* * *
Crawled for what seemed like days.
His eyes conjuring strange displays of light that appeared with greater frequency the longer he stayed in darkness.
Vivid bursts of color.
Imaginary auroras.
Haunting radiance in the black.
And the longer he crawled in that confined darkness, the more aggressively one thought kept eating at him—none of this is real.
Not Wayward Pines, or the canyon, or those creatures, or even you.
So what is this? Where am I?
In a long, dark tunnel. But where do you think you’re going?
I don’t know.
Who are you?
Ethan Burke.
No, who are you?
The father of Ben. Husband of Theresa. I live in a neighborhood in Seattle called Queen Anne. I was a Black Hawk helicopter pilot in the second Gulf War. After that, a Secret Service agent. Seven days ago, I came to Wayward Pines—
Those are just facts. They say nothing about your identity, your nature.
I love my wife, but I was unfaithful to her.
That’s good.
I love my son, but I was rarely around. Just a distant star in his sky.
Even better.
I have good intentions, but...
But what?
But all the time I fail. I hurt the ones I love.
Why?
I don’t know.
Are you losing your mind?
I sometimes think I’m still in that torture room. I never left.
Are you losing your mind?
You tell me.
I can’t.
Why?
Because I am you.
* * *
At first, he thought it was just another phantom light show, but there were no erratic blooms of color. No optic fireworks.
Just a sustained speck of blue somewhere far ahead, as faint as a dying star.
When he closed his eyes, it disappeared.
When he opened them, it came back again, like the only vestige of sanity left in his claustrophobic world. It was just a point of light, but he could make it vanish and reappear, and even this scintilla of control was something to cling to.
An anchor. A port of call.
Ethan thinking, Please. Be real.
* * *
The dim blue star grew larger, and with its expansion came a quiet hum.
Ethan stopped to rest, a soft vibration now moving through the ductwork, moving through him.
After hours in the dark, this new sensation felt as comforting as a mother’s heartbeat.
* * *
Sometime later, the blue star changed shape into a tiny square.
It grew until it dominated Ethan’s field of vision, anticipation roiling in his gut.
Then it was ten feet ahead of him.
Then five.
Then he was stretching his arms out of the opening of the duct, his shoulders crackling, the new freedom of movement as sweet as he imagined water might have been.
Hanging out of the end of the duct, he stared down into one twice as wide and intersected by other shafts.
A soft blue light filled the main airshaft—emanating from a bulb far below.
Down at the bottom, he glimpsed an air intake.
Must have been a hundred-foot drop down to those blades.
Like staring down a well.
At intervals of ten feet, more shafts fed into the main, some of them considerably larger.
Ethan glanced up. The ceiling was two feet above his head.
Shit.
He knew what his next move was, what it had to be, and he didn’t like it.