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. 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 Blake Crouch  is a bestselling novelist and screenwriter. His novels include Upgrade, Recursion , Dark Matter , and the Wayward Pines trilogy, which was adapted into a television series for FOX. Crouch also co-created the TNT show Good Behavior , based on his Letty Dobesh novellas. He lives in Colorado. 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