FROM AWAY ~ BOOK THREE

by Mackey Jr. , Deke

  Two blisters pop. Hot plasma spills out. Drains onto the bedsheets.

  Hospital staff swarm the room. Crowd the bed.

  “Sir, we need you to--”

  “I can’t! She’s got my--”

  Nurses reconnect Paula’s support system. Doctors administer sedatives.

  Netty forces her way in. Tries to unclamp Paula’s fingers from Ren’s. Only succeeds in popping more of his blisters.

  “It’s all thanks to you, Ren! I owe it all to you! You can’t even guess! But I’ll show her! I’ll show her my walls! And my bridge... Light it all up in black, and then she’ll see it!” Drugs reach receptors. Do their thing. Paula peters out. “She has to see it. And then everything will start. When she sees... And I’ll be the one, who... Who...”

  She loses consciousness again. Grip finally relaxing. As Ren reclaims his mangled hand, Netty takes him by the elbow.

  “No, she--”

  “Paula’s going to be okay. Just let them deal with it.” She leads him away. Into the hall.

  They watch from the doorway as the hospital staff gets things under control. Paula and her machines calm. Doctors and nurses disperse. A few shoot dirty looks at Ren. As though he caused the disturbance. Ultimately? Maybe he did.

  Netty reads his mind. “You can’t take it to heart, Ren. She’s all drugged up. With a serious head injury.” Netty grabs tissues from the nurses’ station. Holds them to Ren’s popped blisters. Soaks up whatever fluid remains. He lets her. “She’s not herself. She doesn’t even know what she’s saying.”

  He nods. Quiet.

  Inside Paula’s room, Nurse Eldon drags the privacy curtain into place. Hides her patient from looky-loos.

  Netty looks over Ren’s knuckles. Broken blisters hang limp. Shriveled. “You should probably get this rewrapped while you’re here.”

  “You told me you had leads, Antoinette.”

  It takes her a moment to catch what he’s thrown. “You said you didn’t want to know.”

  “I’ve changed my mind.”

  “You know how Mossley Island works, Ren. Sometimes - even when you think you know something - you really don’t know anything.”

  “That’s exactly the problem, isn’t it? I do know how the island works... It protects its own.” He turns away. Tries to pull his phone from his pocket without doing either hand further damage. Fails on both counts.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I need to call a cab. Somebody needs to bring down Paula’s attackers.”

  Netty sighs. “All right. All right. It’s my investigation. I’ll drive. If only to keep you out of trouble.”

  He looks at her a long moment. Then aims for the elevators. She follows after. “But where are we going?”

  “The construction site. Paula’s office... Her whole life’s in there.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Marshall is flat on his back. Spread-eagle in a shallow pool. Da Vinci’s Vitruvian man. Except, of course: Nearly entirely skinless.

  What little he has forms a patchwork over his torso. Three-inch squares. Overlapping. Slightly askew. The rest of him: Uncovered red muscle. Held together somehow by the pinkish gel in which he is submerged. Unconscious. Linked to the outside world by breathing tubes alone.

  Wanda can’t tear her eyes from him. The operating theatre barely registers: Three plastic sheet walls. One solid. Machines blinking. Beeping. Some, slick and high-tech. Others, junkyard prototypes. “Is he...?”

  “Sedated.” Dr. Ramsey rolls a machine towards the vat. Locks its wheels. Lifts into its base the heavy canister he’s just carried from the barn. Attaches two hoses. A loud gurgling hiss confirms the connection.

  Brushing off his hands, he positions himself behind Marshall’s vat. Pulls on a pair of elbow-length gum rubber gloves. Flexes his fingers. Ready to work.

  “Shouldn’t you... Wash up, or something?”

  “The gel in which Marshall is suspended is a hyper-sterile medium. No bugs can survive contact.” Dr. Ramsey presses a button on the control panel of a tall stainless steel cabinet. A red light turns green. He opens the glass door. Eight slots contain trays. He slides out the topmost. On it: Three fresh three-inch squares. Prefabricated. Red on top. Pink beneath.

