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The characters and events portrayed in thisbook are fictitious. Any similarity to real per-sons, living or dead, is coincidental and notintended by the author.

Text copyright 2013 by Blake CrouchCover design by Jeroen ten BergeAll rights reserved.

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Published by Thomas & MercerP.O. Box 400818Las Vegas, NV 89140

ISBN-13: 9781477808702ISBN-10: 1477808701Library of Congress Control Number:2013906097

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For Chad Hodge

CONTENTS

ABOUT WAYWARDThe mind isYESTERDAY IS HISTORY.I1234567II8910

11121314III15161718192021IV22232425V2627SNEAK PEEK: THE THIRD BOOK IN THE

WAYWARD PINES SERIES

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NOW AVAILABLE: PINESACKNOWLEDGMENTSABOUT THE AUTHORBLAKE CROUCHS FULL CATALOG

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ABOUT WAYWARD

An electrified fence topped with razor wireencircles the town of Wayward Pines, whichalso lies under 24-7 sniper surveillance. Eachof the 461 residents woke up here following acatastrophic accident. There are hidden cam-eras in every home and business. The resid-ents are told where to work. Where to live.Who to marry. Some believe they are dead,that this is the afterlife. Some think theyretrapped in an experimental prison. Everyonesecretly dreams of leaving, but the few whodare to try are in for a terrifying surprise.Ethan Burke has seen the world beyond. Hessheriff, and one of the few who knows thetruthWayward Pines isnt just a town. And

what lies on the other side of the fence is anightmare world beyond anyones imagining.

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The mind is its own place, and in itself canmake a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven.

JOHN MILTON, PARADISE LOST

If you look out at nature, you find that asyou tend to see suspended animation, youtend to see immortality.

MARK ROTH, PHD (CELL BIOLOGIST)

YESTERDAY IS HISTORY.TOMORROW IS A MYSTERY.

TODAY IS A GIFT.THATS WHY ITS CALLED THE

PRESENT.WORK HARD, BE HAPPY, AND

ENJOY YOUR

LIFE IN WAYWARD PINES!

Notice to all residents of Wayward Pines(required to be posted prominently in every

residence and place of business)

1Mustin had been watching the creaturethrough the Schmidt & Bender telescopicsight for the better part of an hour. It hadcome over the cirque at daybreak, pausing asthe first radials of sunlight struck its translu-cent skin. Its progression down through theboulder field had been slow and careful,stopping occasionally to sniff the remains ofothers like it. Others Mustin had killed.

The sniper reached up to the scope, adjus-ted the parallax, and settled back in behindthe focus. Conditions were idealclear visib-ility, mild temperature, no wind. With thereticle set at 25x zoom, the creatures ghostlysilhouette popped against the gray of the

shattered rock. At a distance of one and ahalf miles, its head was no larger than agrain of sand.

If he didnt take the shot now, hed have torange the target again. And there was a pos-sibility that by the time he was ready toshoot, the creature would have passed out ofhis sight line. It wouldnt be the end of theworld. There was still a high-voltage securityfence a half mile down the canyon. But if itmanaged to scale the cliffs over the top of therazor wire, thered be trouble. Hed have toradio in. Call for a team. Extra work. Extratime. Every effort would be made to stop thecreature from reaching town. Hed almostcertainly catch an ass-chewing from Pilcher.

Mustin drew in a long, deep breath.Lungs expanding.He let it out.Lungs deflating.Then empty.His diaphragm relaxed.

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He counted to three and squeezed thetrigger.

The British-made AWM bucked hardagainst his shoulder, the report dampenedby the suppressor. Recovering from the re-coil, he found his target in the sphere ofmagnification, still crouched on a flat-toppedboulder on the floor of the canyon.

Damn.Hed missed.It was a longer shot than he normally took,

and so many variables in play, even underperfect conditions. Barometric pressure. Hu-midity. Air density. Barrel temperature. EvenCoriolis effectthe rotation of the earth. Hethought hed accounted for everything in cal-culating his aiming solution, but

The creatures head disappeared in a pinkmist.

He smiled.

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It had taken a little over four seconds forthe .338 Lapua Magnum round to reach thetarget.

Helluva shot.Mustin sat up, struggled to his feet.Stretched his arms over his head.It was midmorning. The sky steel blue and

not a cloud in sight. His perch was atop athirty-foot guard tower that had been builton the rocky pinnacle of a mountain, farabove the timberline. From the open plat-form, he had a panoramic view of the sur-rounding peaks, the canyon, the forest, andthe town of Wayward Pines, which from fourthousand feet above, was little more than agrid of intersecting streets, couched in a pro-tected valley.

His radio squeaked.He answered, Mustin, over.Just had a fence strike in zone four, over.Stand by.

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Zone 4 encompassed the expanse of pineforest that bordered the southern edge oftown. He took up his rifle and glassed thefence under the canopy of trees, tracked itfor a quarter mile. He saw the smokefirstcoils of it lifting off the animalsscorched hide.

I have a visual, he said. Its just a deer,over.

Copy that.Mustin swung the rifle north into town.Houses appearedcolorful Victorians

fronted with perfect squares of bright grass.White picket fences. He aimed down into thepark where a woman pushed two children inswings. A little girl shot down the blindingglimmer of a slide.

He glassed the schoolyard.The hospital.The community gardens.Main Street.Fighting down that familiar swell of envy.

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Townies.They were oblivious. All of them. So beau-

tifully oblivious.He didnt hate them. Didnt want their life.

He had long ago accepted his role as protect-or. Guardian. Home was a sterile, window-less room inside a mountain, and he hadmade as much peace with that fact as a mancould hope to make. But that didnt meanthat on a lovely morning as he gazed downinto what was literally the last vestige ofparadise on the face of the earth, therewasnt a pang of nostalgia. Of homesicknessfor what had once been.

For what would never be again.Moving down the street, Mustin fixed his

sight on a man walking quickly up the side-walk. He wore a hunter-green shirt, brownpants, black Stetson cowboy hat.

The brass star pinned to his lapel refracteda glint of sunlight.

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The man turned a corner, the crosshairs ofthe reticle zeroing in on his back.

Morning, Sheriff Burke, Mustin said.Feel an itch between your shoulder blades?

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2There were still moments, like this one,when Wayward Pines felt like a real place.

Sunlight pouring down into the valley.The morning still pleasantly cool.Pansies gemmed a planter under an open

window that let the smell of a cooking break-fast waft outside.

People out for morning walks.Watering lawns.Collecting the local paper.Beads of dew steaming off the top of a

black mailbox.Ethan Burke found it tempting to linger in

the moment, to pretend that everything wasjust as it appeared. That he lived with his

wife and son in a perfect little town, wherehe was a well-liked sheriff. Where they hadfriends. A comfortable home. All needsprovided for. And it was in the pretendingthat hed come to fully understand how wellthe illusion worked. How people could letthemselves succumb, let themselves disap-pear into the pretty lie that surroundedthem.

Bells jingled over the door as Ethan enteredthe Steaming Bean. He stepped up to thecounter and smiled at the barista, a hippiechick with blond dreads and soulful eyes.

Morning, Miranda.Hi, Ethan. Usual?Please.While she started the espresso shots for

his cappuccino, Ethan surveyed the shop.

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The regulars were all here, including twoold-timersPhillip and Clayhunched overa chessboard. Ethan walked over, studied thegame. By the looks of it, theyd been at it fora while now, each man down to a king,queen, and several pawns.

Looks like youre heading toward a stale-mate, Ethan said.

Not so fast, Phillip said. I still gotsomething up my sleeve.

His opponent, a gray grizzly of a man,grinned through his wild beard across thechessboard and said, By something, Philmeans hes going to take so damn long tomove that I die and he wins by forfeit.

Oh, shut up, Clay.Ethan moved on past a ratty sofa to a

bookshelf. He ran his finger across thespines. Classics. Faulkner. Dickens. Tolkien.Hugo. Joyce. Bradbury. Melville.Hawthorne. Poe. Austen. Fitzgerald.Shakespeare. At a glance, it was just a ragtag

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assembly of cheap paperbacks. He pulled aslim volume off the shelf. The Sun AlsoRises. The cover was an impressionistic bull-fighting scene. Ethan swallowed against thelump that formed in his throat. The brittle-paged, mass-market edition of Hemingwaysfirst novel was probably the sole remainingcopy in existence. It gave him goosebumpsawesome and tragic to hold it in hishands.

Ethan, youre all set!He grabbed one more book for his son and

went to the counter to collect his cappuccino.Thanks, Miranda. Im going to borrow

these books, if thats okay.Of course. She smiled. Keep em

straight out there, Sheriff.Do my best.Ethan tipped the brim of his hat and

headed for the door.

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Ten minutes later, he pushed through theglass double doors under a sign that read:

OFFICE OF THE SHERIFF OFWAYWARD PINES

Reception stood empty. Nothing newthere.

His secretary sat at her desk looking asbored as ever. She was playing Solitaire, lay-ing cards down at a steady, mechanical pace.

Morning, Belinda.Morning, Sheriff.She didnt look up.Any calls?No, sir.Anyone been by?No, sir.How was your evening?She glanced up, caught off guard, an ace of

spades clutched in her right hand.

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What?It was the first time since becoming sheriff

that Ethan had pushed his interaction withBelinda beyond perfunctory greetings, good-byes, and administrative chitchat. Shed beena pediatric nurse in her past life. Hewondered if she knew that he knew that.

