Free The Last Town (The Wayward Pines Trilogy 3) by Blake Crouch Page A

leg.
    Five minutes later, she reached it.
    The gate was open.
    Locked open.
    She looked back in the direction of the dark woods through which she—and that swarm of abbies—had come. She stared at the open gate.
    Was it possible?
    Had the swarm pushed into the valley?
    Pam jogged through the gate. It hurt like hell, but she didn’t slow down, just grunted through the pain.
    Several hundred yards later, she heard the screams. Couldn’t tell if they were human or abby at this distance, only that there were many of them. She stopped running. Her leg was throbbing. She didn’t have a weapon. She was injured. And in all likelihood, a swarm of abbies had somehow entered the valley.
    She was torn. The part of her psyche that whispered self-preservation urged her to make a run for the superstructure. Get somewhere safe. Regroup. Let Dr. Miter patch her up. But the part that ruled every fiber of her being was afraid. Not of the abbies. Not of any horror she might encounter in a town overrun with monsters. She was afraid she would find Ethan Burke already dead, and that was unacceptable. After what he’d done to her, there was nothing in the world she wanted more than to find that man and take him slowly apart.
    Piece by agonizing piece.

TED UPSHAW
    The smell of booze hit him as he opened the door to the old man’s office.
    Pilcher sat behind his desk, and when he saw Ted, he smiled a little too wide; his face was red, eyes gone glassy.
    “Come in, come in!”
    He struggled onto his feet as Ted closed the door after him.
    Pilcher had wrecked the place. Two of the monitors were smashed, and the architect’s miniature of Wayward Pines had capsized, the glass that had once covered the model town shattered across the floor, houses and buildings crushed amid the shards.
    “I woke you, didn’t I?” Pilcher said.
    He hadn’t actually. Ted couldn’t have slept tonight if someone had injected him full of tranquilizers. But he said, “It’s fine.”
    “Let’s sit together like old friends.”
    There was a thickness, a deliberation, behind Pilcher’s words. Ted wondered how drunk he actually was.
    Pilcher staggered over to the leather couches. As Ted followed him, he saw that the monitors had been turned off in here as well.
    They sat on the cool leather, facing the dark monitors.
    Pilcher poured two healthy glasses of scotch from an expensive-looking bottle with the word Macallan on it and handed Ted the glass.
    They clinked the crystal glasses.
    Drank.
    It was the first alcohol Ted had sipped in more than two thousand years. When he’d been homeless and drinking himself to death in the wake of his wife’s passing, old scotch like this would have been a religious experience. But he’d lost his taste for it.
    “I still remember the day we met,” Pilcher said. “You were standing in the soup line of that shelter. It was your eyes that called out to me. So much grief in them.”
    “You saved my life.”
    The old man looked over at him. “Do you still trust me, Ted?”
    “Of course,” Ted lied.
    “Of course. You shut down the surveillance hub when I told you to.”
    “That’s right.”
    “You didn’t even ask why.”
    “No.”
    “Because you trust me.”
    Pilcher stared into his glass at the swirling amber liquid.
    “I did something tonight, Ted.”
    Ted looked up at the dark screens. Felt something go ice cold in the pit of his stomach. He looked over at Pilcher as the man raised a control tablet and typed something on the touchpad.
    The screens flashed to life.
    As head of surveillance, Ted had spent a quarter of his life watching these people eat, sleep, laugh, cry, fuck, and sometimes—when a fête was called—die.
    “I didn’t do this lightly,” Pilcher said.
    Ted stared at the screens, his eyes locking on one in particular—a woman crouching in the shower, shoulders heaving with sobs as a fist of talons punched through the bathroom door.
    He felt suddenly ill.
    Pilcher watched him.
    Ted looked over at