Dropping the machete next to the fallen tree, he walked over to the canoe and peered inside with caution, feeling instinctively that the object was some kind of Pandora’s Box.
He stared at it, shifting his weight as he considered his options. The shelter needed to be built, but the box lay so silently in the bottom of the canoe, waiting to reveal its secrets. Mason reached into the canoe and retrieved the relic, looking at it with fresh eyes in the evening sunlight.
As he turned it around in his hands, he didn’t notice anything he hadn’t noticed the night before. He’d hoped the sunlight might reveal some hinges, a seam, a lock, or some point of entry, but it still looked seamless.
Setting the box in the sand, he headed back to the fallen tree and retrieved the machete. It was the only real tool he had at his disposal. He knew it would be useless, but thought it was worth a try.
He tapped what he thought was the top of the box with the bottom of the knife’s handle. Nothing. He put the blade near the middle and tried to find a seam. Nothing. Sprinkling sand on the box, he rubbed its side, trying to reveal some kind of marking or flaw. Nothing. He rinsed the box in the sea, hoping that might trigger some kind of reaction. Nothing.
Retrieving his machete, he lay the box on what he thought was its side, and hauled his arm back. He hit the box with all his might, and the reverberations through the knife sent shivers up his arm. But it remained undamaged, refusing to reveal any kind of weak point. He turned it onto a different side and tried again, with the same results.
Undeterred, he spied a rock along the shoreline and carried the box over. He started out softly, but when that had no effect, he put more strength into banging the edge against the rock. When that had no impact, he backed up several paces, ran at the rock, pulled the box back with one hand, and slammed it against the rock with all his might.
He felt the impact shudder through his arms and shook his head in an attempt to dispel the uncomfortable feeling. The poor rock was cracked, and a small piece of it lay on the sand by Mason’s feet, but the box remained unchanged—no scratches, no dents, and no place to open it. The metal didn’t even spark when it made contact with the rock.
Long after the sun had set, he sat on the beach and rubbed his stubbly head out of frustration. He rested the box in his lap, leaving the fallen tree untouched.
If I had some of my tools, I might be able to get into it, he thought. He dug into Ashley’s pack for a ration bar and chewed it while mulling over his options. Without realizing it, he sucked down the last of his fresh water, and cursed himself for not spending the day setting up water traps.
Before he bedded down, he set a few small ones around so he’d have water in the morning. Perhaps some more sleep would clear his mind.
14.
The morning didn’t bring the epiphany Mason had hoped for. The box remained defiantly unchanged.
Rather than eat another ration bar, he took the time to gather some berries and catch a fish for breakfast. As he ate, he pondered again what might be inside the box. Since they’d found it on the mainland, it stood to reason that it could be something important from the time before, something so important that it had been kept in some indestructible container of mystery.
Or was Ashley right? Did the presence of the box mean there were still people somewhere on the mainland? But if so, how did they survive the death fog?
Stranger still, maybe there was nothing inside and it was simply a block of mysterious, indestructible metal, something leftover that the death fog couldn’t consume.
Then a new thought occurred to him. Was the death fog responsible for the apocalypse? Or had it been a byproduct?
He lay back on the sand after finishing the berries and stared up at the sky. It was unusually sunny and warm.
How important is it for me to answer these questions? he wondered. Ashley was gone, but she’d left her questions behind to haunt him.
He could easily stay on the tiny island for the rest of his life, however long that may be. These were questions for people like the elders, for thinkers like Ashley, not for a mere welder like him. But he wasn’t even that anymore, was he? He was his own man, with no responsibilities but the ones he gave himself.
He spent the rest of the day collecting water and working on his shelter. He had something stronger and larger in mind for the long term, but he needed somewhere to sleep in the meantime. Particularly with winter approaching.
All day, he continued to steal sidelong glances at the box, which he left lying on the beach in the sun. He returned to it once and laid his hand on it, expecting the black metal to be hot from exposure to the sun, but it remained oddly cool to the touch.
