Free Wayward Pines: The Widow Lindley (Kindle Worlds Novella) by F. Paul Wilson Page A

yet.
    She looked at the cut-out paper snowflakes festooning the
kitchen. Joanna’s work. One a day, every day, since last winter.
    Karla placed the screened plunger atop the carafe and pushed
it down, pressing the grounds against the bottom, squeezing the last bit of
caffeiney goodness out of them. This was why she used a coarse grind—too fine
and the grounds seeped through the mesh. She poured the supernate into her cup,
added a teaspoon of honey, a dollop of light cream fresh from the town dairy,
and she was ready.
    She returned to the backyard where two empty swing seats
swayed in the breeze.
    “Jo? Joanna?”
    No answer.
    “Jo? Where are you? Are you hiding?”
    Hiding wasn’t Joanna’s thing—or at least it hadn’t been. Maybe
this was a new game.
    “Okaaay. I’m gonna fiiiind you.” She took a deep gulp of her
coffee before setting it on the back steps. “Ready or not, here I come.”
    Trying to put herself in the mind of a four-year-old, Karla
looked around and asked, Where would I hide?
    The thick trunks of the trees rimming the property looked
good. Karla began walking the perimeter.
    “Am I cold? Am I getting warmer? Am I—?”
    Her throat locked when she saw the broken branches. She
froze and stared.
    “J-Joanna?”
    Karla tried to tell herself that Joanna had done this, that
she’d pushed her way into the underbrush to hide, but it was too thick for a
four-year-old to penetrate on the simple whim of hiding from her mother.
    “Joanna!” A scream now.
    Frantic, she pushed her way into the break and came upon a
small area of flattened brush. Flies buzzed around a pile of fresh stool.
    Had something hidden here? Watching? Waiting for its chance?
    She saw paw prints in the moist soil—oblong, each crowned
with a line of punctures. Claws?
    “Jesus God!”
    A wolf? A bear? She knew nothing of animal tracks, but what
else could make those punctures but claws, talons.
    “Oh-God-oh-God-oh-God-oh-God!”
    Frantic graduated to terrified as she pushed past the
flattened brush and deeper into the woods. The undergrowth thinned and
disappeared as the trees, mostly pines now, thickened. The forest floor became
a cushiony bed of browned needles that stretched away in every direction. They
didn’t appear disturbed. The only good thing—if anything could be good about
this—was that she hadn’t seen a drop of blood anywhere.
    Karla skidded to a halt, screaming her daughter’s name. And
then she stopped and listened—for anything.
    Please make a sound, Joanna. Please!
    Nothing. Nothing moving and no sound but the breeze rustling
through the branches above.
    Why wasn’t Joanna calling, crying, screaming? Why hadn’t she
made a sound in the backyard? Karla would have heard her—even the slightest
squeak of alarm would have returned her to the backyard at lightning speed.
    All her instincts pushed her to run now, run blindly in
search of her daughter, but another voice told her she couldn’t do this alone. She
was going to need help.
    Reluctantly accepting the hard reality of that fact, she
forced herself to turn and race back to the house. She burst into the kitchen,
grabbed the phone, and hit 9-1-1. No special emergency services in Wayward
Pines, just—
    “Sheriff’s office, Belinda speaking.”
    “This is Karla Lindley!” she said, breathless from panic
rather than exertion. “It’s taken my little girl!”
    The voice jumped an octave. “Who? What?”
    “I don’t know! Some animal! A bear or a wolf—I don’t know! It’s
taken my baby into the woods behind my house! Tell the sheriff to get up a
search party! I’m going after it!”
    “Wait! You shouldn’t—”
    Karla slammed the receiver down and ran back toward the
door.
    Wait. She couldn’t go after whatever it was with her bare
hands. She needed a weapon. And she knew just where to find one.
    She dashed upstairs to the master bedroom—the one she used
to share with Jonathan—and went straight to his closet. She had to rise