I was just asking how your evening was.Last night.

Oh. She pulled her fingers through along, silver ponytail. Fine.

Do anything fun?No. Not really.He thought she might return the question,

inquire after his evening, but five seconds ofuncomfortable silence and eye contactelapsed and still she didnt speak.

Ethan finally rapped his knuckles on herdesk. Ill be in my office.

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He propped his boots up on the massive deskand kicked back in the leather chair with hissteaming coffee. The head of a giant elkstared down at him from its mount acrossthe room. Between it and the three antiquegun cases behind the desk, Ethan felt he hadthe trappings of a country sheriff down cold.

His wife would be arriving at work rightabout now. In her past life, Theresa had beena paralegal. In Wayward Pines, she was thetowns sole realtor, which meant she spenther days sitting behind a desk in an office onMain Street that people rarely entered. Herjob, like the vast majority of those assignedto the residents, was mainly cosmetic. Win-dow dressing for a pretend town. Only fouror five times a year would she actually assistsomeone with a new home purchase. Modelresidents were rewarded with the option toupgrade their home every few years. Thoseresidents who had been here the longest andnever violated the rules lived in the biggest,

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nicest Victorians. And those couples that be-came pregnant were all but guaranteed anew, more spacious home.

Ethan had nothing to do and nowhere tobe for the next four hours.

He opened the book from the coffeehouse.The prose was terse and brilliant.He choked up at the descriptions of Paris

at night.The restaurants, the bars, the music, the

smoke.The lights of a real, living city.The sense of a wide world brimming with

diverse and fascinating people.The freedom to explore it.Forty pages in, he closed the book. He

couldnt take it. Hemingway wasnt distract-ing him. Wasnt sweeping him away from thereality of Wayward Pines. Hemingway wasrubbing his face in it. Pouring salt into awound that would never heal.

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At a quarter to two, Ethan left the office onfoot.

He strolled through quiet neighborhoods.Everyone he passed smiled and waved,

greeting him with what felt like genuine en-thusiasm, as if hed lived here for years. Ifthey secretly feared and hated him, they hidit well. And why shouldnt they? As far as heknew, he was the sole resident of WaywardPines who knew the truth, and it was his jobto make certain it stayed that way. To keepthe peace. The lie. Even from his wife andson. In his first two weeks as sheriff, hedspent most of his time studying dossiers oneach resident, learning the particulars oftheir lives before. The details of theirintegrations. Surveillance-based reports oftheir lives after. He knew the personal his-tories of half of the town now. Their secretsand fears. Those who could be trusted to

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maintain this fragile illusion. Those withhairline cracks in their veneer.

He was becoming a one-man gestapo.Necessaryhe got that.But he still despised it.

Ethan hit Main Street and headed south un-til the sidewalk and the buildings ended. Theroad went on, and he walked its shoulder in-to a forest of towering pines. The murmur oftown life dropped away.

Fifty feet past the road sign that warned ofa sharp curve ahead, Ethan stopped. Heglanced back toward Wayward Pines. Nocars coming. Everything still. No sound but asingle bird cheeping in a tree high overhead.

He stepped down from the shoulder andset off into the woods.

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The air smelled of pine needles warming inthe sun.

Ethan moved across the cushiony floor ofthe forest through spaces of light andshadow.

He walked quickly enough to sweatthrough the back of his shirt, his skin coolwhere the fabric clung.

It was a nice hike. No surveillance, nopeople. Just a man on a walk by himself inthe woods, briefly alone with his thoughts.

Two hundred yards from the road, hereached the boulders, a collection of graniteblocks scattered between the pines. At thepoint where the forest swept up the moun-tainside, a rock outcropping loomed, half-buried in the earth.

Ethan approached.From ten feet away, the smooth, vertical

rock face looked real. Right down to thequartz vein and the bright smatterings ofmoss and lichen.

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At close range, the illusion was less con-vincing, the dimensions of the face just atouch too square.

Ethan stood several feet back and waited.Soon, he heard the muffled mechanical

hum of the gears beginning to turn. The en-tire rock face lifted like a giant garagedoorwide and tall enough to accommodatea tractor-trailer.

Ethan ducked under the rising door intothe dank, subterranean chill.

Hello, Ethan.Marcus.Same escort as beforea twenty-

something kid with the buzzed hair andsharp jawline of a grunt or a cop. He wore ayellow windbreaker, and it dawned on Ethanthat hed forgotten to bring his jacket again.He was in for another freezing ride.

Marcus had left the doorless, toplessWrangler idling and facing back the way ithad come.

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Ethan climbed into the front passengerseat.

The entrance door thudded closed behindthem.

Marcus pulled the emergency brake andshifted into gear as he spoke into a headset,Ive got Mr. Burke. Were en route.

The Jeep lurched forward, accelerating ona single, unmarked lane of pristinepavement.

They sped up a fifteen-percent grade.The walls of the tunnel were exposed

bedrock.In places, rivulets of water came down the

rock and spiderwebbed across the road. Anoccasional droplet starred the windshield.

The fluorescent luminaires blurred pastoverhead in a river of morbid orange.

It smelled like stone, water, and exhaust.Between the engine growl and the wind, it

was too noisy for conversation. This was fineby Ethan. He leaned back into the gray vinyl

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seat and fought the urge to rub his armsagainst the constant blast of cold, wet air.

Pressure built inside his ears, the roar ofthe engine fading.

He swallowed.The noise returned.They kept climbing.At thirty-five miles per hour, it was only a

four-minute trip, but it seemed to takelonger. Something disorienting and time-skewing in the face of all the cold and thenoise and the wind.

The sense of literally boring up inside amountain.

The unnerving anticipation of going to seehim.

The tunnel emptied into an immense cavernthat contained the floor space of ten

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warehouses. A million square feet or more. Aroom expansive enough for the assembly ofjets or spacecraft. But instead it held provi-sions. Huge cylindrical reservoirs filled withfood staples. Long rows of shelving forty feethigh stocked with lumber and supplies.Everything needed to keep the last town onearth running for years to come.

Marcus drove past a door with the wordSuspension stenciled across the glass. Mistyblue light clouded behind the entrance, andit ran an icy finger down Ethans spine toknow what stood inside.

Pilchers suspension units.Hundreds of them.Every resident of Wayward Pines, himself

included, had been chemically suspended inthat room for eighteen hundred years.

The Jeep jerked to a stop beside a pair ofglass doors.

Marcus turned off the car as Ethanclimbed out.

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The escort typed in a code on the keypadand the doors whisked apart.

They moved past a placard that readLevel 1 into a long, empty corridor.

No windows.Fluorescent lights humming.The floor was a streak of black-and-white

checkered tile. Every ten feet stood a door in-set with a small circular window. No handle,no doorknobthey opened only with akeycard.

Most of the windows were dark.Through one, however, an aberration

watched Ethan pass, the pupils of its large,milky eyes dilating, razor cuspids bared, asingle black talon clicking on the glass.

They visited him in nightmares. Hed wakedripping with sweat, reliving the attack,Theresa patting his back and whispering thathe was safe at home in bed, that everythingwould be okay.

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Halfway down the corridor, they stoppedat a pair of unmarked doors.

Marcus swiped his keycard and theyopened.

Ethan stepped inside the small car.His escort inserted a key into a chrome

panel, and when the sole button began toblink, pushed it.

The movement was smooth.Ethans ears always popped once during

the ride, but he could never tell if they wererising or descending.

It stuck in his craw that even after twoweeks on the job he was still escorted aroundthis place like a child or a threat.

Two weeks.Jesus.It felt like just yesterday hed been sitting

across the desk from Adam Hassler, SpecialAgent in Charge of the Seattle field office, re-ceiving the assignment to come to this townand find Ethans missing ex-partner, Kate

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Hewson. But he wasnt a Secret Service agentanymore. He still hadnt fully come to termswith that fact.

The only way to know that they hadstopped was that the doors opened.

The first thing he saw stepping off was aPicasso, which Ethan suspected was original.

They walked through a posh foyer. Nofluorescent lights and checkered linoleumhere. It was all marble tile and high-end wallsconces. Crown molding. Even the air tastedbetternone of that canned, stale-edgedcomponent found in the rest of the complex.

They passed a sunken living room.A cathedral kitchen.A library walled with leather-bound

volumes that smelled absolutely antique.Turning a corner, they finally headed

down toward the double oak doors at the endof the hall.

Marcus knocked hard twice, and a voice onthe other side responded, Come in!

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Go ahead, Mr. Burke.Ethan opened the doors and stepped

through into a spectacular office.The floor was a dark, exotic hardwood

with a high-gloss sheen.The centerpiece was a large table that dis-

played, under glass, an architectural mini-ature of Wayward Pines, accurate even to thecolor of Ethans house.

The left-hand wall was adorned with theworks of Vincent van Gogh.

The opposite wall consisted of a floor-to-ceiling bank of flat-screened monitors. Ninehigh, twenty-four across. Leather sofas facedthe screens that showed two hundred sixteensimultaneous images of WaywardPinesstreets, bedrooms, bathrooms, kit-chens, backyards.

Every time Ethan saw those screens hehad to stifle an irresistible impulse to tearsomeones head off.

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He understood the purposefullybutstill

That fury, said the man behind the in-tricately carved mahogany desk. You flash itevery time you come to see me.

Ethan shrugged. Youre eavesdropping onprivate lives. Just a natural reaction.

