Action & Adventure
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Wayward: Wayward Pines: 2 (The Wayward Pines Trilogy)
The second book of the smash-hit Wayward Pines trilogy, from the New York Times bestselling author of Dark Matter, Recursion, and Upgrade
It's the perfect town . . . as long as you don't try to leave.
Nestled amid picture-perfect mountains, the idyllic town of Wayward Pines is a modern-day Eden-at least at first glance.
Except that within its fences, the residents are told where to work, how to live, and who to marry. None of them know how they got here. Some believe they are dead. Others think they're trapped in an unfathomable experiment. Everyone secretly dreams of leaving, but those who dare face a terrifying surprise.
As sheriff, Ethan Burke is tasked with enforcing the town's laws, and he's one of the few entrusted with the truth-even though, for all his knowledge, he's as much a prisoner of Wayward Pines as anyone else.
But when a murder investigation draws him deeper into the town's inner workings, Ethan learns that its past is darker than even he suspected-and finds himself faced with an impossible choice.
The second novel in Blake Crouch's blockbuster trilogy, Wayward delves deeper into the irresistible mysteries and horrors of this perfect little town, even as it asks what it means to live with secrets-and what price we'll pay for the truth.
It's the perfect town . . . as long as you don't try to leave.
Nestled amid picture-perfect mountains, the idyllic town of Wayward Pines is a modern-day Eden-at least at first glance.
Except that within its fences, the residents are told where to work, how to live, and who to marry. None of them know how they got here. Some believe they are dead. Others think they're trapped in an unfathomable experiment. Everyone secretly dreams of leaving, but those who dare face a terrifying surprise.
As sheriff, Ethan Burke is tasked with enforcing the town's laws, and he's one of the few entrusted with the truth-even though, for all his knowledge, he's as much a prisoner of Wayward Pines as anyone else.
But when a murder investigation draws him deeper into the town's inner workings, Ethan learns that its past is darker than even he suspected-and finds himself faced with an impossible choice.
The second novel in Blake Crouch's blockbuster trilogy, Wayward delves deeper into the irresistible mysteries and horrors of this perfect little town, even as it asks what it means to live with secrets-and what price we'll pay for the truth.
Readers Top Reviews
5t4n5 Dot ComRowena
‘Pines’ was a really good read, and ‘Wayward’ did not disappoint in any way either. I found both books totally unputdownable, any spare moment my head would be glued to my Kindle reading. The story keeps on having more layers and twists added to it as more information from the time before suspension is revealed — all to be played out in Wayward Pines. And the characters just get better the more we learn about them as Blake artfully drip feeds the occasional back story snippet from their previous lives. Full on story telling from a full on story teller. And now it’s straight into ‘The Last Town’ for the finale.
Rob Ash
Compared to Pines, the first book in the trilogy, this second offering, Wayward, is a very different experience, but I guess it had to be really. Wayward doesn't have the frantic tension of the first book, and for the most part, we have a far better idea as to what's going on while reading. The first half or two-thirds of the book feels quite slow but I think that's simply because the speedy pace of the first book is still fresh in the mind. The last third of the book is where things get really interesting and intriguing and really start to make it hard to put the book down. For once I don't have any big gripes about this Crouch offering. Yes, there are a few little niggles that caused me to question a few whys and hows, but can't you say that about every book? But there were also a number of points that made me smile with a mental thought of 'oo, nice touch.' Not wanting to give any real spoilers but the 'God complex' was so fitting and absolutely believable of that character. Unfortunately, the closer we get to the end the more predictable the ending became, but really it was the only ending that would have worked and it presents such a big hook to ensure you read book 3, The Last Town. There is obviously a solution to the problem of overall survival for the townsfolk, enter Tobias and the knowledge he has, but I for one can't comprehend what the next instalment might give us. Even though this second book wasn't as much of an exciting read as the first, I did still thoroughly enjoy it. In fact I think I enjoyed the overall content and plot more than I did with Pines, but for edge of your seat reading Pines still holds the mantle.
Rhonda Turner
I enjoyed the Pines series. Good story. Kinda left me wondering tho at the end. What's next?
Robert W
Suspenseful! Hard to put down. Always wanting to read on to find out what happens next. Looking forward to Book 3.
