It must have shown on his face. “Oh, cheer up. There’s more. Don’t you worry. I’m not giving Mattli all of our best food for the winter.” She patted his face and smiled.
She pulled out another cutting board and started working on shredding the dried meat. “At any rate, I’m sure Elder Alkoff knows what he’s doing.”
“Indeed.” He pushed the celery into the pot and started in on the hemlock.
“Did you wash that?”
He looked up, reluctantly going to the pump at the sink. Filling the basin with just enough water, he rinsed the hemlock. There wasn’t much point in cleaning it, since it didn’t matter if it had something on it, but he didn’t want to do anything to arouse Rosie’s suspicions.
She scooped the meat into the pot. “Could you get some water for the broth while you’re over there?”
He did as requested, while she returned to the pantry to gather some herbs and spices for the soup. “Hmm. What would make him feel best, but wouldn’t overpower the soup?” she said to herself.
While Burton was out of Rosie’s eyesight, he quickly chopped all the hemlock into fine pieces and dumped it into the soup. With the water and meat already added, the green leaves were hard to see. He hoped she wouldn’t notice.
He was standing in front of the stove, stirring the soup, when she came back with an armful of spices. He continued stirring while she added a pinch of this and a dash of that. He watched her closely, but she appeared too preoccupied to have noticed his addition.
She glanced at him. “This is when the magic happens,” she said with a smile.
“It is indeed a wonder to behold,” he said, stirring the hemlock soup and thinking about how hard it would be to keep the smile from his face at Mattli’s funeral.
12.
Mattli was starting to worry. How long could a round trip to the mainland take? It had been over a century since someone had embarked on the trip, and since the scouting mission had originally been scheduled for the distant future, Mattli hadn’t started to read the literature his predecessors had left behind about the training of scouts. He was horribly unprepared for this scenario.
That afternoon, Alkoff caught him standing on the shore, waiting for the return of their prodigal son.
He placed a hand on Mattli’s shoulder. “I believe we asked him not to return in broad daylight, didn’t we?”
Mattli thought back. The details of the last few days were getting fuzzy. So much had happened. “I’m not sure.”
“In any case, don’t worry. If it takes a little longer, it takes a little longer. He’ll be back soon. The longer it takes, the more likely it is that they found something. It’s not time to worry yet.”
“You always say that,” Mattli said, frustrated as he scanned the watery horizon, searching for any sign of Mason… and, hopefully, Ashley.
Silence hung between them as they looked out at the vast expanse of ocean spread before them.
Mattli broke it. “I don’t feel like we did right by them, by her in particular.”
“I know,” Alkoff said. He didn’t concede, disagree, or try to comfort Mattli. He simply acknowledged his statement.
It only made Mattli more frustrated. “If we are the elders who ended Ashby’s line—”
Alkoff cut him off. “James, these are troubling times. And I fear the worst is still ahead of us. Something is brewing, but I can’t quite put my finger on it. Try not to stew too much about what is done. Instead, I need you to focus on the things that are coming.” He looked Mattli in the eyes. “I need you to stay sharp.”
With that, he left Mattli alone on the beach
Dusk was settling in by the time the soup was ready. Rosie wrapped the pot in a cloth and tied it up with some twine.
She handed the bundle to Burton. “Here, now, give him my regards.”
“Will do.” He placed a light kiss on Rosie’s cheek and walked out into the cool evening air.
Elder Meade was just settling in to eat his lonely dinner when someone knocked on his door.
His blood pressure raised about twenty points when he saw Burton through the peephole in the door.
What does he want? Have I forgotten to do something? Meade thought, his mind whirling into overdrive by the mere sight of Elder Burton.
He opened the door with more than a little trepidation. “Elder Burton. To what do I owe this pleasure?”
“I was wondering if you wouldn’t mind delivering this to Elder Mattli’s home. Donna Venters asked me to bring it to him because I normally walk by his place on my way home, but I got sidetracked today.”