You believe privacy should exist in ourtown?

Of course not.Ethan moved toward the giant desk as the

doors behind him swung shut.He shelved his Stetson under his right arm

and eased down into one of the chairs.Stared at David Pilcher.He was the billionaire-inventor (when

money meant something) behind WaywardPines, behind this complex inside the moun-tain. In 1971, Pilcher had discovered that thehuman genome was degrading, and hedprivately predicted that humanity wouldcease to exist within thirty to forty

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generations. So he built this suspension su-perstructure to preserve a number of purehumans before the genome corruptionreached critical mass.

In addition to his inner circle of one hun-dred sixty true believers, Pilcher was re-sponsible for the abduction of six hundredfifty people, all of whom, himself included,hed put into suspended animation.

And Pilchers prediction came true. At thisvery moment, beyond the electrified fencethat surrounded Wayward Pines, lived hun-dreds of millions of what humanity had de-volved intoaberrations.

And yet, Pilcher didnt own the face hedostensibly earned. He was a physically un-threatening man. Five foot five in boots.Hairless save for the faintest silverstubblemore chrome than winter clouds.He watched Ethan through diminutive eyesthat were as black as they were unreadable.

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Pilcher pushed a manila folder across theleather-topped desk.

Whats this? Ethan asked.A surveillance-based report.Ethan opened the folder.It contained a black-and-white screenshot

of a man he recognized. Peter McCall. Theman was editor-in-chief of the town pa-perthe Wayward Light. In the photograph,McCall is lying on his side in bed, staringempty-eyed into nothing.

Whatd he do? Ethan asked.Well, nothing. And thats the problem.

Peter hasnt shown up for work the last twodays.

Maybe hes been sick?He hasnt reported feeling ill, and Ted,

my head surveillance tech, got a weird vibe.Like he might be considering running?Perhaps. Or doing something reckless.I remember his file, Ethan said. I dont

recall any major integration issues. No

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subsequent insubordinate behavior. Has hesaid anything disturbing?

McCall hasnt spoken a word in forty-eight hours. Not even to his children.

What do you want me to do exactly?Keep an eye on him. Drop by and say

hello. Dont underestimate the effect yourpresence can have.

You arent considering a fte are you?No. Ftes are reserved for those who ex-

hibit true acts of treason and try to bringothers along with them. You arent wearingyour sidearm.

I think it sends the wrong message.Pilcher smiled a mouthful of tiny white

teeth. I appreciate your taking an interest inthe message I want my sole figure of author-ity in town to espouse. I mean that. Whatwould your message be, Ethan?

That Im there to help. To support. Toprotect.

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But youre not actually there to do any ofthose things. Ive been unclearthis is myfault. Your presence is a reminder of mypresence.

Got it.So the next time I spot you walking down

the street on one of my screens, can I expectto see your biggest, baddest gun bulging offyour hip?

For sure.Excellent.Ethan could feel his heart punching

against his ribs with a furious intensity.Please dont take this minor rebuke to be

my overall impression of your work, Ethan. Ithink youre integrating nicely into your newposition. Would you agree?

Ethan glanced over Pilchers shoulder. Thewall behind the desk was solid rock. In thecenter, a large window had been cut into thestone. The view was of the mountains, the

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canyon, and Wayward Pinestwo thousandfeet below.

I think Im getting more comfortable withthe job, Ethan said.

Youve been rigorously studying the resid-ent files?

Ive gotten through all of them once.Your predecessor, Mr. Pope, had them

memorized.Ill get there.Glad to hear it. But you werent studying

them this morning, correct?You were watching me?Not watching you watching you. But your

office popped up a few times on the monit-ors. What was that you were reading? Icouldnt make it out.

The Sun Also Rises.Ah. Hemingway. One of my favorites. You

know, I still believe that great art will be cre-ated here. I brought along our pianist,Hecter Gaither, for that explicit reason. I

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have other renowned novelists and paintersin suspension. Poets. And were always look-ing for talent to nurture in the school. Ben isthriving in his art class.

Ethan bristled internally at Pilchers men-tion of his son, but he only said, The resid-ents of Pines are in no state of mind to makeart.

What do you mean by that, Ethan?Pilcher asked it like a therapist mightthe

question charged with intellectual curiosity,not aggression.

They live under constant surveillance.They know they can never leave. What kindof art would a repressed society possibly bemotivated to create?

Pilcher smiled. Ethan, to hear you talk, Iwonder if youre fully on board with me. Ifyou actually believe in what were doing.

Of course I believe.Of course you do. A report came across

my desk today from one of my nomads just

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returned from a two-week mission. He saw aswarm of abbies two thousand strong onlytwenty miles from the center of WaywardPines. They were moving across the plainseast of the mountains, chasing a herd of buf-falo. Every day, Im reminded how vulner-able we are in this valley. How tenuous, howfragile our existence. And you sit there andlook at me like Im running the GDR or theKhmer Rouge. You dont like it. I can respectthat. Hell, I wish it could be different. Butthere are reasons for the things I do, andthese reasons are based upon the preserva-tion of life. Of our species.

Arent there always reasons?Youre a man of conscience, and I appre-

ciate that, Pilcher said. I wouldnt havesomeone in your position of power whowasnt. Every resource I have, every personunder my employ, is devoted to one thing.Keeping the four hundred sixty-one people

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in that valleyyour wife and son in-cludedsafe.

What about the truth? Ethan asked.In some environments, safety and truth

are natural born enemies. I would think aformer employee of the federal governmentcould grasp that concept.

Ethan glanced over at the wall of screens.On one in the lower left-hand corner, hiswife appeared.

Sitting alone in her office on Main Street.Motionless.Bored.The screen adjacent to hers showed a cam-

era feed unlike anything Ethan had seenabirds-eye view of something flying a hun-dred feet above a dense forest at a consider-able rate of speed.

Whats that camera feed? Ethan asked,pointing at the wall.

Which one?

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The image was replaced by a camera shotfrom inside the opera house.

Its gone now, but it looked likesomething flying at treetop level.

Oh, thats just one of my UAVs.UAV?Unmanned Aerial Vehicle. Its an MQ-9

Reaper drone. We send them out every so of-ten on reconnaissance missions. Has a rangeof about a thousand miles. Today, I believeits flying south to do a loop around the GreatSalt Lake.

Ever find anything?Not yet. Look, Ethan. Im not asking you

to like all of this. I dont like it.Where are we going? Ethan asked as the

image of his wife was replaced with the im-age of two boys building sand castles in asandbox. As a species I mean. He fixed hisgaze back on Pilcher. I get what youve donehere. That youve preserved our existence farbeyond what evolution had in mind. But was

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it just for this? So a small contingent of hu-manity could live in a valley under 24-7 sur-veillance? Shielded from the truth? Occa-sionally forced to kill one of their own? Itsnot a life, David. Its a prison sentence. Andyouve made me the warden. I want the bestfor these people. For my family.

Pilcher rolled back in his chair away fromthe desk, spun it around, and stared throughthe glass at the town he had made.

Weve been here fourteen years, Ethan.There are less than a thousand of us andhundreds of millions of them. Sometimes thebest you can do is simply survive.

The camouflaged tunnel door closed shut be-hind him.

Ethan stood alone in the woods.

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He moved away from the rock outcroppingback toward the road.

The sun had already dropped behind thewestern wall of cliffs.

A crisp, golden quality to the sky.A night-is-coming chill to the air.The road into Pines was empty, and Ethan

walked down the middle of the doubleyellow.

Home was 1040 Sixth Street, a Victorian justa few blocks from Main. Yellow with whitetrim. Pleasant and creaky. Ethan movedacross the flagstones and up onto the porch.

He opened the screened door, the solidwood door.

Stepped inside.Said, Honey, Im home!There was no answer.

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Only the silent, clenched energy of anempty house.

He topped the coat rack with his cowboyhat and sat down on a ladder-back chair towrestle off his boots.

In sock feet, he crossed to the kitchen. Themilk had come. Four glass bottles rattledagainst one another when he pulled open thedoor to the fridge. He grabbed one and car-ried it down the hallway into the study. Thiswas Ethans favorite room in the house. If hesat in the oversized upholstered chair by thewindow, he could bask in the knowledge thathe wasnt being watched. Most buildings inPines had one or two blind spots. On histhird trip to the superstructure, hed gottenhis hands on the surveillance schematics forhis house. Memorized the location of everycamera. Hed asked Pilcher if he could havethem removed, and been denied. Pilcherwanted Ethan to have the full experience of

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living under surveillance so he could relateto the people under his authority.

There was comfort in knowing that, in thismoment, no one could see him. Of course,they knew his precise location at all timesthanks to the microchip embedded under hishamstring. Ethan had known better than toask if he could be exempted from that secur-ity measure.

Ethan popped the top off the glass bottleand took a swig.

It wasnt the kind of thing he could say toTheresa (with people listening), but hed of-ten thought that out of all the terrible hard-ships attendant to their life in Pinesno pri-vacy, no freedom, the ever-present threat ofdeaththis daily milk from the dairy in thesoutheast corner of the valley had to be theone bright spot.

It was cold and creamy and fresh, with agrassy sweetness.

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Out the window, he could see into thenext-door neighbors backyard. JenniferRochester knelt over a raised flowerbed,scooping in handfuls of soil from a redwheelbarrow. He recalled her file before hecould stop the thought. In her past life, shedbeen a professor of education at WashingtonState University. Here in Pines, she waitedtables four nights a week at the Biergarten.With the exception of a brutal integrationthat almost didnt take, she had been a mod-el resident.

