Action & Adventure
![Blake Crouch - [object Object] author](https://res.cloudinary.com/readsomnia/image/upload/authors/a_a_blake_crouch.jpg)
The Last Town: Wayward Pines: 3 (The Wayward Pines Trilogy)
The final book of the smash-hit Wayward Pines trilogy from the New York Times bestselling author of Dark Matter, Recursion, and Upgrade
What's inside was a nightmare. What's outside is a thousand times worse.
Welcome to Wayward Pines, the last town.
Secret Service agent Ethan Burke arrived in Wayward Pines, Idaho, three weeks ago. In this town, people are told who to marry, where to live, where to work. No one is allowed to leave; even asking questions can get you killed.
But Ethan has discovered the astonishing secret of what lies beyond the electrified fence that surrounds Wayward Pines and protects it from the terrifying world beyond. And now that secret is about to come storming through the fence to wipe out this last, fragile remnant of humanity.
The Last Town at last pitches Ethan Burke and his fellow residents into all-out war against the forces outside the town's gates-and in doing so delivers every bit the riotously horrific, breathlessly action-packed conclusion that the Wayward Pines trilogy deserves.
What's inside was a nightmare. What's outside is a thousand times worse.
Welcome to Wayward Pines, the last town.
Secret Service agent Ethan Burke arrived in Wayward Pines, Idaho, three weeks ago. In this town, people are told who to marry, where to live, where to work. No one is allowed to leave; even asking questions can get you killed.
But Ethan has discovered the astonishing secret of what lies beyond the electrified fence that surrounds Wayward Pines and protects it from the terrifying world beyond. And now that secret is about to come storming through the fence to wipe out this last, fragile remnant of humanity.
The Last Town at last pitches Ethan Burke and his fellow residents into all-out war against the forces outside the town's gates-and in doing so delivers every bit the riotously horrific, breathlessly action-packed conclusion that the Wayward Pines trilogy deserves.
Editorial Reviews
Blake Crouch's novels are . . .
"Gloriously twisting."-The New York Times Book Review
"Mind-blowing."-Entertainment Weekly
"Action packed and brilliantly unique."-Andy Weir
"Relatable and unnerving."-USA Today
"Jet-propelled."-NPR
"Wildly entertaining."-AV Club
"Masterful."-Harlan Coben
"Gloriously twisting."-The New York Times Book Review
"Mind-blowing."-Entertainment Weekly
"Action packed and brilliantly unique."-Andy Weir
"Relatable and unnerving."-USA Today
"Jet-propelled."-NPR
"Wildly entertaining."-AV Club
"Masterful."-Harlan Coben
Readers Top Reviews
Hideaway1355starp
SPOILERS: This was a good enough conclusion to the Wayward pines series. My biggest complaint was how long the attack on Pines took to complete. It took up more than half the book. Pilcher was given what was due to him. And it had a happy enough conclusion given the circumstances. Much better than how the TV series handled things.
Michael Lynn Mcgu
Book number three of a three book murder mystery series. I read the well formatted and nicely bound trade paperback. I think that the series is finished but am not totally sure. I watched the TV show made from the book series and enjoyed it. Mostly, I spent the time puzzled about what was going on. I do note that the books and the tv series diverged significantly. *** SPOILERS *** Basically, a scientist discovered that the human genome has been damaged. The gene damage is dominant and spreading rapidly. The new genome turns humans into barely intelligent, very aggressive animals. He postulates that civilization will fall in less than 100 years. So the scientist invents a time machine that only runs one way. Suspended animation for which he builds 1,000 machines and takes 1,000 humans 1,800 years into the future at which point they can repopulate the planet. But the planet has been repopulated already when they wake up. The scientist goes quite mad and believes himself to be God. Things do not go well for the town after that.
Peter McNeilMicha
THE TV SERIES BROUGHT ME TO THE NOVEL SERIES AND WHAT A TREAT!!!
