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 scarcely see them now through the steam, prays that lack of visibility cuts both ways.

As the abbies close in, Hassler lowers himself to his eyes.

It is a mature female and two lankier adolescents, each of whom clock in around one twenty—easily lethal. He’s seen smaller ones than this bring down full-grown bison.

The female is the size of them both combined.

From sixty feet away, Hassler watches as the mother stops at his pile of clothes and gear.

She lowers her nose to his duster.

The young ones come up alongside her and sniff as well.

Hassler rises a few millimeters until his nose is just above the surface.

With a long, penetrating breath, he goes under, blowing enough air out of his lungs so his body will sink.

Soon, he’s sitting on the rocky floor of the pool.

Streams of burning water shoot up through tiny fissures under his legs.

He shuts his eyes, and as the pressure and the ache intensifies in his lungs, the oxygen deprivation manifests as explosions of light.

He digs his fingernails into his legs.

The thirst for breath growing exponentially.

All-consuming.

When he can’t stand it anymore, he surfaces and drinks in a gulp of air.

The abbies are gone.

He turns slowly in the water—inch by inch by—

Freezes.

The urge to jerk back, to just run, is almost irresistible.

Ten feet away at the edge of the pool, one of the young abbies crouches down beside the water.

Motionless.

Head cocked slightly to one side.

Transfixed.

Studying its reflection?

Hassler has seen more than his fair share of these monsters, but mainly through his riflescope. At a distance.

He’s never been this close to one undetected.