Stop.He didnt want to think about work, about

the private details of his neighbors lives.What must they think of him under the

surface?He shuddered at his life.They hit him occasionally, these moments

of despair. There was no way out, no otherman he could benot if he wanted to keephis family safe.

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That had been made abundantly clear.Ethan knew he should probably read the

report on McCall, but instead he opened thedrawer in the accent table beside him andtook out the book of poetry.

Robert Frost.A short collection of his nature poems.Whereas Hemingway had crushed him

this morning, in Frost, Ethan always foundsolace.

He read for an hour.Of mending walls and snowy woods and

roads not taken.The sky darkened.He heard his wifes footsteps on the porch.Ethan met her at the door.How was your day? he asked.Theresas eyes seemed to whisper, I sat be-

hind a desk for eight hours at a meaninglessjob and didnt speak to another soul, but sheforced a smile and said, It was great. Andyours?

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I met with the man responsible for thisprison we call home and picked up a secretfile on one of our neighbors.

Mine was great too.She ran her hand down his chest. Im glad

you didnt change yet. I love you in uniform.Ethan embraced his wife.Breathed in her smell.Fingers gliding through her long blond

hair.I was thinking, she said.Yeah?Ben wont be home from Matthews for

another hour.Is that right?She took Ethan by the hand and pulled

him toward the staircase.You sure? he asked. Theyd only been to-

gether twice in the two weeks since their re-union, both times in Ethans favorite chair inthe study, Theresa sitting in his lap, his

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hands on her hipsan awkwardentanglement.

I want you, she said.Lets go in the study.No, she said. Our bed.He followed her up the steps and down the

second-floor hallway, the hardwood groan-ing under their footfalls.

They stumbled kissing into the bedroom,their hands all over each other, Ethan tryingto ground himself in the moment, but hecouldnt push the cameras out of his mind.

One behind the thermostat on the wall be-side the bathroom door.

One in the light fixture in the ceiling look-ing straight down on their bed.

He was hesitating, conflicted, and Theresasensed it.

Whats wrong, baby? she asked.Nothing.They were standing beside the bed.

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Out the window, the lights of Pines werecoming onstreetlamps, porch lights,houselights.

A cricket started up, its chirping slidingthrough the open window.

Quintessential sound of a peaceful night.Only it wasnt real. There were no crickets

anymore. The sound came from a tiny speak-er hidden in a bush. He wondered if his wifeknew that. Wondered how much of the truthshe suspected.

Do you want me? Theresa asked in thatno-bullshit tone hed fallen for the first timetheyd met.

Of course I do.So do something about it.He took his time unbuttoning the back of

her white summer dress. Badly out of prac-tice, but there was something wonderfullyterrifying because of the rust. Not like highschool, but close. A lack of control that had

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him hard before theyd even made it into theroom.

He tried to pull the covers over them butshe wouldnt have it. Told him she wanted tofeel the cool breeze coming through the win-dow across the surface of her skin.

It was a good old-fashioned bed and, likethe rest of the house, creaky as hell.

The bedsprings squeaked and as Theresamoaned Ethan tried to put the knowledge ofthe camera above them out of his mind.Pilcher had assured him that watchingcouples in their private moments was strictlyforbidden. That camera feeds were alwayskilled when the clothes came off.

But Ethan wondered if that was true.Or if some surveillance tech was watching

as he fucked his wife. Studying Ethans bareass. The bend of Theresas legs as theywrapped around his body.

Their first two times together, Ethan hadcome before Theresa. Now the thought of the

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camera above him cut into the pleasure. Heused the anger to make himself last.

Theresa came with a vengeance that re-minded Ethan of how good they could betogether.

He let himself finish and then they werestill. Breathless and he could feel her heartjackhammering against his ribs. The eveningair almost cold where it grazed his sweatyskin. It mightve been a perfect moment butthe knowledge of everything elbowed in.Would he reach the point one day when hecould shut that off? Just take these unexpec-ted respites of peace for their surface beautyand forget the underlying horror? Was thathow people managed to live here for yearswithout losing their minds?

So we can still do that, he said, and theylaughed.

Next time well take off the trainingwheels, she said.

I like the sound of that.

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He rolled over and Theresa curled intohim.

Ethan made sure her eyes were closed.Then he smiled straight up at the ceiling

and raised his middle finger.

Ethan and Theresa worked on dinner togeth-er, chopping side by side on the butcher-block counter.

It was harvest time in the community gar-dens, the end of the season, and the Burkesfridge was loaded down with their share offresh veggies and fruit. These were, without adoubt, the prime eating months of the yearin Wayward Pines. Once the leaves had beenburnt with frost and the snowline had begunits rapid descent to the valley floor, the foodtook a disastrous turn for the freeze-dried.October through March, they could look

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forward to six months of prepackaged, de-hydrated shit. Theresa had already warnedEthan that walking through the town groceryin December was like shopping for a spacemissionnothing but shelf after shelf ofchrome-colored packaging labeled with themost outrageous dares: crme brle;grilled-cheese sandwich; filet mignon; lob-ster tail. Shed already threatened to servehim freeze-dried steak and lobster for theirChristmas dinner.

They had just finished preparing thehearty saladonions, radishes, and raspber-ries over a bed of spinach and redlettucewhen Ben crashed through the frontdoor, rouge-cheeked, smelling of boy-sweatand the outdoors.

Still caught in that delicate blink of timebetween boy and man.

Theresa went to her son and kissed himand asked about his day.

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Ethan turned on the vintage Philipsatube radio from the 1950s in immaculatecondition. Pilcher had inexplicably put onein every inhabited house.

Surfing was easy with one station tochoose from. Most of the time, it just blaredstatic, but there were one or two talk shows,and always, between seven and eight oclock,Dinner with Hecter.

Hecter Gaither had been a moderatelyfamous concert pianist in his past life.

In Pines, he taught lessons to anyone whowanted to learn, and every night of the week,played music for the town.

Ethan turned up the volume, heardHecters voice as he joined his family.

Good evening, Wayward Pines. HecterGaither here.

At the head of the table, Ethan dished outservings of their salad.

Im sitting at my Steinway, a gorgeousBoston Baby Grand.

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First to his wife.Tonight, Ill be playing the Goldberg

Variations, a work originally composed forharpsichord by Johann Sebastian Bach.

Then to his son.The construction of this piece is an aria

followed by thirty variations. Please enjoy.As Ethan served himself and took a seat,

he heard the creak of the piano bench comecrackling through the speaker.

After dinner, the Burkes took bowls ofhomemade ice cream out onto the porch.

Sat in rocking chairs.Eating and listening.Through the open windows of the neigh-

boring houses, Ethan could hear Hectersmusic.

It filled the valley.

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Precise and radiant notes bubbling upbetween the mountain walls that had becomeruddy with alpenglow.

They stayed out late.A millennium without air or light pollution

made for pitch-black skies.The stars didnt just appear anymore.They exploded.Diamonds on black velvet.You couldnt tear your eyes away.Ethan reached over and held Theresas

hand.Bach and galaxies.The night grew cool.When Hecter finished, people clapped in-

side their homes.Across the street, a man shouted, Bravo!

Bravo!Ethan looked over at Theresa.Her eyes were wet.He said, You okay?

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She nodded, wiping her face. Im just soglad to have you home.

Ethan finished the dishes, headed upstairs.Bens room was at the far end of the hall andthe door was closedjust a razor line of lightvisible underneath.

Ethan knocked.Come in.Ben was sitting up in bed sketchingchar-

coal on butcher paper.Ethan eased down on the comforter,

asked, Can I take a look?Ben lifted his arms.The sketch was the boys current vantage

point from the bedthe wall, the desk, thewindow frame, the points of light outsidewhich were visible through the glass.

Thats amazing, Ethan said.

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Its not exactly like I want it. The nightthrough the window doesnt really look likenight.

Im sure itll get there. Hey, I picked up abook from the coffee shop today.

Ben perked up. What is it?Its called The Hobbit.I never heard of it.It was one of my favorite books when I

was your age. I thought maybe I could read itto you.

I know how to read, Dad.I know. But I havent read this in years.

Might be fun to read it together.Is it scary?It has some scary parts. Go brush your

teeth and hurry back.

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Ethan sat against the headboard, reading bythe light of a bedside table lamp.

Ben was asleep before the end of the firstchapter, dreaming, Ethan hoped, of dun-geons deep and caverns old. Of somethingother than Wayward Pines.

Ethan set the paperback aside and cut thelamp.

Pulled the blanket up to his sonsshoulders.

He laid his hand down against Bens back.Nothing better in the world than feeling

the rise and fall of his childs sleepingrespirations.

Ethan had still not recovered from his songrowing up in Wayward Pines. Doubted itwas something he would ever accept. Therewere small things which he tried to tell him-self were better. Tonight for instance. HadBen grown up in the old world, Ethan wouldprobably have entered his sons bedroom tofind him glued to an iPhone.

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Texting friends.Watching television.Playing video games.Twitter and Facebook.Ethan didnt miss those things. Didnt

wish that his son was growing up in a worldwhere people stared at screens all day.Where communication had devolved into thetapping of tiny letters and humanity lived byand large for the endorphin kick from theping of a received text or a new e-mail.

Instead, hed found his almost-teenage sonpassing his time before bed by sketching.