DM ScotlandPeter
Okay, so book 3 in the series. You will now know exactly what Wayward Pines is and what it does. The suspense really starts to build. Then the last 1/4 of the book, you begin to realize that the author was in a bit of a "pretzel", not really knowing how to end it. The ending was good enough as it is, but for ME, it left more questions than answers. Actually, that made me sad. This series could've been SO much more better (and even lasted longer) if the author had but chosen a slightly different ending and expanded on that ending. But again, maybe that's just me. It's obvious that both the TV series AND the book series were inspired by shows like LOST, The X Files, and maybe even Back To The Future a tiny bit. I don't know though, I'm guess I'm one of those people that believe the author also should do a "what happened way before Wayward Pines" and/or a prequel book focusing on the affair between Ethan and Kate as well as the feelings that Ethan's boss had for Ethan's wife. Maybe Ethan's wife had a "secret affair" with Ethan's boss and Ethan didn't even know it? I don't know, I just see lots of areas of intrigue and interest there. I guess it's no surprise that I like "sub plots" and "drama" very, very much! Most women, do! haha! I give the 4-star rating since I thought the ending needed to be expanded upon. Blake Crouch is a GREAT author and one of my all-time favorites! So far, Wayward Pines and Dark Matter are two of my most favorite novels by him!
KJDM ScotlandPete
The book arrived on time and came in great condition. I am very happy with my purchase.
Short Excerpt Teaser
JENNIFER ROCHESTER
The house was so damn dark.
Jennifer tried the kitchen light out of instinct, but nothing happened.
She felt her way around the fridge to the cabinet over the stove, opened it, and grabbed the crystal candlestick holder, a candle, and the box of matches. She turned on the gas and struck a match to the back burner and set the teakettle over the hissing blue flame.
Lighting what was left of the candle, she sat down at the breakfast table.
In her life before, she'd been a pack-a-day smoker, and God could she use a cigarette right now-something to steady her nerves and her hands, which wouldn't stop trembling.
As her eyes filled with tears, the candlelight fractured.
All she could think of was her husband, Teddy, and how far apart she felt from him.
Two thousand years apart to be exact.
She'd always harbored hope that the world was still out there. Beyond the fence. Beyond this nightmare. That her husband was still out there. Her home. Her job at the university. On some level, it was that hope that had gotten her by all these years. Hope that one day she might wake up back in Spokane. Teddy would be lying beside her, still sleeping, and this place-Wayward Pines-would all have been a dream. She would slip quietly out of bed and go into the kitchen and cook him eggs. Brew a pot of strong coffee. She would be waiting for him at the breakfast table when he stumbled out of bed in that disgusting robe, disheveled and sleepy and everything she loved. She'd say, "I had the strangest dream last night," but as she'd try to explain it, all that she'd experienced in Wayward Pines would slip back into the fog of forgotten dreams.
She'd just smile across the table at her husband and say, "I lost it."
Now, her hope was gone.
The loneliness was staggering.
But underneath it simmered anger.
Anger that this had been done to her.
Rage at all the loss.
The teakettle began to whistle.
She struggled to her feet, her mind racing.
Lifting the kettle off the flame, the whistling died away, and she poured the boiling water into her favorite ceramic mug in which she kept a tea infuser perpetually filled with chamomile leaves. Tea in one hand, candle in the other, she moved out of the dark kitchen and into the hallway.
Most of the town was still down at the theater, reeling from the sheriff's revelation, and maybe she should've stayed with everyone else; but the truth of it was that she wanted to be alone. Tonight, she just needed to cry in bed. If sleep came, great, but she wasn't exactly expecting it.
She turned the corner at the bannister and started up the creaking stairs, candlelight flickering across the walls. The power had gone out several times before, but she couldn't escape the feeling that tonight of all nights meant something.
The fact that she'd locked every door and every window gave her some small-very small-peace of mind.
SHERIFF ETHAN BURKE
Ethan stared up at twenty-five feet of steel pylons and spiked conductors wrapped in coils of razor wire. The fence usually hummed with enough current to electrocute a person one thousand times over. So loud you could hear it a hundred yards away and feel it in your fillings at close proximity.
Tonight, Ethan heard nothing.
Worse still, the thirty-foot gate stood wide open.
Locked open.
Shreds of mist skirted past like the front edge of an approaching storm, and Ethan gazed out into the black woods beyond the fence. Over the pounding of his heart, he heard shrieks beginning to echo in the forest.
The abbies were on their way.
David Pilcher's final words to him were set on repeat.
Hell is coming to you.
This was Ethan's fault.
Hell is coming to you.
He'd made the mistake of calling that psychof**k's bluff.
Hell is coming to you.
And telling people the truth.
And now everyone in town, his wife and son included, was going to die.