Maybe an alien race came to earth, wiped everything out, left the death fog behind, and this is part of their ship, he thought. Then he chided himself. That’s a question for more important people, Mason, remember? Don’t let yourself be troubled by such things. It won’t do a bit of good.
But as the days wore on and he began settling into a routine of collecting water and food and working on his shelter, the box sat there untouched, unopened, and unyielding. It nagged at him—a constant pinch at the back of his mind.
By his third day on the small island, he had a stockpile of water. More than enough for him to leave a store of it behind and make a round trip to the island, if that was what he wanted. He pushed the thought away, but it returned as surely as the tide.
If I could just get to my tools, I might find out what’s inside, he thought. But what would I do with that information? The question gave him pause. If it were something important, could he keep it to himself? He supposed that depended on what it was. If it were something bad, like a weapon of mass destruction, he would most certainly keep it to himself. But what if it was the key to returning to the mainland for good? In that case, the elders would have to be told.
He shook his head as the sun set. Nope. He didn’t need that aggravation. The elders were more likely to kill him on sight than they were to listen to anything he had to say, no matter how important. Better to just stay out of it, to stay alone on his tiny island.
But as he hovered between sleep and wakefulness on the morning of the fourth day, he saw Ashley. She sat next to him, just outside his shelter at the edge of the shore. The sun was starting to rise, casting a beautiful array of pinks and purples across the sea.
“So. You haven’t been able to get into the box.” It was a statement, not a question.
“Ah, Captain Obvious. I wondered when you’d show up.”
“Don’t you want to know what’s inside?” she asked.
He shrugged. “Yes and no. I don’t really want the responsibility.”
“And yet. There it is.” She nodded toward the box, still sitting on the beach.
His eyes fluttered open, and the day came into focus around him. He suddenly knew what he had to do.
Meade ate the soup so quickly that Mattli doubted he could even taste it. He did, however, take the time to savor Gwen’s bread. Mattli knew from experience it was soft and had a slightly sweet taste.
“You know, I think there might be some dried meat in this,” Meade said through a mouthful of soup-soaked bread. “You’re really missing out, Elder Mattli.”
“Really? How kind of the Venters to share their meat rations.” Kind… and unusual, Mattli thought. He’d been to their home not two weeks prior and was quite certain they didn’t have any meat rations left.
Meade smacked his lips a few times, a strange look on his face.
“Okay there, Meade?” Mattli eyed him nervously, beginning to regret his decision to let him eat the soup.
“Mmm.” He nodded in confirmation and kept eating.
Mattli considered his options. He couldn’t exactly tell Meade to stop eating when he was only half finished with his meal. Maybe he could suggest that they share dessert, so Meade better save room? But Meade polished off the soup while Mattli was still pondering his options.
By the time he fin
ished, Meade was salivating excessively.
“I’m sorry, Elder Mattli,” he said through his swallows. “I must’ve burned my tongue.” He moved to get up, but he stumbled. Pounding his chest hard, he said, “Whew, that soup isn’t sitting right. Mind if I take a rest on your couch for a bit? I won’t be any trouble. I just need to sit for a moment or two.”
Mattli couldn’t hide the concern on his face. “Certainly, Meade.” He took the other man’s arm and led him to the living room. However, Meade didn’t make it that far. He leaned more and more on Elder Mattli, becoming quite cumbersome for the old man to bear. Eventually, Gwen heard their struggle and came to the rescue, giving them just the boost they needed to make it to the couch.
After helping the stricken man get settled, Mattli said, “Just rest for a moment, my friend. I’ll be right back.”
He turned to his match, and she rose with him, following him to the doorway.
“Gwen, my dear? Elder Meade isn’t doing well, obviously,” he said quietly, hoping his tone didn’t worry her too much. “Would you mind tending him for a moment while I fetch Elder Alkoff?”