Hard to feel bad about that.But it was the years to come that weighed

down on Ethans heart with the black pres-sure of depression.

What did Ben have to look forward to?There would be no higher learning. No real

career.Gone were the days ofYou can be whatever you want to be.

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Whatever you set your mind to.Just follow your heart and your dreams.Golden-age platitudes of an extinct

species.When people failed to pair up on their

own, marriages in Pines were often sugges-ted. And even when they werent, the pool ofpotential mates wasnt exactly deep.

Ben would never see Paris.Or Yellowstone.Might never fall in love.He would never have the experience of go-

ing away to college.Or on a honeymoon.Or driving across the country nonstop,

spur-of-the-moment, just because he wastwenty-two and could.

Ethan hated the surveillance and the ab-bies and Piness culture of illusion.

But what kept him up with his mind racinglate into the night were thoughts of his son.Ben had lived in Pines for five years, almost

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as long as hed lived in the world before.Whereas Ethan suspected that the adult res-idents of Pines struggled every day with thememory of their past lives, Ben was verymuch a product of this town, of this strange,new time. Not even Ethan was privy to thethings his son was being taught in school.Pilcher kept a pair of his men in plainclotheson school property at all times, and parentswerent allowed inside.

3:30 a.m.Ethan lay awake in his bed, his wife in his

arms.Miles from sleep.He could feel Theresas eyelashes scraping

against his chest with each blink.What are you thinking?

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The question had haunted their marriagebefore, but in Pines it had assumed an en-tirely new gravity. In the fourteen daystheyd been together, Theresa had neverbroken the surface illusion. Of course, shehad welcomed Ethan back home. Theredbeen a tearful reunion, but five years as aresident of Pines had made her a stone-coldpro. There was no talk of where Ethan hadbeen or of his tumultuous integration. Nomention or discussion of the strange eventssurrounding his becoming sheriff. Or whathe might now know. Sometimes, he thoughthe caught a glint of something in Theresaseyesan acknowledgment of their circum-stance, a suppressed desire to communicateon a forbidden level. But like a good actor,she never broke character.

More and more, he was coming to realizethat living in Pines was like living in an elab-orate play whose curtain never closed.

Everyone had their parts.

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Shakespeare could have been writingabout Pines: All the worlds a stage, and allthe men and women merely players. Theyhave their exits and their entrances; andone man in his time plays many parts.

Ethan had already played a few of his own.Downstairs, the telephone was ringing.Theresa sat straight up as if shed been

spring-loaded, no sign of bleariness, snappedinstantly to attention, her face gone tightwith fear.

Is it everyones phone? she asked, hervoice filled with dread.

Ethan climbed out of bed.No, honey. Go back to sleep. Its just ours.

Its just for me.

Ethan caught it on the sixth ring, standing inhis boxers in the living room, the rotary

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phone clutched between his shoulder and hisear.

For a moment, I wondered if you were go-ing to answer.

Pilchers voice. Hed never called Ethan athome before.

Do you know what time it is? Ethan said.Terribly sorry to have woken you. Did you

get a chance to read the surveillance reporton Peter McCall?

Yeah, Ethan lied.But you didnt go and talk with him like I

suggested, did you?I was planning to first thing tomorrow.Dont bother. Hes decided to take his

leave of us tonight.Hes outside?Yeah.So maybe he went for a walk.Thirty seconds ago, his signal reached the

curve in the road at the end of town and keptright on heading south.

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What do you want me to do?There was a beat of silence on the other

end of the line. Somehow, Ethan could feelthe frustration coming through like a heatlamp.

Pilcher said evenly, Stop him. Talk somesense into him.

But I dont know exactly what you wantme to say.

I realize this is your first runner. Dontworry about what to say. Just trust your gut.Ill be listening.

Listening?A dial tone blared in Ethans ear.

He crept upstairs and dressed in the dark-ness. Theresa was still awake, sitting up inbed and watching as he threaded his beltthrough the loops.

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Everything okay, honey? she asked.Fine, Ethan said. Work stuff.Yeah, just have to stop one of our neigh-

bors from trying to leave our little slice ofparadise in the middle of the night. No bigdeal. Nothing weird here.

Ethan walked over and kissed his wife onthe forehead.

Ill be back as soon as I can. Hopefully be-fore morning.

She didnt say anything, only grabbed hishand and squeezed hard enough to move thebones.

Nighttime in Wayward Pines.A wonderland of stillness.The crickets turned off.So quiet Ethan could hear the streetlamps

humming.

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The pounding of his own biologic engine.He walked down to the curb and climbed

into the black Ford Bronco with a light baracross the roof and, on the doors, the exactWP emblem that was engraved on his sher-iffs star.

The engine gargled.Ethan shifted into gear.Tried to pull gently out into the street, but

the 4.9-liter straight six had been bored outand was loud as hell.

The noise would undoubtedly wakepeople.

Cars were rarely driven in Pinesyoucould cross town on foot in fifteen minutes.

Cars were never driven in Pines at night.Their purpose was decorative, and anyone

whose slumber was disturbed by the roar ofEthans Bronco would know that somethinghad come off the rails.

He turned onto Main and headed south.

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After the hospital, he hit the high beamsand pushed the gas pedal into the floor, ac-celerating into a narrow corridor of tallpines.

With the window down, the cold forest airstreamed in.

He drove down the middle of the road,tires straddling the double yellow.

Imagining there was no turn coming, thatsoon the road would begin to climb.

Out of this valley, away from this town.He would reach down and turn on the ra-

dio, surf the airwaves until he found a stationthat played the oldies. It would be a three-hour trip back to Boise. Nothing like drivingon an open road at night with the windowsdown and good music blasting. It was onlyfor a split second, but he caught the feelingof living in a world full of others like him. Anightscape light-ridden with the glow ofgreat cities. The distant roar of interstate

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traffic and jets thundering through thestratosphere.

The sense of not being so goddamn alone.The endlings of their species, of humanity.The speedometer needle edged toward

seventy, the engine screaming.Hed already blown past the sharp curve

ahead sign.Ethan stomped on the brake and lurched

forward as the Bronco skidded to a stop inthe vertex of the curve. He pulled over ontothe shoulder, killed the engine, climbed out.

Soles of his boots scraping across thepavement.

For a moment, he hesitated with the dooropen, staring at the Winchester 97 cradledin the gun rack above the seats. He didntwant to take it for the message it might sendto McCall. He didnt want to leave it, becausethese were dark and scary woods and theworld they bordered hostile beyond reckon-ing. There had never been a fence breach to

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his knowledge, but there was a first time foreverything, and being out in these trees inthe middle of the night unarmed was justtaunting Murphys Law.

Leaning back in, he opened the center con-sole and jammed his pockets full with shells.Then he reached up and lifted the twelve-gauge off the rack. It was a pump-action tubefeed with a walnut stock and fifteen inches ofthe barrel sawn off.

Ethan fed in five shells, racked one intothe chamber, and set the hammer to half-cockedthe closest thing to a safety on thisbeautiful dinosaur of a weapon.

With the shotgun laid across his shoulderblades and his arms draped over the stockand barrel, Ethan stepped down off theshoulder and started into the woods.

Colder here than in town.A yard-thick blanket of mist hovered over

the floor of the forest.The moon had yet to clear the wall of cliffs.

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It was dark enough under the trees for aflashlight.

Ethan turned on the beam, moved deeperinto the woods. Trying to keep on thestraightest trajectory possible so he couldfind his way back to the road.

Ethan heard the electrified hum before hesaw itcutting through the mist like a sus-tained bass note.

The profile of the fence appeared in thedistance.

A rampart running through the forest.As he drew near, details emerged.Twenty-five-foot steel pylons spaced

seventy-five feet apart. Bundles of conduct-ors stretched between them, separated everyten feet with spacers. The cables an inchthick, studded with spikes and enwrappedwith razor wire.

There was ongoing debate within Pilchersinner circle regarding whether the fencewould remain viable in a loss-of-power

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situationwhether or not the height and therazor wire alone could keep the abbies out.Ethan figured there wasnt much of anythingthat could stop several thousand starving ab-bies from tearing through if theywantedwith or without electricity.

Ethan stopped five feet from the wire.He broke off two low-hanging limbs and

marked the spot with an X.Then he headed east, walking parallel to

the fence.After a quarter mile, he stopped to listen.There was the constant hum.His own breathing.The sound of something moving through

the forest on the other side of the fence.Footfalls in pine needles.The occasional snap of a branch.A deer?An abby?Sheriff?

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The voice straightened Ethans spine likean electrical current had ripped through itand he swung the shotgun off his shouldersand leveled the barrel on Peter McCall.

The man stood ten feet away beside thetrunk of a giant pine, dressed in dark clothesand a black baseball cap. He had a smallbackpack slung over his shoulder. To thepack, hed lashed two plastic milk jugs filledwith water, which sloshed as he steppedforward.

He carried no weapon that Ethan could seebeyond a walking stick with more curve thanan old mans backbone.

Jesus, Peter. What the hell are you doingout here?

The man smiled but Ethan saw fear in it.If I said I was just out for a late walk, wouldyou believe me?

Ethan lowered the shotgun.You shouldnt be out here.

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Id heard rumors there was a fence inthese woods. Always wanted to see it.

Well, there it is. Now youve seen it. Letswalk back to town.

Peter said, Before I built a wall Id ask toknow what I was walling in, or walling out.Robert Frost wrote that.

