry shell trapped the juices, keeping the ancient meat somewhat moist. He lifted the fork to his mouth, closing his eyes to picture better days. Tim’s choice of simple seasonings delivered, and for several seconds, Pilcher imagined dinner with his wife and daughter. Both lost to him now. Better days indeed. He almost frowned when he opened his eyes. Pam blankly stared across the table.
“Pam, are you certain I can’t interest you in lunch? Chef Tim has created a masterpiece with the supplies on hand. Beef en croûte. A little thinner than I prefer, but sacrifices were made to preserve the original taste,” he said, feigning a smile.
“I’m fine with water, Mr. Pilcher,” she replied, taking an obligatory sip of her mostly full glass.
“Suit yourself, young lady, but you don’t know what you’re missing. It’ll be a few years before we can grow livestock from embryos. Fresh beef in its real form won’t be on the menu for a long time.”
She sat there, staring at him like a young child might observe an amusing puppet. This would have to be the last time he invited her to lunch. Life was too short to ruin something enjoyable like an exquisitely prepared French meat pastry. He thought the idea of a shared meal might surface the surrogate father-daughter bond they had devel
oped during her early years under his tutelage, but he hadn’t sensed any change to her cold façade. Oh well, he gave it a try. Pam was incapable of sharing affection, which came as no surprise. No point continuing to make things uncomfortable for either of them.
Pilcher was relieved. He preferred to operate on her level. Cold, detached, analytical—all traits he treasured in himself, knowing that none of this could have been achieved without strict adherence to the precise, pragmatic approach. Pam’s emotionless state was the result of a different set of circumstances, but the frequency was the same. He’d get their relationship back on track, on a different path. One he suspected she would enjoy.
Chef Tim appeared, holding a phone.
“Pardon the interruption, sir. You have an urgent call from Operations.”
“Urgent enough to interrupt lunch?” he said, without looking up from the table.
“They’ve had another attack, sir.”
“Another delay, I’m sure,” he muttered to Pam. “Tell Mr. Upshaw I’ll see him when I’m finished with lunch.”
“He’s really insistent, sir. Apparently one of the abbies got into Mr. Pope’s vehicle,” said Chef Tim.
Pam’s face flashed into a warped grin at the mention of Pope’s misfortune. She no doubt hoped he’d been torn to pieces. He felt ambivalent about the phone call. Part of him felt that the untimely loss of the sheriff might be better for him in the long run; the other part didn’t want to deal with finding another sheriff.
“Very well,” he said, accepting the phone. “What happened?”
“They had a perimeter breach. Nobody was injured, but one of the things actually climbed into Pope’s vehicle,” said Upshaw.
“While he was in it?” said Pilcher.
He tried not to imagine the sheer terror and panic induced coming face to face with one of those creatures in a cramped space.
“No. Apparently he was outside of the Humvee—firing at the abbies.”
Wayward Pines- Genesis Collection Page 18