Meade thought of his own warm dinner waiting for him on the table. “I’d be happy to. Just let me—”
Burton cut him off. “It should really be done now. I think it’s still warm.”
“Certainly. Of course.” He grabbed his coat off the hook near the door and took the pot from Burton.
“My deepest gratitude to you, Elder Meade,” Burton said as they parted ways in front of Meade’s home.
“Certainly, Elder Burton. I’m happy to be of service.”
“And you are, Elder Meade,” he said quietly as he walked back toward his home.
A sound startled Mason awake. They hadn’t been sleeping for long. Twenty minutes, tops.
He scanned their surroundings under the light of the full moon but didn’t see much. Off in the distance, the horizon seemed fuzzy and a bit wavy, almost like a mirage. He squinted, straining to clear the distortion. It appeared to be moving closer, becoming slightly more organized as it did—almost like the fog they sometimes got on the island, but low to the ground and entirely transparent.
Rubbing his eyes, he tried to clear the image. That can’t be right, he thought. Maybe I’m dreaming.
Ashley was closer to the fog than he was, but she was sound asleep.
Another blink. When he opened his eyes again, the fog seemed to be no more than ten feet away. He was about to rouse Ashley when she let out the most bloodcurdling scream he had ever heard.
She was covered in the transparent fog.
“Ashley!” He jumped up and took a step toward her, but her next otherworldly scream gave him pause. Looking at her more closely, he gasped. Her flesh was disappearing rapidly.
Her screams became animalistic as she flailed around. Not knowing what to do, he ran for the pack and grabbed the water skin, rushing back over to her side with it. Standing as close as he dared, he threw the water over her body. It did nothing to help. By the time the skin was empty, her screams had stopped. He could actually see her skeleton and internal organs.
He knelt by her bones and inner flesh, too stunned to cry. As he tried to process what had happened, he caught a small movement out of the corner of his eye. The tip of the fog that still covered the remains of her leg seemed to be moving toward him.
He stood slowly and backed away. It followed, reaching out for him with a silvery, translucent tendril.
The box was near her feet, but the pack was in the opposite direction of the canoe, mere feet from him. Snatching the box, he darted toward the pack, and then raced for the shore with both in hand, stealing one last glance at Ashley as he ran. A few bones were all that remained, and even those were disappearing.
Upon seeing what had become of his best friend, he picked up his pace, adrenaline fueling his legs as he ran back toward the shore alone.
13.
The gray dirt wasn’t as difficult to run in as Mason had expected. His feet easily found purchase, and he left little sprays of dirt behind him as he made his way back to their boat.
With every footfall, his heart pounded. He wasn’t even sure he was going in the right direction. The compass was in the pack, and digging for it would take precious time. He felt like the fog creature was breathing down his neck, waiting to feast on his flesh, just as it had done to Ashley. The image fueled his speed. So, he ran in the direction that his feet led him.
In his haste, he tripped over his own two feet, sending t
he box in his hand sailing, and in the process, he managed to get a mouthful of the dirt. It was odd tasting. Like metal, but also something organic. He took an anxious glance over his shoulder as he spit out the gray dirt. The fog was only about fifty yards off—much too close for comfort.
He scrambled to his feet and took off again, reaching down to collect the box as he ran past it. The moment’s respite reminded him of how tired he was, but he pushed through the fatigue, keeping his legs moving. Mason Hawkins wasn’t going to die lying down, that was for sure.
It seemed like they had walked east for miles, days even. But before Mason’s adrenaline had completely run out, he arrived at the shore. Their boat remained right where they’d left it.
Finally, he thought. A stroke of luck.
He didn’t chance another glance over his shoulder. Instead, he flipped the canoe and pushed it into the water without even pausing. The shock of the water’s temperature on his feet and shins made him suck in a breath. Before instinct made him recoil too much, he hopped in, paddling hard into the waves. The moon’s pull made the waves calmer than when he and Ashley had arrived, and he didn’t have much trouble getting out past them.
