FROM AWAY ~ BOOK THREE

by Mackey Jr. , Deke

  “Damn.”

  The girls are holding. Dead-to-the-world. He could probably creep back in - check their pockets for something to blaze up - sneak out again, without them even knowing it. His feet turn him back towards the trailer before he knows it’s happening.

  Woah. He stops himself. Realizing: The pot’s just an excuse. What he really wants? The bottle. Laying there on the floor. Waiting. His skin flushes in anticipation.

  No... Thanks.

  Warmth turns to gooseflesh. Compared to the trailer, the night air is positively freezing. Max shakes out his shirt. Pulls it on. The jacket, too. Quickly. Before his body can suggest he go back inside to escape the cold. Once dressed, he rubs himself down: No need to go back. Plenty warm enough out here.

  One dose. All it took to lay hold. Never again. Not even once. Too dangerous to risk. In fact, he can’t even take the chance of hanging out with the girls again. Lucky to have awoken before they did. Before they could add to the pressure he’s already feeling.

  What had it been? What had woken him up? Gotten him out?

  A text.

  He checks his phone. Most recent: His Mom. Naturally. She must be freaking out to find him missing. He curses himself. Reads her message:

  Always know how proud I am that you’re my son.

  She’s... Proud of him?

  Max feels sick. She wouldn’t be. Not if she knew. This isn’t like the pot they both pretend she doesn’t smell on his clothes. It’s even more serious than he’d imagined. He pulls up his t-shirt. Looks at himself. The little black rectangle on his stomach. Where Allison painted him with goo. Where it burnt as it was absorbed into his system.

  The thought makes him shudder with longing.

  Angry, he brushes the mark with the back of his hand. Black flakes away. The skin beneath hot. Pink. Sore to the touch. Would it heal completely? Become invisible? He hadn’t asked. Maybe it would go unnoticed amongst his new scars. One more symbol of his cowardice. The last one. He makes it a solemn vow.

  And still, he stands facing Delia’s trailer.

  It takes a lot of strength to turn himself away. But Max manages it. Pivots. Starts walking. Points himself toward that weird, voiceless hound dog. Not barking now. Watching. Max isn’t sure, but it looks like the dog approves of his decision.

  “You get tired of barking?” He grins. “I don’t blame you. Not like anybody ever listens.” He kneels. Reaches out a hand. The dog comes forward. Tentative. Sniffs at it.

  “You’re a good ol’ boy, aren't you?” He scratches behind its ear. The dog pushes against his hands. “Yeah, you are. You’ve got important shit to say.” The dog smiles. Tongue lolling. Soaking up Max’s attention. Probably more than he’s gotten in a long time. Max leans in close. “I hear you, dog. Even if no one else does.”

  A buzzing interrupts: Max’s phone.

  It was only a matter of time: Mom must’ve noticed he’s missing for real, now. Panicking. He answers without checking the display.

  “Quarter of three in the morning, and yer too busy to return an old man’s messages, are ya, b’y?”

  Max’s heart stops. Not his mother at all: Aaron’s grandfather, Martin Lesguettes. Why would he be calling at this time of night? To give Max shit for surviving, while his grandson died a horrible death?

  “I didn’t mean to... Hold on.” He looks at his phone. Beneath his mother’s text are a half-dozen missed calls. From Martin and other members of the Watch. “I’m sorry. I didn’t see them until now.”

  “Never mind all that. Just haul yer starn out to my Lighthouse, toot-sweet.”

  Max nods. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  Martin grunts. Obviously familiar with Max’s penchant for tardiness. “Ya could maybe try fer somethin’ a mite better’n that.” The call cuts out.

  Max pockets his phone. Wondering how he might fortify himself before heading to the lighthouse. Realizing that’s the trailer speaking. The bottle inside it. The bottle’s contents.

  He shakes it off. Gives the dog one last scratching along his ribs. “I know you’ve got a job to do here, dog, guarding this place and all? But I need you to do me a favor: If ever you see me come around, I want you to tear me a new one.”

  The dog blinks up at his new favorite human. Clearly rejecting the boy’s request.