Ethan sprinted back through the forest, the panic growing with every stride, every desperate breath. He weaved between the pines, now running alongside the quiet fence.
His Bronco lay just ahead and already the screams were louder, closer.
Jumping in behind the wheel, he cranked the engine and sped off into the trees, pushing the suspension package to the limit and jarring the last few jags of glass out of what was left of the windshield.
He reached the road that looped back into town and roared up the embankment, back onto pavement.
Pinned the gas pedal to the floorboard.
The engine wailed.
He shot ...
The house was so damn dark.
Jennifer tried the kitchen light out of instinct, but nothing happened.
She felt her way around the fridge to the cabinet over the stove, opened it, and grabbed the crystal candlestick holder, a candle, and the box of matches. She turned on the gas and struck a match to the back burner and set the teakettle over the hissing blue flame.
Lighting what was left of the candle, she sat down at the breakfast table.
In her life before, she'd been a pack-a-day smoker, and God could she use a cigarette right now-something to steady her nerves and her hands, which wouldn't stop trembling.
As her eyes filled with tears, the candlelight fractured.
All she could think of was her husband, Teddy, and how far apart she felt from him.
Two thousand years apart to be exact.
She'd always harbored hope that the world was still out there. Beyond the fence. Beyond this nightmare. That her husband was still out there. Her home. Her job at the university. On some level, it was that hope that had gotten her by all these years. Hope that one day she might wake up back in Spokane. Teddy would be lying beside her, still sleeping, and this place-Wayward Pines-would all have been a dream. She would slip quietly out of bed and go into the kitchen and cook him eggs. Brew a pot of strong coffee. She would be waiting for him at the breakfast table when he stumbled out of bed in that disgusting robe, disheveled and sleepy and everything she loved. She'd say, "I had the strangest dream last night," but as she'd try to explain it, all that she'd experienced in Wayward Pines would slip back into the fog of forgotten dreams.
She'd just smile across the table at her husband and say, "I lost it."
Now, her hope was gone.
The loneliness was staggering.
But underneath it simmered anger.
Anger that this had been done to her.
Rage at all the loss.
The teakettle began to whistle.
She struggled to her feet, her mind racing.
Lifting the kettle off the flame, the whistling died away, and she poured the boiling water into her favorite ceramic mug in which she kept a tea infuser perpetually filled with chamomile leaves. Tea in one hand, candle in the other, she moved out of the dark kitchen and into the hallway.
Most of the town was still down at the theater, reeling from the sheriff's revelation, and maybe she should've stayed with everyone else; but the truth of it was that she wanted to be alone. Tonight, she just needed to cry in bed. If sleep came, great, but she wasn't exactly expecting it.
She turned the corner at the bannister and started up the creaking stairs, candlelight flickering across the walls. The power had gone out several times before, but she couldn't escape the feeling that tonight of all nights meant something.
The fact that she'd locked every door and every window gave her some small-very small-peace of mind.
SHERIFF ETHAN BURKE
Ethan stared up at twenty-five feet of steel pylons and spiked conductors wrapped in coils of razor wire. The fence usually hummed with enough current to electrocute a person one thousand times over. So loud you could hear it a hundred yards away and feel it in your fillings at close proximity.
Tonight, Ethan heard nothing.
Worse still, the thirty-foot gate stood wide open.
Locked open.
Shreds of mist skirted past like the front edge of an approaching storm, and Ethan gazed out into the black woods beyond the fence. Over the pounding of his heart, he heard shrieks beginning to echo in the forest.
The abbies were on their way.
David Pilcher's final words to him were set on repeat.
Hell is coming to you.
This was Ethan's fault.
Hell is coming to you.
He'd made the mistake of calling that psychof**k's bluff.
Hell is coming to you.
And telling people the truth.
And now everyone in town, his wife and son included, was going to die.
Ethan sprinted back through the forest, the panic growing with every stride, every desperate breath. He weaved between the pines, now running alongside the quiet fence.
His Bronco lay just ahead and already the screams were louder, closer.
Jumping in behind the wheel, he cranked the engine and sped off into the trees, pushing the suspension package to the limit and jarring the last few jags of glass out of what was left of the windshield.
He reached the road that looped back into town and roared up the embankment, back onto pavement.
Pinned the gas pedal to the floorboard.
The engine wailed.
He shot ...