When his flight instinct finally wore off, he stopped and simply floated just past the breakers. He swiveled on the bench of the canoe to see the shore, but he couldn’t make out the death fog. Maybe this was all just a bad dream, and he was still asleep next to Ashley. But he felt the weight of her pack on his back, and the odd black box lay on the bottom of the canoe between his feet, telling him it was real. As if to finish him off, her screams came back to him in a rush, making him vomit over the side of the canoe.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. It wasn’t a dream. Rather than dwell on his best friend’s horrible fate—he knew the memories would haunt him for years to come—he looked again at the box.
Anger boiled up, and he nearly threw it into the sea. He pulled his arm back, his muscles ready to pitch the damned thing overboard. He wanted to hold it responsible for Ashley’s death, to punish it. But a question stayed his hand. What could be inside of it, if anything? Was it from the time before?
He glared at the object, willing it to answer him, to mean something, to be worthy of his friend’s life.
The questions were too much for his exhausted mind. He looked up toward the moon as he floated in the canoe. It was just starting its descent back toward the western horizon. He steered his mind to more immediate questions. How was he going to get home? And where exactly was home?
Determined not to let Ashley’s death go to waste by letting himself get marooned in the water, he picked up his paddle. He could almost hear her speaking to him from the back of his mind. Don’t be a pansy. Put that paddle in the water and get moving. Doesn’t matter where right now. Just go.
He smiled, though he could just as easily have sobbed. It was a comfort to hear her voice, even though she wasn’t really there, even though she’d never be there again. “All right, quit nagging,” he said into the night, and then dug into the pack for the compass. He angled the canoe north, hoping if he turned east in a few hours, he’d see the tiny island.
The moon was high in the sky, but its light was cold, offering him little comfort or company. He was utterly alone for the first time in his life. But the emptiness he felt wasn’t light, like an empty box would be. It weighed heavily on him, nearly crushing him. He struggled to put his paddle in the water, no longer able to hear Ashley’s nagging voice.
Nothing but the sounds of the waves crashing on the cliffs and his own breathing kept him company as he paddled north.
Mattli was just cleaning up his dinner dishes when someone knocked on his door.
“Elder Meade. How can I help you tonight?”
The man stood on his porch and held out a pot that was still warm to the touch. “One of the islanders made you some supper, Elder Mattli.”
“How thoughtful. Who?”
“Donna Venters, I believe.”
“You don’t know for sure?”
He hesitated, starting to get flustered. “Well, not exactly, I… Elder Burton asked me to deliver it to you. Said it was from one of the islanders. I think he mentioned Donna, but I don’t remember for sure now.” He hung his head, as if waiting for a reprimand.
Mattli looked at Meade, still holding the pot out for him to take. He knew the man was just a pawn, an innocent in whatever game Burton was playing. “Why didn’t Elder Burton simply deliver the gift himself?”
“He said there were other matters he needed to attend to.”
Other matters, Mattli thought. Reluctantly, he took the pot from Meade’s outstretched hands.
“Meade, I thank you for delivering this to me. Surely, you must’ve gone out of your way to do it. It smells divine, but unfortunately, I’ve already eaten. Would you like to come in and try a bite?” Mattli didn’t have time to feel ashamed for making Meade his food taster. The offer simply rolled off his tongue.
“I probably shouldn’t,” Meade said, though he did not make a move to walk away.
“Nonsense. You say Ms. Venters made it?”
Meade nodded.
“Ms. Venters went to a lot of work to feed me. No need for it to go to waste! Come on in. I believe Gwen just pulled a loaf of bread out of the oven not half an hour ago. It would complement this soup well, I think.” He turned and carried the soup to the kitchen, knowing Meade would follow him.