The concern was plain on her face. “Of course. Hurry back,” she said.
“Of course.” He hoped he could be back before—
Gwen’s question cut off his thought. “Do you think he’ll be all right?”
“I hope so.” He leaned in and kissed his match on the forehead. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
With that, he hurried off to Alkoff’s home.
Mason waited until nightfall to leave. He wanted to benefit from the cover of darkness as much as possible. Given his status as a convicted killer, he would do well not to go traipsing about on the island in broad daylight, promised pardon or not.
He left a fair amount of his supplies on the tiny island. He planned to return, and he wanted to leave room in the canoe so he could bring supplies back with him—food, clothing, tools, and luxury items that would make his solitude easier to bear. The one thing he did bring for his journey was the box, reasoning he might be able to get into it using some of the larger tools he couldn’t transport back to the tiny island. With any luck, he could go there and back without any of the elders finding out.
He wondered if someone else would be living in his home, and if his tools had already been moved. If so, he would have to deal with the complication, he resolved as he launched the canoe and headed for his former home.
It took Mattli too long to get to Alkoff’s home, even by bicycle. The two lived on opposite sides of the island, as was tradition for the head elder and second in command. That way, all the islanders were close to one of them. It was a system that worked out well, until they needed each other. Mattli resolved to brainstorm a faster way of contacting the head elder in emergency situations. Despite the fact that all the elders had bikes to get where they needed to go faster, many of the elders were too old to make good use of them. It wasn’t an effective solution.
After thirty minutes of hard peddling on the rusty old bike, he arrived out of breath. He limped up the front stoop, hoping Meade was still alive. Raising one hand to knock on the door, he braced himself with the other on his knees.
Alkoff answered the door after just a few knocks, looking taken aback to find Mattli hunched over, huffing and puffing.
“James. What in the name of Bennett Ashby are you doing in such a state on my porch?”
“It’s…” He gasped for air, not even wanting to think about the ride back home. “It’s Meade. He’s been poisoned.”
“What?” Alkoff stepped out onto the porch, forcing Mattli to take a weak step back. Then he reached inside his house and grabbed a coat off the hook next to the front door. “Tell me what happened on the way.”
Mattli tried to keep up with Alkoff, but since he’d already made it across the island once in record time, he didn’t have as much energy as the head elder.
“So, you think Donna Venters poisoned Meade? But why?”
“No,” Mattli wheezed. “Just let me catch my breath a moment.” He stopped in the road, trying to slow his pounding heart. Burton’s poison hadn’t gotten him, but the race across the island just might.
Alkoff hesitated a few feet ahead of Mattli, clearly impatient for an explanation.
“Go on ahead. I’ll catch up. Meade needs you.”
“I’m going to stop into the hospital and grab whoever’s working there to help us. I’ll meet you back at your house,” Alkoff said, peddling his own bicycle with a fair amount of speed for a man his age. Mattli shook his head, not sure why he was surprised. Alkoff had always prided himself on his fitness, and he usually ran the island’s trails at least once a day.
Mattli, on the other hand, preferred the comfort of his chair… and now, Meade might pay for his sedentary habits with his life. The anxiety gave him a fresh rush of adrenaline that powered him to pedal a little faster.
Alone with his thoughts by the light of the moon, the full ramifications of the night’s events finally hit him. Burton had tried to kill him. And Mattli had allowed Meade to take his place.
He wasn’t sure if he should be focusing on the assassination attempt or on his own misstep, which could cost another elder his life. The guilt made his feet heavier, and he struggled to continue riding. The urge to weep right there in the middle of the street overwhelmed him.
How had he allowed things to escalate this far? Alkoff had just told him to be on his guard. What had possessed him to let Meade eat the soup? He could’ve just dumped it out, and Burton would’ve been none the wiser. He scoffed at himself, his peddling slowing to just above a crawl. Burton would’ve been perplexed by his plan’s failure, but another attempt surely would’ve followed.