Josh Mauthe
There was a trend in Hollywood for a little while – about ten years ago – to approach trilogies in an odd fashion. The idea was to release a mostly standalone film – think The Matrix, or Pirates of the Caribbean – and if it did well, to turn it into a trilogy by filming the next two entries simultaneously. The result was always slightly odd-feeling, with a solid standalone film and then one long story split into halves, complete with the requisite cliffhanger. And more often than not, there was a sense of the unnecessary about those sequels – that however fun they might or might not be, they were less about telling the “whole” story, and more about extending the world of the original not once, but twice. I mention all of this here because Blake Crouch’s Wayward Pines trilogy feels so much like it’s following in this model’s footsteps – down to the fact that none of it entirely feels needed. The original novel in the series, Pines, was a blast – a pulpy, twisty mystery about a Secret Service agent who ends up in a strange small town, and can’t leave. And by the time the book laid its cards on the table, things had escalated wildly, leading to a payoff and reveal that pushed way, way beyond what you ever would have guessed. It was a lot of fun, and if it had its flaws – some middling writing, some thin characters – the intriguing story and pulpy fun made up for it. But when I discovered that Crouch had turned the original book into a trilogy, I was a bit confused. Pines pretty well wraps up its story; while there’s more of this world you could explore, really, things are settled by the end. Our questions are answered. Our hero has made the important choices, and all is settled. But, to borrow from The Royal Tenenbaums, what this book presupposes is, what if it wasn’t? Wayward, the second volume in the series, deals with the ramifications of the big reveal in the first book, particularly as they affect our main character. If you learned, as he did, something that changed how you saw the world, how would you deal with it? Would you help to keep that secret, or would you fight for the truth? Crouch anchors his book in this internal debate, letting Ethan slowly realize just what his role in this town will entail – and what it will mean that he has to do. It’s a compelling enough idea to keep the story going, and as Crouch fills in some intriguing details around the edges – particularly as it regards the growing amount of resistance that’s coming together in the town – there starts to be a feeling that this sequel, while not quite necessary, at least intrigues in how it expands on the world Crouch has created. What’s more, it builds to a spectacular climax, one that pays off your patience beautifully – it’s big and showy, but satisfying, and makes you realize what Crouch’s big game is for the sequels. And the cliffhanger...
Short Excerpt Teaser
Chapter 1
Mustin had been watching the creature through the Schmidt & Bender telescopic sight for the better part of an hour. It had come over the cirque at daybreak, pausing as the first radials of sunlight struck its translucent skin. Its progression down through the boulder field had been slow and careful, stopping occasionally to sniff the remains of others like it. Others Mustin had killed.
The sniper reached up to the scope, adjusted the parallax, and settled back in behind the focus. Conditions were ideal-clear visibility, mild temperature, no wind. With the reticle set at 25x zoom, the creature's ghostly silhouette popped against the gray of the shattered rock. At a distance of one and a half miles, its head was no larger than a grain of sand.
If he didn't take the shot now, he'd have to range the target again. And there was a possibility that by the time he was ready to shoot, the creature would have passed out of his sight line. It wouldn't be the end of the world. There was still a high-voltage security fence a half mile down the canyon. But if it managed to scale the cliffs over the top of the razor wire, there'd be trouble. He'd have to radio in. Call for a team. Extra work. Extra time. Every effort would be made to stop the creature from reaching town. He'd almost certainly catch an ass-chewing from Pilcher.
Mustin drew in a long, deep breath.
Lungs expanding.
He let it out.
Lungs deflating.
Then empty.
His diaphragm relaxed.
He counted to three and squeezed the trigger.
The British-made AWM bucked hard against his shoulder, the report dampened by the suppressor. Recovering from the recoil, he found his target in the sphere of magnification, still crouched on a flat-topped boulder on the floor of the canyon.
Damn.
He'd missed.
It was a longer shot than he normally took, and so many variables in play, even under perfect conditions. Barometric pressure. Humidity. Air density. Barrel temperature. Even Coriolis effect-the rotation of the earth. He thought he'd accounted for everything in calculating his aiming solution, but-
The creature's head disappeared in a pink mist.
He smiled.
It had taken a little over four seconds for the .338 Lapua Magnum round to reach the target.
Helluva shot.
Mustin sat up, struggled to his feet.
Stretched his arms over his head.
It was midmorning. The sky steel blue and not a cloud in sight. His perch was atop a thirty-foot guard tower that had been built on the rocky pinnacle of a mountain, far above the timberline. From the open platform, he had a panoramic view of the surrounding peaks, the canyon, the forest, and the town of Wayward Pines, which from four thousand feet above, was little more than a grid of intersecting streets, couched in a protected valley.
His radio squeaked.
He answered, "Mustin, over."
"Just had a fence strike in zone four, over."
"Stand by."
Zone 4 encompassed the expanse of pine forest that bordered the southern edge of town. He took up his rifle and glassed the fence under the canopy of trees, tracked it for a quarter mile. He saw the smoke first-coils of it lifting off the animal's scorched hide.
"I have a visual," he said. "It's just a deer, over."
"Copy that."
Mustin swung the rifle north into town.
Houses appeared-colorful Victorians fronted with perfect squares of bright grass. White picket fences. He aimed down into the park where a woman pushed two children in swings. A little girl shot down the blinding glimmer of a slide.
He glassed the schoolyard.
The hospital.
The community gardens.
Main Street.
Fighting down that familiar swell of envy.