  “All right, then. Just be my spirit animal. One look from you, I’ll know better.” The dog consents. Max gives his haunch three solid pats before rising. “Keep fighting the good fight, dude. I’ll do the same.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The fingers of Wanda’s new left hand have now surpassed the length of those on her right. She holds them palm-to-palm. Comparing. Each fresh finger extending an inch beyond those she was born with. Tapering to finer points. The black nails better described as claws, now. Talons, maybe. Sharp. Dangerous.

  She spreads her fingers. Displays the thin membranes of webbing connecting each to the next. Her own blood moving through the little blue veins. It’s really her. Pinching it hurts.

  Already, it feels almost natural. No longer something strange and foreign at the end of her arm. It belongs. Her hand. Her freaky new flipper-hand. Replacing the old-fashioned original she’d so carelessly lost.

  Courtesy of: Dr. Alan Ramsey.

  In whose rustic country farmhouse Wanda now sits. Helpfully secluded. On a country road. Outside the town limits.

  Getting inside had been a joke. Simple locks. No security system. No pets. No family. No complications. Once inside, recon took minutes. Nothing especially valuable. No safe. No office. No scrips. Had that been her purpose, Wanda would have left highly disappointed.

  But it wasn’t her purpose. So now she waits. In the dark. Losing what little remains of the slim shred of patience she had on arrival. Stationed now in the kitchen. By the back door. Facing the old barn. The gravel drive. The best position to see comings and goings. To get the jump on the good doctor.

  Once she has him, they’ll have a little chat. He’ll explain what he did to her. In surgical detail. All the background. All the implications. No more evasions. No more bullshit. If she doesn’t like his answers? They’ll both see just how dangerous her new talons can be.

  An hour earlier, headlights had come up the drive. She’d jumped to her feet. Hidden herself. Fireplace poker at the ready. An improvisational home invader, she hadn’t carried her own weaponry. Preferring to select from what was on hand.

  Through the window, she’d watched him: Leaving the car running. Climbing out. Swinging open the barn door. Driving in. Out of sight.

  Home, finally, after a late shift at the hospital, but does he rush to bed? To wash up? To get something to eat? Nope. He hangs out in his barn. Still there, an hour after getting home.

  Just to infuriate her.

  Even worse: Wanda can feel her need returning. While her addiction had receded since her accidental dismemberment, the reprieve was only temporary. Waiting quietly in the dark leaves her few distractions from the soft pangs. Slowly increasing in intensity. Soon the need will become insistent. Demand, rather than request.

  Before long, the sun will rise. Darkness will fade. Wanda’s advantage will slip away. She has to make her move before then. Before sunlight steals her shadows. Before her addiction carves away her focus. She simply can’t afford to wait any longer.

  So, she rises. Grabs the poker. Heads out the back door.

  If the doctor won’t pay a house call to his own house, she’ll just have to go to him.

  ~

  The barn is a barn.

  A simple wooden structure. Leaning slightly to one side. In need of a fresh coat of paint and a little maintenance.

  A tremor vibrates through Wanda as she enters. Micro-spasms. Passing quickly. A precursor of things to come, should she not get to some goo. Even more frustrating after a short period of non-addiction.

  Inside the barn: A row of stables. Unoccupied. Hayloft overhead. A few farm implements hung on the wall: Antiques. Rusted. Brittl
e. Unused for decades.

  The doctor’s car is empty. Another parked behind it: A vintage Mustang. Half-assembled. Resting a foot off the ground. On a four-post hydraulic lift that did not come standard with the barn. Surrounded by enough tools and gear to outfit a professional body-shop.

  Dr. Ramsey has a hobby. At work he tinkers with people. At home, with engines. Which might explain what had kept him in the barn after his arrival. Might... If there was any sign of the man himself. There isn’t.

  Wanda scans the place. The only other exit: Double-doors on the rear wall of the barn. Big enough for a tractor, but chained shut and padlocked on the inside.

  Unless he’s gone to sleep in the hayloft, Dr. Ramsey appears to have vanished. Nowhere else to hide. With that as the improbable - but only remaining - solution, Wanda sets down the poker. Climbs the wooden ladder. Peers into the loft. Finds it empty, too.