  “Skin.” Wanda blinks. “It’s skin. Where did it come from?”

  “It’s all Marshall, I assure you. Cultured from his own DNA.” Dr. Ramsey lifts a square. Holds it out for Wanda to admire. “It’s him. Down to the red hair and freckles.”

  A creak. From above. Wanda glances upwards. Into the scaffolding.. Catches sight of something. Moving quickly through a stray beam of light from below. Ducking back into the darkness. “Is somebody up there?”

  “Simp!” Ramsey shouts into the rafters. “I’m quite certain I’ve told you I don’t want you lurking about up there during delicate procedures.”

  Something warbles above. Imitating some kind of bird call.

  “Oh, no-no-no, my friend.” Dr. Ramsey lays down the skin-square. Strips off a glove. Frustrated. Muttering to himself: “There must be consequences.” He slides back one white sleeve. Taps and swipes at the screen of his watch. Looks at it carefully. Presses firmly.

  A sharp electric zap in the rafters is followed by clattering. Crashing. Whatever is up there, it’s no longer bothering to creep. Wanda tracks the sound away from the room. Sees something drop to the floor outside the curtain. Just shades and shapes through the plastic. The thing recovers quickly from the landing. Gambols past. Soon out of view.

  Ramsey has already returned to his work. “Not to worry. She knows she’s not permitted in the operating theatre.”

  “She, who?”

  Ramsey lifts a spray nozzle from the machine. Its hose leads back to the canister. He directs it over the patches. Sprays them down. The skin sizzles on contact.

  A distinctive chemical smell wafts towards Wanda. Fills her lungs. She stiffens. Suddenly wracked with shuddering desire. Wanting nothing more than to grab the nozzle from the doctor’s hand. To spray herself with it. All over.

  “You may go ahead, Wanda.”

  Entirely distracted, Wanda gives the doctor a confused look. “Huh?”

  He doesn’t look up. Lifts the square from the tray. Pushes it into the surprisingly thick and resistant gel. “You’ve assaulted my person. Threatened my life. You say you want answers. So please - by all means - make your inquiries.” He moves the new flesh towards an empty space on Marshall’s trunk. Lines it up. Presses it into place. Holds it there.

  “All right...” First, enthralled by the procedure. Then, captured by that familiar scent. Wanda has all but forgotten why she’s come in the first place. “Let’s start with the basics, Doc: How in hell did I grow a new hand?”

  Dr. Ramsey frowns at her. “Hm. You disappoint me.”

  Wanda squints. “I will admit: You aren’t the first to say so. But still...” She hefts the poker. “I’m not sure that’s the tone you want to be taking today...”

  He sighs. “You ask how this has happened. But do you truly believe - even if I were to explain it to you in the simplest of layman’s terms - that you have the capacity to understand how this miracle has occurred?”

  “I can damn sure try.” Sweating now. Either from withdrawal or in the face of confrontation. Wanda wipes the beads from her forehead with the back of her elongated hand.

  Dr. Ramsey selects another square. Applies it to Marshall’s torso. “Allow me to reframe: Have you - in recent memory - paid a visit to the local pharmacy, threatening to beat the druggist with a fireplace poker should he not adequately explain to you how the aspirin he recommended has relieved your headache?”

  “That’s not even close to--”

  “Of course you haven’t, and why? Because what difference could it possibly make to you how the aspirin works, so long as it does?” He takes another square. Plunges it into the gel. Adds it to the flesh-quilt he’s fashioning. “Likewise, why should you concern yourself with how you have grown a new
hand? What’s important is: There is now a functional appendage where once there was none. Whether through magic or medicine, I have gifted this to you, Wanda, and the one and only appropriate response should be: Your gratitude. If not eternal, then at least momentary.”

  Dr. Ramsey slams the top tray back into place. Pulls out the second. Grabs the spray nozzle. Coats the three new skin-squares. They sizzle and pop. Bacon in the pan. The smell reaches Wanda. She quivers. Her knees literally buckle. She catches herself. Straightens out. The doctor notices.

