The Last Town (The Wayward Pines Trilogy 3) by Blake Crouch Read Free Book Online Page B

shoulder and ran.
    After a minute, the sound of the abbies changed.
    They were outside now.
    Many of them.
    He didn’t look back.
    Kept going.
    Kept climbing.

III

ADAM TOBIAS HASSLER
    HASSLER EXPEDITION
NORTHWEST WYOMING
678 DAYS AGO
    Brightly colored algae rims the bank, and jets of mineral water bubble where they surface up from the molten underworld below. The smell of sulfur and other minerals is strong.
    Hassler strips naked in the falling snow and covers his clothes and gear under the stinking duster. Hustling through the grass, he glides into the pool and groans with pleasure.
    Out in the center, it is deep and clear and sky blue.
    He finds a spot near the shore a foot and a half deep and stretches out on a long, smooth rock that boasts a natural incline.
    Pure, unabashed pleasure.
    As if it was made for this very thing.
    He reclines in the hundred-and-four-degree pool, the snow pouring down, letting his eyes close for little bursts of euphoria that remind him of what it felt like to be human. To live in a civilized world of convenience and comfort. Where the probability of death didn’t shadow every moment.
    But the knowledge of where he is, of who he is, of why he is here is never far. A tense voice—the one that has kept him alive for the last eight hundred and something days in the wild—whispers that it was foolish to stop for a soak in this pool. Indulgent and reckless. This isn’t a spa. A swarm of abbies could appear at any time.
    He’s normally vigilant to a fault, but this pool is nothing short of a gift, and he knows the memory of his time here will sustain him for weeks to come. Besides, the map and compass are useless in the midst of a blizzard. He’s socked in until the weather passes.
    He shuts his eyes again, feels the snowflakes alighting on his lashes.
    Off in the distance, he hears a sound, like water shooting out of the blowhole of a whale—one of the smaller geysers erupting.
    His own smile surprises him.
    He first saw this place in the faded color photos of the “XYZ” Encyclopedia Britannica volume in his parents’ basement—a 1960s crowd watching from the boardwalk as Old Faithful spewed boiling mineral water.
    He’s dreamed of coming here since he was a boy. Just never imagined that his first visit to Yellowstone would be in conditions such as these.
    Two thousand years in the future, and the world gone all to hell.

    Hassler grabs a handful of gravel and begins to abrade the dirt and filth that has accumulated on his skin like body armor. In the middle of the pool, where the deep water covers his head, he submerges himself completely.
    Clean for the first time in months, he climbs out of the pool and sits in the frosted grass to let his body cool.
    Steam lifts off his shoulders.
    He feels woozy from the heat.
    Across the meadow, evergreens stand ghost-like, almost invisible through the steam and the snow.
    And then—
    Something he wrote off as a shrub begins to crawl.
    Hassler’s heart stops.
    He straightens and squints.
    Can’t pinpoint how far away it is, but certainly inside of a hundred yards. Easy to mistake for a man crawling on all fours at this distance, except there are no men in the world anymore. At least not beyond the electrified, razor-wired fence that surrounds the town of Wayward Pines.
    Well, actually, there is one.
    Him.
    The figure draws closer.
    No.
    Figures.
    Three of them.
    You idiot.
    He’s naked, and his best means of defense—a .357—is tucked away in the pocket of his duster on the far side of the pool.
    But not even his Smith & Wesson offers much comfort against three abbies at close range in snowstorm visibility. If he were prepared, if he had spotted them farther out, he might have dropped one or two with his Winchester. Put a bullet through the last one’s skull point-blank with the revolver.
    This line of thought is pointless.
    They’re coming toward the pool.
    Hassler eases soundlessly back into the water, all the way up to his neck. He can