Meade felt bad about wasting his own hot meal, still waiting for him on the table, but he didn’t get much company at dinner anymore. His match had died years ago, one of the few on the island to die of natural causes. Maybe he could salvage what was left of his own meal for lunch. Although the elders were never left wanting, he hated to waste food, knowing some on the island weren’t so fortunate.
Mattli set out the soup and made good on his promise of bread. His match was well known on the island for her baked goods, so Meade’s lonely meal was quickly forgotten as he soaked up Donna Venters’ soup and gladly made sure it didn’t go to waste.
After a few hours, Mason finally made the arbitrary decision to turn west. Hoping he’d be lucky enough to stumble upon the tiny island again, he paddled toward the setting moon.
His arms burned from the endless paddling, and exhaustion hung over him, as if ready to plunge him into sleep at any moment. Every blink got a little longer as he forced himself to keep moving forward.
After what felt like an eternity to him, the tiny island came into view. It was difficult to see it properly in the setting moonlight, as it was quite a bit farther north than he’d thought, but there it was, just the same. Perhaps he’d miscalculated when to turn west because there had been two of them paddling south, but only one paddling north. If he’d been any more off course, he may have missed it, so he said a silent thanks to anyone who might be listening.
He barely managed to get his canoe pulled onshore before he collapsed into the sand, letting sleep finally take him.
Mason dreamed of his family. But at the same time, they weren’t his family. They looked as he remembered them, but they were happy. They sat around the dinner table actually laughing, regaling each other with stories from their days. There was more love and joy in the room than there’d ever been in real life. They also weren’t in their house on the island, though he wasn’t sure where they were.
Getting up from the dinner table, he walked over to the floor-to-ceiling window. He was high above the ground, looking out over a city. Buildings upon buildings sprawled out in front of him, taller than any structures he’d ever seen, seeming to sparkle in the setting sun.
Then he saw it in the distance. The monster. But the fog was far away, and they were so high up. They were sure to be safe, right?
“Mom?” he called, but she didn’t hear him. She continued to laugh with his father at the table.
“Mom?” He tried saying it a bit louder this time, but there was still no response.
The cloud moved with amazi
ng speed. As it got closer, he could see the damage it was leaving behind. Or perhaps, damage wasn’t the right word. Nothing would be a better word, for nothing was what it left in its wake. Entire buildings disappeared as the translucent fog made its deadly way through the city.
“Mom!” he yelled, the panic rising in his voice.
The fog was right below him now, working on the shorter building across the street from theirs.
He counted his blinks. One. Two. Three. The building was still there, covered in the fog. By the fourth, it was gone.
Then he started to hear the screaming. Distant at first, almost like a nagging at the back of his mind. Then louder and more insistent. Otherworldly.
He searched for the source of the screaming, only to discover it was coming from him.
He woke with a start to find the day had already dawned. The sun wasn’t quite at its peak, but it was well on its way. He figured he’d slept at least four or five hours, but he still felt exhausted. Especially when he thought about Ashley. He was convinced he’d failed her. To keep the if-I’d-onlys out of his mind, he began busying himself. He found a sharp machete in the pack and began hacking at the trees along the shoreline to make himself a shelter.
His arms were rubbery from all the paddling he’d done, but somehow, the hacking was cathartic. He started out normally, as if he were just going through the motions, but as he thought about Ashley, Wesley, the elders, and what they’d done, his hacking became more and more forceful. At first, he merely grunted with each swing of the machete, but soon, he was screaming as he took his anger and grief out on the tree. Tears streamed down his face as he hacked relentlessly at the tree, finally allowing himself to consciously think of his friend’s demise, and his loss. Before long, the tree relented and fell to the ground in a rather satisfying heap.
Mason wiped the remnants of his grief off his face and started to cut the branches off, portioning the tree into more manageable pieces. He was hard at work when, out of the blue, he remembered the box.
The Dead Room Trilogy Page 10