Ethan wanted to say he knew that. Thathed been reading Frost, that very poem infact, just several hours ago.

So, lawman, McCall said, pointing at thefence. Are you walling us in? Or wallingsomething out?

Its time to go home, Peter.Is it now.Yeah.And by that, do you mean my house in

Wayward Pines? Or my real home inMissoula?

Ethan edged forward. Youve been hereeight years, Peter. Youre an important

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member of this community. You provide anessential service.

The Wayward Light? Come on. That pa-pers a joke.

Your family is here.Where is here? What does that even

mean? I know there are people whove foundhappiness and peace in this valley. I tried toconvince myself I had, but it was a lie. Ishouldve done this years ago. I sold myselfout.

I get that its hard.Do you? Because from my perspective,

youve been in Pines all of five minutes. Andbefore they made you sheriff you couldnt getout fast enough. So what changed? Did youactually make it?

Ethan set his jaw.You made it past the fence, didnt you?

What did you see? What turned you into atrue believer? I hear there are demons on theother side, but thats just a fairytale, right?

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Ethan set the butt of the Winchester onthe ground, leaned the barrel against a tree.

Tell me whats out there, McCall said.Do you love your family? Ethan asked.I need to know. You of all people

shouldDo you love your family?The question finally seemed to register.I used to. When we were real people.

When we could talk about the things in ourhearts. You know this is the first real conver-sation Ive had in years?

Ethan said, Peter, this is your last chance.Are you going to come back with me?

My last chance, huh?Yeah.Or what? All the phones will start to ring?

Youll disappear me yourself?Theres nothing for you out there, Ethan

said.At least thered be answers.

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Whats it worth to you to know? Your life?Your freedom?

McCall laughed bitterly. You callthathe gestured behind him in the generaldirection of townfreedom?

I call it your only option, Peter.The man stared at the ground for a mo-

ment and then shook his head.Youre wrong.Hows that?Tell my wife and daughter I love them.How am I wrong, Peter?Theres never only one option.His face hardened.Sudden onset of resolve.He shot past Ethan like hed exploded out

of the starting blocks, still accelerating whenhe struck the fence.

Sparks.Arcs stabbing into McCall from the wire

like blue daggers.

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The force of the voltage blasted Peter tenfeet back from the fence into a tree.

Peter!Ethan knelt at the mans side, but Peter

was gone.Lesioned with electrical burns.Crumpled and drawn.Motionless.Sizzling.Smoking.The air reeked of charred hair and skin,

his clothes polka-dotted with smoldering,fire-rimmed holes.

For the best really.Ethan spun.Pam stood leaning against the tree behind

him, smiling in the darkness.Her clothes as black as the shadows under

the pines, only her eyes and her teeth visible.And the moon of her pretty face.Pilchers beautiful pit bull.

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She pushed off the tree and moved towardEthan like the natural fighter that she was.Slinking. Graceful. Catlike. Complete bodycontrol and economy of movement. He hatedto admit it, but she scared him.

In his past-life work with the Secret Ser-vice hed only encountered three pure psy-chopaths. He felt confident Pam was one.

She squatted down beside him.Its like yuck, but also makes me hungry

for barbecue. Is that weird? Dont worry. Youdont have to clean this up. Theyll send ateam.

I wasnt worrying about that at all.Oh?I was thinking about this poor mans

family.Well, at least they didnt have to watch

him get beat to death in the street. And letsface itthats where this was heading.

I thought I could convince him.

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If hed been a new arrival, maybe. ButPeter snapped. Perfect resident for eightyears. Not so much as a negative surveillancereport until this week. Then suddenly, hesoff in the middle of the night with provi-sions? Hed been holding this inside for awhile. Pam looked at Ethan. I heard whatyou said to him. There was nothing else youcouldve done. Hed made up his mind.

I couldve let him go. I couldve given himthe answers he wanted.

Pam smirked. But youre smarter thanthat, Ethan. As you just proved.

You believe we have the right to keeppeople in this town against their will?

There are no rights anymore. No laws.Just force and fear.

You dont believe rights exist inherently?She smiled. Didnt I just say that?Pam stood and started off into the woods.Ethan called after her, Who will talk to

his family?

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Not your problem. Pilcher will handle.And tell them what?Pam stopped, turned.She was twenty feet away and barely vis-

ible in the trees.Im guessing whatever the fuck he feels

like telling them. Was there anything else?Ethan glanced at his shotgun leaning

against the tree.A mad thought.When he looked back at Pam, she was

gone.

Ethan stayed with Peter for a long time.Until it occurred to him that he didnt wantto be here when Pilchers men finally camefor the body. He struggled to his feet.

It felt good to walk away from the fence,the noise of its current steadily fading.

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Soon, he moved through silent woods andmist.

Thinking, That was so fucked up and youhave no one to tell. Not your wife. No realfriend to speak of. The only people you canshare this with include a megalomaniac anda psychopath. And thats never going tochange.

After a half mile, he climbed a small riseand stumbled out onto the road. He hadntreturned the way hed intended, but still hedonly missed his Bronco by a few hundredfeet. Exhaustion hit him. No idea what timeit was, but it had been a long, long day, along, long night, and the dawn of a brand-new one loomed.

He reached the Bronco, emptied the shot-gun, stowed it on the rack.

So tired he couldve lain across the consoleand slept.

The stench of the electrocution was just aspotentwould probably take days to leave.

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At some point tomorrow, Theresa wouldask him if everything was okay, and he wouldsmile and say, Yeah, honey. Im fine. Andhow are you?

And she would answer with those intenseeyes that seemed completely disconnectedfrom her words, Just great.

He cranked the engine.The rage came out of nowhere.He pinned the gas pedal to the floorboard.The tires squealed, bit blacktop, launched

him.He tore around the curve and down the

straightaway toward the outskirts of town.The billboard disgusted him more every

time he saw ita family with bright whitesmiles waving like something out of a 1950ssitcom.

WELCOME TO WAYWARDPINES

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WHERE PARADISE IS HOME

Ethan sped alongside a split-rail fence.Through the passenger window, he could

see the herd of cattle congregated in thepasture.

A row of white barns at the edge of thetrees glowing in the starlight.

He looked back through the windshield.The Bronco bounced over something large

enough to jar the steering wheel out of hishands.

The vehicle lurched toward the shoulder,beelining for the fence at sixty-five miles perhour.

He grabbed the wheel, cranked it back, feltthe suspension lift up on two tires. For a hor-rifying second, the wheels screeched acrosspavement and his right side dug into theshoulder strap.

He felt the g-force in his chest, his face.

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Through the windshield caught a glimpseof the constellations spinning.

His foot had slipped off the gas pedal andhe could no longer hear the engine rev-vingjust three seconds of silence save forthe wind screaming over the windshield asthe Bronco flipped.

When the roof finally met the road, thecollision was deafening.

Metal caving.Glass crunching.Tires exploding.Sparks where the metal dragged across

pavement.And then the Bronco was motionless, up-

right on four wheels, two of them still hold-ing air. Steam hissing up through the cracksalong the hood.

Ethan smelled gasoline. Scorched rubber.Coolant. Blood.

He clutched the steering wheel so hard ittook him a moment to pry his hands open.

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He was still strapped into the seat. Hisshirt covered in safety glass. He reacheddown, unbuckled the seat belt, relieved tofeel his arms working without pain. Shiftinghis legs, they seemed okay. His doorwouldnt open, but the glass had been com-pletely busted out of the window. Up ontohis knees, he dragged himself through theopening and fell to the road. Now he felt thepain. Nothing stabbingjust a slowly build-ing ache that seemed to flood out of his headand down into the rest of his body.

He made it onto his feet.Swaying.Tottering.Bent over, thought he might be sick, but

the nausea passed.Ethan brushed the glass off his face, the

left side stinging from a gash that hadalready streamed blood over his jawline,down his neck, and under his shirt.

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He glanced back at the Bronco. It stoodperpendicular across the double yellow,right-side tires robbed of air, the SUVslouched away from him. Most of the glasswas gone and there were long scores acrossthe paint job like the claws of a predator hadraked it.

He staggered away from the Bronco, fol-lowing gas and oil and other fluids like ablood trail up the road.

Stepped over the light bar that had beenripped off.

A side mirror lay on its side on theshoulder like a plucked eye, wires danglingfrom the housing.

Cows groaned in the distance, headsraised, faces turned toward the commotion.

Ethan stopped just shy of the billboardand stared ahead at the object lying in theroad, the object that had nearly killed him.

It looked like a ghost. Pale. Still.

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He limped on until he stood over her.Didnt immediately recall her name, but hedseen this woman around town. Shed heldsome position of authority at the communitygardens. Midtwenties he suspected. Blackhair to her shoulders. Bangs. Now she wasnaked and her skin a serene, dead blue likesea ice. It seemed to glow in the dark. Exceptfor the holes. So many of them. Somethingclinical, not desperate, in the pattern. Hestarted to count but stopped himself. Didntwant that number rattling around in hishead. Only her face had been left untouched.Her lips had lost all color, and the largest,darkest slit in the center of her chest lookedlike a small, black mouth, open in surprise.Maybe that was the one that had killed her.Several others could have easily done the job.But she was clean of any blood. In fact, theonly other mark on her skin was the tiretrack where his Bronco had rolled across herabdomen, the tread clearly visible.

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His first thought was that he needed to getthe police.