And it still may, he thought. If he’d been willing to risk a first attempt, what was there to prevent him from making another?
The memory of Meade lying on the couch kept Mattli going, although not as quickly as it should’ve. He was tired. Tired of the lies and manipulations, tired of all the plotting, tired of trying to stay one step ahead of the others. He felt like he’d failed everyone miserably.
By the time he arrived at his door, his depression was spiraling out of control. He entered his own home with his head hung low. When he rounded the corner into his living room, he was greeted by silence.
He raised his eyes to see Alkoff seated on the edge of the couch, holding Meade’s hand as he said the last rites prayer. Mattli’s gaze darted to Gwen, who was standing in the doorway a few paces away. She shook her head, her eyes wide with horror, and returned her gaze to Alkoff and Meade.
The doctor stood behind Alkoff, wiping his hands on a towel, scrutinizing his patient closely, his expression dark.
Meade’s breathing had become labored and sporadic. His eyes were closed, drool hanging freely from the corner of his mouth, and his expression continued to bounce between a pained cringe and serene calm.
Mattli knew better than to interrupt the last rites, so he stood in the doorway, reciting them in his head along with Alkoff, as if having two voices might make them louder, truer.
“May the spirit of our savior, Bennett Ashby, lead you home, my dear friend,” Alkoff said in closing.
Mattli approached carefully, not wanting to disturb Meade in the throes of death. “Is there truly nothing we can do?” he murmured.
The doctor shook his head. “I’m afraid he’s beyond our reach.”
Alkoff’s expression turned dark. “What happened here? Tell me everything.”
The doctor spoke, sparing Mattli from answering the question for the moment. “I’ve seen this a few times during my term as one of the island’s physicians. Once, during a particularly lean winter, one of the villagers found what he thought were wild carrots and fed them to his family. They all perished. In another instance, a child ate some while wandering in the woods and died in the same manner as Meade.” He removed his steel-framed glasses and wiped them with the towel he held. “What we’re looking at is hemlock
poisoning.”
Alkoff turned to Mattli. “How did he get into hemlock?”
The doctor cleared his throat. “I’ll send some orderlies by later to collect the body.” He didn’t bother to lower his voice—probably because Meade was so clearly beyond understanding. “I assume you’ll make funeral arrangements for the morning?”
Alkoff nodded, and the doctor departed to give them privacy. Gwen took his cue, and left the elders to attend to their dying comrade.
Mattli sunk heavily into the chair next to Meade’s head.
“Burton,” he said. “It was Burton. And the poison was meant for me.”
Alkoff still held Mede’s hand as he addressed Mattli. “Those are very serious allegations.”
Mattli nodded. “I know.”
“Start at the beginning.”
So, Mattli told his friend and superior everything. How Meade had showed up at his door with soup that was supposedly from Donna Venters but had been given to him by Burton. How Mattli had offered the soup to Meade because he and Gwen had already eaten. And how quickly Meade had declined once the soup was gone.
Alkoff sighed heavily at the end of the story. “It’s worse than we’d thought,” he said.
Mattli remained quiet for a moment. Eventually, he worked up the courage to say, “I’m sorry, Jim. I’ve failed you in the worst possible way.”
Alkoff rested Meade’s lifeless hand on his chest—he’d passed quietly with no more than a sigh while they were talking. “James, why do you believe you’ve failed me?”
“Meade’s death is my fault. I should have never let him eat the soup. I had a hunch it was laced with something. I hoped it wasn’t something deadly, but I knew it was no good. I should’ve just dumped it out.”
“Suppose you had. Meade would’ve then continued to be Burton’s pawn. He would’ve unwittingly come at you with another scheme.” He sighed sadly, looking at Meade’s now-peaceful face. “Unfortunately, Meade made his own destiny with the strength of his spine.”
The Dead Room Trilogy Page 11