  One window up here. Facing the farmhouse. He couldn’t have jumped without her seeing. Outside, the sky has begun to lighten. The night giving way to dawn. But Wanda sees only her addiction, sparkling black. Full of stars. Reinforcing the dull ache of her desire.

  Time has run out. Her mission has failed. If she’s going to get answers from Ramsey, it will have to be another day. In some other venue. For now, she needs to affect her own escape.

  But before she can climb back down, there’s a loud hiss from below. Startled, she drops to the boards. Peers over the edge. A motor whirrs. The Mustang rises. The hydraulic lift, operated by unseen hands.

  Watching from above, Wanda suddenly understands when a light shines out from beneath the vehicle. Understands, but can’t quite believe: The lift masks an entrance. An automated trapdoor. Opening to a lower level. Beneath the barn.

  The car has not quite reached the height limit of its posts, when Dr. Ramsey storms up the hidden ramp. Stooping to avoid bumping his head. Emerging from his secret underground lair.

  Wearing full surgical scrubs. Covered in blood.

  CHAPTER SIX

  No one has said a word about the box on the kitchen table.

  Since bringing it back to the house, Sylvie had ignored the box entirely. She may well have decided it no longer exists. Making the most of her strange ability to dismiss from mind anything potentially uncomfortable that doesn’t absolutely need to be dealt with at that moment. She’d delivered it home. As far as she was concerned, her role had been completed.

  But the box has not been forgotten. Its presence plagues Trevor. He cannot enter the kitchen without purposely focusing on some other element. Rushing in and out as quickly as possible. Actively averting his gaze. Dodging the space containing the thing. Looking everywhere, anywhere else.

  Had Sylvie returned it to Aaron’s room, maybe he could’ve ignored it as well. Aaron’s closet? Even better. Then the door could be closed on its contents forever.

  Instead, it sits on the kitchen table. Unavoidable. Demanding to be dealt with.

  Eventually, it will be too much. Trevor will have to move it himself. Then - in acknowledging its existence - he’ll have no choice: He’ll have to open it. Unpack it. Pour over its contents, one-at-a-time. Working his brain to decipher their importance. Trying to understand why the Circle would insist on their removal. Why these things in particular? What internal secrets were they afraid Aaron might posthumously reveal to the world?

  A trio of Old Men had shown up less than a day after his death. Scoured the house. At the very least they had taken: Aaron’s binders from high school. His notebooks. Journals. Phone. Laptop. Backup drives. Anything that could possibly contain information they didn’t want released outside their blessed Circle. Boxed up. Spirited away. Inspected. Just in case.

  Sylvie’d made sure Trevor was out at the time. Knew how he’d react. Probably for the best. It only would’ve made things harder. Not changed the outcome.

  Now the box is back. Presumably combed through by some analyst. One of the Old Men. A scavenger. Picking through Aaron’s life. Sucking out anything of value. Discarding the marrowless bones.

  Left on the kitchen table. That one corner of the kitchen - for all intents and purposes - rendered invisible.

  But the box is there. And sooner or later, someone will need to deal with it.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “Dis-located?” His coworkers cringe, but Chutney’s never heard the term. “What is that? Like, she lost her ankle? Like: ‘Please! Help me, kind sir, for I cannot locate my ankle!’ or something?”

  It’s been hours since the four overnight employees at the Home-It-Yourself 24-hour superstore have seen any customers. With re-stock and custodial both finished, they gather at the Customer Service counter. Shooting the shit. Enjoying the brief empty window before the sun rises, bringing with it the early morning rush of contractors placing last-minute orders on their way to job sites.

  “No, no. It’s like...” Elliot struggles for a description. “Like, the impact popped her foot off its hinges. Under her skin, you know?”

  Sherry chimes in: “So when Emily landed at the bottom of this crazy hole somebody had dug, her foot bones kind of just...” She mimes a ball popping out of a socket. “Disconnected inside her leg.”

  Chutney squints at her visual aid. Shakes his head. “I’m sorry. All I’m seeing there is a dick coming out of a butthole.”

  “Dude!”

  “Inappropriate!”