Townies.
They were oblivious. All of them. So beautifully oblivious.
He didn't hate them. Didn't want their life. He had long ago accepted his role as protector. Guardian. Home was a sterile, windowless room inside a mountain, and he had made as much peace with that fact as a man could hope to make. But that didn't mean that on a lovely morning as he gazed down into what was literally the last vestige of paradise on the face of the earth, there wasn't a pang of nostalgia. Of homesickness for what had once been.
For what would never be again.
Moving down the street, Mustin fixed his sight on a man walking quickly up the sidewalk. He wore a hunter-green shirt, brown pants, black Stetson cowboy hat.
The brass star pinned to his lapel refracted a glint of sunlight.
The man turned a corner, the crosshairs of the reticle zeroing in on his back.
"Morning, Sheriff Burke," Mustin said. "Feel an itch between your sh...
Mustin had been watching the creature through the Schmidt & Bender telescopic sight for the better part of an hour. It had come over the cirque at daybreak, pausing as the first radials of sunlight struck its translucent skin. Its progression down through the boulder field had been slow and careful, stopping occasionally to sniff the remains of others like it. Others Mustin had killed.
The sniper reached up to the scope, adjusted the parallax, and settled back in behind the focus. Conditions were ideal-clear visibility, mild temperature, no wind. With the reticle set at 25x zoom, the creature's ghostly silhouette popped against the gray of the shattered rock. At a distance of one and a half miles, its head was no larger than a grain of sand.
If he didn't take the shot now, he'd have to range the target again. And there was a possibility that by the time he was ready to shoot, the creature would have passed out of his sight line. It wouldn't be the end of the world. There was still a high-voltage security fence a half mile down the canyon. But if it managed to scale the cliffs over the top of the razor wire, there'd be trouble. He'd have to radio in. Call for a team. Extra work. Extra time. Every effort would be made to stop the creature from reaching town. He'd almost certainly catch an ass-chewing from Pilcher.
Mustin drew in a long, deep breath.
Lungs expanding.
He let it out.
Lungs deflating.
Then empty.
His diaphragm relaxed.
He counted to three and squeezed the trigger.
The British-made AWM bucked hard against his shoulder, the report dampened by the suppressor. Recovering from the recoil, he found his target in the sphere of magnification, still crouched on a flat-topped boulder on the floor of the canyon.
Damn.
He'd missed.
It was a longer shot than he normally took, and so many variables in play, even under perfect conditions. Barometric pressure. Humidity. Air density. Barrel temperature. Even Coriolis effect-the rotation of the earth. He thought he'd accounted for everything in calculating his aiming solution, but-
The creature's head disappeared in a pink mist.
He smiled.
It had taken a little over four seconds for the .338 Lapua Magnum round to reach the target.
Helluva shot.
Mustin sat up, struggled to his feet.
Stretched his arms over his head.
It was midmorning. The sky steel blue and not a cloud in sight. His perch was atop a thirty-foot guard tower that had been built on the rocky pinnacle of a mountain, far above the timberline. From the open platform, he had a panoramic view of the surrounding peaks, the canyon, the forest, and the town of Wayward Pines, which from four thousand feet above, was little more than a grid of intersecting streets, couched in a protected valley.
His radio squeaked.
He answered, "Mustin, over."
"Just had a fence strike in zone four, over."
"Stand by."
Zone 4 encompassed the expanse of pine forest that bordered the southern edge of town. He took up his rifle and glassed the fence under the canopy of trees, tracked it for a quarter mile. He saw the smoke first-coils of it lifting off the animal's scorched hide.
"I have a visual," he said. "It's just a deer, over."
"Copy that."
Mustin swung the rifle north into town.
Houses appeared-colorful Victorians fronted with perfect squares of bright grass. White picket fences. He aimed down into the park where a woman pushed two children in swings. A little girl shot down the blinding glimmer of a slide.
He glassed the schoolyard.
The hospital.
The community gardens.
Main Street.
Fighting down that familiar swell of envy.
Townies.
They were oblivious. All of them. So beautifully oblivious.
He didn't hate them. Didn't want their life. He had long ago accepted his role as protector. Guardian. Home was a sterile, windowless room inside a mountain, and he had made as much peace with that fact as a man could hope to make. But that didn't mean that on a lovely morning as he gazed down into what was literally the last vestige of paradise on the face of the earth, there wasn't a pang of nostalgia. Of homesickness for what had once been.
For what would never be again.
Moving down the street, Mustin fixed his sight on a man walking quickly up the sidewalk. He wore a hunter-green shirt, brown pants, black Stetson cowboy hat.
The brass star pinned to his lapel refracted a glint of sunlight.
The man turned a corner, the crosshairs of the reticle zeroing in on his back.
"Morning, Sheriff Burke," Mustin said. "Feel an itch between your sh...