And then: You are the police.Thered been talk of him hiring a deputy or

two, but it hadnt happened yet.Ethan sat down in the road.The shock of the wreck had begun to fade,

and he was growing cold.After a while, he got up. Couldnt just leave

her here, not even for a couple of hours. Helifted the woman in his arms and carried heroff the road into the woods. She wasnt ascold as he wouldve thought. Still warm even.Bloodless and warman eerie combination.Twenty feet in, he found a grove of scruboak. He ducked under the branches and sether down gently on a bed of dead leaves.There was nowhere to take her now, but itfelt wrong just leaving her here. He foldedher hands across her stomach. When hereached for the top button on his shirt, hediscovered that his hands were still

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trembling. He tore it open, took it off,covered her with it.

Said, Ill be back for you, I promise.Ethan walked out to the road. For a mo-

ment, he considered putting the Bronco intoneutral, rolling it off onto the shoulder. But itwasnt like anyone would be driving out herein the next few hours. The dairy wouldnt bemaking its milk deliveries until late tomor-row afternoon. Hed have time to clean thisup before then.

Ethan started back toward town, the lightsof the houses of Pines twinkling in the valleyahead.

So peaceful.So perfectly deceptively peaceful.

Dawn was on the verge as Ethan walked intohis house.

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He drew the hottest bath he could stand inthe clawfoot tub downstairs. Cleaned up hisface. Scrubbed off the blood. The heatdimmed the body ache and the throbbing be-hind his eyes.

There was light in the sky when Ethanclimbed into bed.

The sheets were cold and his wife waswarm.

He shouldve called Pilcher already.Shouldve called him the moment he walkedinside, but he was too tired to think. Heneeded sleep, if only for several hours.

Youre back, Theresa whispered.He wrapped an arm around her, drew her

in close.His ribs on his left side ached when he

breathed in deeply.

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Everything okay? she asked. He thoughtof Peter, smoking and sizzling after theshock. The dead, naked woman lying in themiddle of the road. Of almost dying, and notthe first clue as to what any of it meant.

Yeah, honey, he said, snuggling closer.Im fine.

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3Ethan opened his eyes and nearly leapt offthe mattress.

Pilcher sat in a chair at the foot of his bed,watching Ethan over the top of a leather-bound book.

Wheres Theresa? Ethan asked. Wheresmy son?

Do you have any idea what time it is?Wheres my family?Your wifes at work just like shes sup-

posed to be. Bens in school.What the hell are you doing in my bed-

room? Ethan asked.Its early afternoon. You never showed up

for work.

Ethan shut his eyes against a crushingpressure at the base of his skull.

You had a big night, huh? Pilcher said.Ethan reached for the glass of water on the

bedside table, his entire body stiff andbrittle. Like hed been broken into a thou-sand pieces and haphazardly patched backtogether.

He drained the glass.You found my car? Ethan asked.Pilcher nodded. As you can imagine, we

were deeply concerned. There are no camer-as near the billboard. We didnt see whathappened. Only the aftermath.

The light coming through the window wassharp.

Ethan squinted against it.He stared at Pilchercouldnt tell what

book he held. The man was dressed in jeans,a white oxford, gray sweater-vest. The samegentle, unassuming style Pilcher alwayssported around town where people believed

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he was a resident psychologist. He and Pamwere probably seeing patients today.

Ethan said, I was driving back to Pinesafter Peter McCall. Assume you heard whathappened there?

Pam briefed me. So tragic.I glanced into the pasture for a split

second, and when I looked back, there wassomething in the middle of the road. I hit it,swerved, overcorrected, flipped my Bronco.

The damage was severe. Youre lucky tobe alive.

Yeah.What was in the road, Ethan? My men

didnt find anything except debris from theBronco.

Ethan wondered if Pilcher really didntknow. Was it possible that the woman in theroad had been a Wanderer? There wasrumored to be a group of residents who haddiscovered their microchips and cut themout. Who had knowledge of the camera

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placements and blind spots. People who kepttheir chips with them during the day, but onoccasion, would extract them and leave themin bed to wander undetected in the night.Word was they always wore hooded jacketsor sweatshirts to hide their faces from thecameras.

It makes me nervous, Pilcher said, risingto his feet, when I see you wrestling with asimple question that should require nothought at all to answer. Or perhaps yourhead is still cloudy from the wreck. Does thatexplain the delay? Why, when I look in youreyes, I see the wheels turning?

He knows. Hes testing me. Or maybe heonly knows that she was there, but notwhere I put her.

Ethan?There was a woman lying in the road.Pilcher reached into his pocket, pulled out

a wallet-sized photo.Held it up to Ethans face.

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It was her. A candid shot. Smiling orlaughing at something off-camera. Vibrant.The backdrop was blurred, but from the col-or, Ethan guessed that the photo had beentaken in the community gardens.

He said, Thats her.Pilchers face went dark. He returned the

photograph to his pocket.Shes dead? He asked it like all the air

had gone out of him.Shed been stabbed.Where?Everywhere.She was tortured?Looked that way.Where is she?I moved her out of the road, Ethan said.Why?Because it didnt seem right to leave her

naked out in the open for anyone to see.Where is her body right now?

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Across the road from the billboard in agrove of scrub oak.

Pilcher sat down on the bed.So you tucked her away, came home,

went to bed.I took a hot bath first.Interesting choice.As opposed to?Calling me immediately.Id been up for twenty-four hours. I was

in agony. I just wanted several hours of sleepfirst. I was going to call you first thing.

Of course, of course. Sorry to doubt you.The thing is, Ethan, this is kind of a big deal.Weve never had a murder in WaywardPines.

You mean an unsanctioned murder.Did you know this woman? Pilcher

asked.Id seen her around. I dont think Id ever

spoken to her though.Read her file?

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Actually, no.Thats because she doesnt have a file. At

least not one that you have access to. Sheworked for me. She was due back in themountain late last night from a mission.Never showed.

She worked for you as what? A spy?I have a number of my people living in

town among the residents. Its the only wayto keep a finger on the true pulse of Way-ward Pines.

How many?Its not important. Pilcher patted Ethans

leg. Dont look so offended, boy. Youre oneof them. Get dressed, come downstairs, wellcontinue this over coffee.

Ethan walked downstairs in a clean, newlystarched sheriffs uniform into the smell of

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brewing coffee. He took a seat on a stool atthe kitchen island as Pilcher pulled thecarafe out of the coffeemaker and poured in-to a pair of ceramic mugs.

You take it black, right?Yeah.Pilcher carried the mugs over and set them

on the butcher block.He said, A surveillance report came

across my desk this morning.Who was the subject?You.Me?Your little temper tantrum upstairs yes-

terday caught the attention of one of myanalysts.

Pilcher raised his middle finger.You got a report on that?I get a report anytime anyone does any-

thing strange.

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You think its strange it pisses me offwhen your peeping toms watch me with mywife?

Watching intimate moments is strictlyforbidden. You know this.

The only way an analyst would know thatit was no longer an intimate moment was ifhe had been watching during the intimatemoment. Right?

You acknowledged the camera.Theresa didnt see.But what if she had?You think theres anyone in town whos

been here longer than fifteen minutes whodoesnt know theyre under constantsurveillance?

Whether they know or suspect, I dontcare. As long as they keep it to themselves.As long as they walk the line. That includesnot ever acknowledging the cameras.

Do you know how difficult it is to fuckyour wife with a camera over your bed?

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I dont care.DavidIts against the rules and you know it.

For the first time, anger laced his words.Fine.Say it wont happen again, Ethan.It wont happen again. But dont ever let

me find out that your analysts are watching.Ill leave them where I find them.

Ethan took a big, hot swallow that burnedhis throat.

How you feeling, Ethan? You seemcranky.

I feel rough.First thing, were taking you to the

hospital.Last time I was in your hospital, everyone

tried to kill me. I think Ill just tough this oneout.

Suit yourself. Pilcher took a sip andmade a face. Its not terrible, but sometimes

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I could kill to sit outside a caf in a Europeancity and drink a proper shot of espresso.

Oh, come on, you love this.Love what, Ethan?What youve created here.Sure, its my lifes work. Doesnt mean

there arent parts of the old world I stillmiss.

They drank coffee and the mood lightenedjust a touch.

Pilcher finally said, She was a good wo-man. A great woman.

What was her name?Alyssa.You didnt know where she was until I

told you. Does that mean she wasntchipped?

We allowed her to take it out.You mustve trusted her.Implicitly. Remember the group I told

you about?The Wanderers?

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Id sent her to infiltrate. Thesepeopletheyve all managed to remove theirchips. They meet at night. We dont knowwhere. We dont know how many. We dontknow how they communicate. I couldnt sendher in with a microchip. Theyd have killedher outright.

So she got in?Last night was supposed to be her first

meeting. Shed have seen all the players.They have meetings? Hows that

possible?We dont know how, but they understand

the weaknesses in our surveillance. Theyvegamed the system.

And youre saying these people are re-sponsible for her death?

Thats what I want you to find out.You want me to investigate this group?I want you to pick up where Alyssa left

off.

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Im sheriff. Theyd never let me get withina thousand miles.

After your tumultuous integration, Imthinking the jury is still out on where yourloyalties lie. You sell yourself right, theymight consider you a prized asset.