  Chutney’s coworkers are yet again shocked by his ignorance. Simultaneously horrified and thrilled to have a new you-wouldn’t-believe-what-Chutney-said story to tell.

  “Seriously, man...” Richard, the night manager, braces Chutney. “I’m really supposed to write someone up for saying stuff like that.”

  “Jesus, I can’t help it if Sherry’s hard-of-miming.”

  A chime announces a customer.

  The employees quiet. Look to the entrance. An oversized heavy-duty shopping cart glides across their threshold. A small woman rides on the back. Heavily tattooed. Blonde Betty Page hairdo. Mrs. Hunter. She kicks off twice. Picks up speed. Disappears down Aisle One - Electrical.

  All eyes on Richard. He sighs. Heads off to see if he can be of service, and/or make sure she’s not just another junkie, there to trash the lighting fixtures for the sheer joy of hearing the bulbs pop when they hit the floor. Wouldn’t be the first time.

  As Richard chases the customer, Elliot snaps his fingers. “Misery! You saw it, right? Writer gets in a car accident? Meets his biggest fan?”

  A pause as Sherry and Chutney click on the scene in question. Shudder at the memory.

  “Ugh! With the sledgehammer?”

  “That’s what that was? Dislocating?”

  “There you go. You got it.” Elliot smiles at their discomfort. “Emily falls into this hole. Totally unsuspecting. Hits the bottom, and--”

  The chime sounds. An enormous bald man enters. Despite being the woman’s physical opposite, his tattoos announce him as her bookend. The mister to her missus.

  He beelines for Customer Service. As he approaches, everyone not required to remain behind the desk saunters away. Leaving Chutney to deal with the big man, single-handedly.

  “G’morning, sir! How can I--”

  Mr. Hunter slaps a torn sheet of graph paper onto the counter. Chutney recoils. Then - realizing it wasn’t meant to kill him - takes it. Looks it over: An itemized list of lumber cuttings.

  “Woah. Dude, that’s a lot of... Will you be needing delivery?”

  Mr. Hunter points out the window. At his rental truck.

  Chutney nods. “Yeah, all right. I can--”

  THONK. Mrs. Hunter’s shopping cart rams into the counter. A boxed table saw adding to its weight. She hops down. All smiles. Her man turns his head sideways to read the specs.

  Impatient, she punches him in the bicep. Waves the box out of the cart.

  Nodding, he lifts it out. Sets it on the counter. He’s barely let go when she leaps onto him. Arms around his neck. Legs around his waist. Hoisting herself up to plan
t a hard kiss on his cheek.

  It looks painful.

  Then, she’s down. Pushing the cart away. In search of more goodies.

  Mr. Hunter catches Chutney’s bemused look. Shrugs. Pulls out his wallet.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “Please be unlocked. Please be unlocked. Please be unlocked.”

  Dawn turns the knob slowly. Her wish comes true.

  “Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.”

  The cabin is dark. Quiet. Both good signs in this case.

  If her father had noticed her absence, the place would be hopping. At the very least, he’d be sitting there. Waiting for her. More likely: The cabin would have transformed into command-central for the Find-Dawn-Lesguettes search party.

  Which can only mean: She must have sleepwalked out very quietly.

  Thank goodness.

  Dawn steps inside. Walks awkwardly across the cabin. On her heels. Hands held out from sides for balance. Ignoring the bedroom for now. First aid her top priority. She arrives at the bathroom without leaving a trail of blood behind her.

  Success!

  From this point forward, there will be no reason for anyone to believe she didn’t spend the night in her bed. She definitely did not stumble blindly to a walled-in ghost town. Certainly didn’t find her way back barefoot along the highway - ready to try hitchhiking had the opportunity presented itself - until she was pretty sure she recognized the entrance to the Talbot Inn property and accidentally found her way back to the cabin just before sunrise. No way.

  Instead? She’s clearly only just now gotten up to use the facilities. Like any other morning.

  She pulls the bathroom door closed as gently as possible. Sits on the edge of the tub. Runs the water: As thin a trickle as the faucet can produce. Keeping the noise down.

  She needn’t have bothered. There’s no one else in the cabin to hear it.