You actually think theyd trust me?I think your old partner will.It became very quiet in the kitchen.Just the hum of the refrigerator.Distant, ebullient noise coming through an

open windowchildren playing somewhere.Shouts of Youre it!Ethan said, Kate is a Wanderer?Kate was Alyssas point of contact. Kate

showed her how to remove her microchip.What do you want me to do?Reach out to your old flame. Discreetly.

Tell her youre not really with me.What do these people know and what do

they want?

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I believe they know everything. Thattheyve gone beyond the fence and seenwhats out there. That they want to rule.Theyre actively recruiting. Last sheriff, theymade three attempts on his life. Theyreprobably already making the same plans foryou. This is what I want you to investigate.Top priority. Ill give you every tool you need.Unlimited access to surveillance.

Why arent you and your people handlingthis from the inside?

Alyssas death has been a big blow to allof us. There are a lot of people in the moun-tain not thinking very clearly right now. So Ihave to lay this on your shoulders. You alone.I hope you understand the stakes here.Whatever your personal feelings about theway I run this townand youve shared themwith meit works. This can never be ademocracy. Theres too much to lose ifeverything goes to shit. Youre with me onthat, right?

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I am. You run a mostly benevolent dictat-orship with occasional slaughter.

Ethan thought Pilcher would laugh, but hejust stared across the island, the steam coil-ing off the surface of the coffee into his face.

That was a joke, Ethan said.You with me or not?Yes. But I worked with Kate for years.

Shes not a murderer.No offense, but you worked with her in

another time. Shes a different person now,Ethan. Shes a product of Pines, and youhave no idea what shes capable of.

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4Theresa watched the second hand pass the12.

3:20 p.m.She tidied up the items on her smooth,

clean desk and gathered her purse.The brick walls of the office were papered

with real estate brochures that few peoplehad ever studied. She had rarely used thetypewriter or received a phone call. For themost part, she read books all day, thoughtabout her family, and occasionally her lifebefore.

Since her arrival in Pines, she hadwondered if this was her afterlife. At the veryleast, it was her life after.

After Seattle.After her job as a paralegal.After almost all of her relationships.After living in a free world, that for all its

complexities and tragedies still made sense.But in her five years here, she had aged,

and so had others. People had died, disap-peared, been murdered. Babies had beenborn. That didnt align with any concept ofan afterlife she had heard of, but then again,by definition, how could you ever know whatto expect outside the realm of the living,breathing human experience?

Over the years of her residency, it hadsteadily dawned on her that Pines felt muchcloser to a prison than any afterlife, althoughperhaps there was no meaningful distinction.

A mysterious and beautiful lifelongsentence.

It wasnt just a physical confinement, but amental one as well, and it was the mental as-pect that made it feel like a stint in solitary.

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The inability to outwardly acknowledge onespast or thoughts or fears. The inability totruly connect with a single human being.There were moments of course. Few and farbetween. Sustained eye contact, even with astranger, when the intensity seemed to sug-gest the inner turmoil.

Fear.Despair.Confusion.Those times, Theresa at least felt the

warmth of humanity, of not being so utterlyand helplessly alone. It was the fakeness thatkilled her. The forced conversations aboutthe weather. About the latest crop from thegardens. Why the milk was late. Abouteverything surface and nothing real. InPines, it was only ever small talk, and gettingaccustomed to that level of interaction hadbeen one of the toughest hurdles to herintegration.

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But every fourth Thursday, she got to leavework early, and for a brief window, the ruleslet up.

Theresa locked the door behind her and setoff down the sidewalk.

It was a quiet afternoon, but that wasnothing new.

There were never loud ones.She walked south along Main Street. The

sky was a staggering, cloudless blue. Therewas no wind. No cars. She didnt know whatmonth it wasonly time and days of theweek were countedbut it felt like lateAugust or early September. A transitionalquality to the light that hinted at the death ofa season.

The air mild with summer, the light goldwith fall.

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And the aspen on the cusp of turning.

The lobby of the hospital was empty.Theresa took the elevator to the third

floor, stepped out into the hallway, checkedthe time.

3:29.The corridor was long.Fluorescent lights hummed above the

checkerboard floor. Theresa walked halfwaydown until she reached the chair sitting out-side a closed, unmarked door.

She took a seat.The noise of the lights seemed to get

louder the longer she waited.The door beside her opened.A woman emerged and smiled down at

her. She had perfect white teeth and a facethat struck Theresa as both beautiful and

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remote. Unknowable. Her eyes were greenerthan Theresas, and shed pulled her hairback into a ponytail.

Theresa said, Hi, Pam.Hello, Theresa. Why dont you come on

in?

The room was bland and sterile.White walls absent any painting or

photograph.Just a chair, a desk, a leather divan.Please, Pam said in a soothing voice that

sounded vaguely robotic, gesturing forTheresa to lie down.

Theresa stretched out on the divan.Pam took a seat in the chair and crossed

her legs. She wore a white lab coat over agray skirt and black-rimmed glasses.

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She said, Its good to see you again,Theresa.

You too.How have you been?Okay, I guess.I believe this is the first time youve come

to see me since your husbands return.Thats true.Must be so good to have him back.Its amazing.Pam slid the pen out of her lapel pocket

and clicked out the tip. She turned her swivelchair toward the desk, put the pen to a legalpad with Theresas name scrawled across thetop, and said, Do I hear a but coming?

No, its just that its been five years. A lothas happened.

And now it feels like youre married to astranger?

Were rusty. Awkward. And of course, itsnot like we can just sit down and talk aboutPines. About this insane situation were in.

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Hes thrown back into my life and were ex-pected to function like a perfect family unit.

Pam scribbled on the pad.How would you say Ethan is adapting?To me?To you. Ben. His new job. Everything.I dont know. Like I said, its not like we

can communicate. Youre the only personIm allowed to really talk to.

Fair enough.Pam faced Theresa again. Do you find

yourself wondering what he knows?What do you mean?You know exactly what I mean. Ethan was

the subject of a fte, and the only person inthe history of Pines to escape one. Do youwonder if he made it out of town? What hesaw? Why he returned?

But I would never ask him.But you wonder.

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Of course I do. Its like he died and cameback to life. He has answers to questions thathaunt me. But I would never ask him.

Have you and Ethan been intimate yet?Theresa felt a deep blush flooding through

her face as she stared up at the ceiling.Yes.How many times?Three.How was it?None of your fucking business.But she said, The first two times were a

little clunky. Yesterday was far and away thebest.

Did you come?Excuse me?Theres nothing to be ashamed of,

Theresa. Your ability or lack thereof to havean orgasm is a reflection on your state ofmind. Pam smirked. And possibly Ethansskills. As your psychiatrist, I need to know.

Yes.

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Yes, you had one?Yesterday, I did.Theresa watched Pam draw an O with a

smiley face beside it.I worry about him, Theresa said.Your husband?He went out in the middle of the night

last night. Didnt come back until dawn. Idont know where he went. I cant ask. I getthat. I assume he was chasing someone try-ing to leave.

Do you ever have thoughts aboutleaving?

Not in several years.Why is that?At first, I wanted to. I felt like I was still

living in the old world. Like this was a prisonor an experiment. But its strangethelonger I stayed here, the more it becamenormal.

What did?

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Not knowing why I was here. What thistown really was. What was beyond.

And why do you think it became morenormal to you?

Maybe this is just me adapting or givingin, but I realized that as strange as this townwas, it wasnt all that different from my lifebefore. Not when I really held them upagainst each other. Most interaction in theold world was shallow and superficial. Myjob in Seattle was as a paralegal working foran insurance defense firm. Helping insur-ance companies fuck people out of their cov-erage. Here, I sit in an office all day long andhardly talk to anyone. Equally useless jobs,but at least this one isnt actively hurtingpeople. The old world was filled with myster-ies beyond my understandingthe universe,God, what happens when we die. And thereare plenty of mysteries here. Same dynamics.Same human frailties. It just all happens toexist in this little valley.

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So youre saying its all relative.Maybe.Do you believe this is the afterlife,

Theresa?I dont even know what that means. Do

you?Pam just smiled. It was a facade, no com-

fort in it. Pure mask. The thought crossedTheresas mind, and not for the firsttimewho is this woman Im spilling all mysecrets to? To some extent, the exposure wasterrifying. But the compulsion to actuallyconnect with another human being tippedthe scales.

Theresa said, I guess I just see Pines as anew phase of my life.

Whats the hardest thing about it?About what? Living here?Yeah.Hope.What do you mean by that?

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Why am I continuing to breathe in andout? I would think thats the hardest ques-tion for everyone stuck in this place toanswer.

And how do you answer it, Theresa?My son. Ethan. Finding a great book.

Snowstorms. But its not like my old life.Theres no dream house to live for. No lot-tery. I used to fantasize about going to lawschool and starting my own practice. Becom-ing fulfilled and rich. Retiring with Ethansomewhere warm with a clear blue sea andwhite sand. Where it never rains.

And your son?Theresa hadnt seen it coming. Those three

little words hit her with the sneaky power ofa surprise right.

The ceiling shed been staring at disap-peared behind a sheet of tears.

Bens future was your biggest hope,right? Pam asked.

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Theresa nodded, and when she blinked,two lines of saltwater ran out of the cornersof her eyes and down her face.

His wedding? Pam asked.Yeah.An illustrious career that made him

happy and you proud?Its more than that.What?Its what I was just talking about. Hope. I

want it so badly for him, but hell never knowit. What can the children of Pines aspire tobe? What foreign lands do they dream ofvisiting?

Have you considered that maybe this ideaof hope, at least the way