  “Ah! And therein lies our explanation. The true answer, Wanda, to the question of why you’ve come.” He gives the tray one last spritzing. “This. Ichthyoplasm. What you no doubt call goo. This is what has brought you here. Like a fruit fly to rot. You have come, not for answers, but because you are an addict.”

  “No!” Wanda stammers. “I mean, I am, but that’s not--”

  “You’re here because you were momentarily free, but you feel that moment passing. You see your cravings returning, and with them... Servitude.”

  “I... I... I came to you. At the hospital. But you wouldn’t--”

  “I could do nothing more there. Eyes, everywhere.”

  “But here?”

  “Here, Wanda... We can attempt to cure you.” He replaces the nozzle. Lifts the next skin patch. “I assume you have some idea what’s involved?”

  “I’ve been looking at it, haven’t I?”

  “Quite right.” He pushes the skin into the gel. Moving it down onto Marshall’s right leg. “With each subject the process is further refined, but it’s far from perfect. Drawn out and extremely painful. With no guarantee of survival.”

  “Right now? I’m kinda guaranteed the opposite.”

  “Indeed. But what I use here in my facility... You should know this is not street-level goo. It’s uncut. Very nearly pure. The goo to which you’ve become accustomed has only a small fraction of the potential of the unadulterated substance.”

  Stronger than goo? A wave of warm anticipation rushes across Wanda’s skin.

  “It’s nothing less than miraculous. None of our advancements could’ve been made without it.” Dr. Ramsey continues patching Marshall. “My efforts to catalog all of its capabilities are ongoing, of course. What I know for certain: It facilitates tissue regrowth. But sometimes adds its own little... Spice to the admixture.”

  Wanda flexes her fingers. “That much I know.” She watches the webbing stretch. It’s not so bad. Better than empty space. She can learn to live with it. “And... You’ve had success? Helped people beat goo?”

  Dr. Ramsey smiles. “Not only are there no further urges, exposure to the smallest amount of Ichthyoplasm produces a profound revulsion in the subjects who have undergone the process before you.”

  Wanda ignores a tremor. Then, another, right on its heels. She hasn’t dosed herself since the accident. But it won’t be long before the choice is no longer hers to make. While it is, she makes it: “All right, Doc. Where do I sign up?”

  He slides the tray back into the cabinet. Looks Wanda in the eye. “You’re willing to place yourself in my care? Do as you’re told? Accept my word as absolute?”

  It had been too much for Marshall. He’d busted out to escape Dr. Ramsey’s cure. But he had only been there in the first place because his family had forced him. She’d be entering into the contract voluntarily. With full understanding of all that entailed. Even so, was she willing to become his newest science experiment?

  Wanda looks at the long, thin fingers of her new hand. At its black talons. Its pale, smooth scales. Knows that particular ship has long-since sailed. “I’ll do whatever you say. I just... All I want is a fresh start.”

  “Then you won’t be needing that any longer.” He points to the fireplace poker she’d forgotten she was holding. “Place it against the wall, please. ”

  Had she ever been in control of the situation? He’d owned her from the moment she entered his barn. Maybe sooner. She drops the poker. It falls to the floor with a heavy clang.

  “Come over here.” The doctor emerges from behind Marshall’s vat. Crosses to the plastic wall. Here, a dentist-style lamp stretches down from the scaffolding. “Beneath the light. Let’s take a look at that new hand of yours.”

  She goes. Holding her open palm towards him. Ramsey takes it. Positions it beneath the lamp. Turns up the brightness. “Flex it for me. Open and closed.” She does as she’s told. It looks even stranger so brightly lit. More obviously out of place.

  Dr. Ramsey nods. “Now the other.”

  Her right hand is tiny in comparison. Weak. Ramsey takes hold of it. Turns it over. Runs a finger along the tendons. Tests the rotation of her wrist. “Stay under the lamp please, Wanda.” He shifts her to the left. Concentrating on the muscles of her forearm. Gripping her tightly by the elbow, he turns her sideways. Back against the plastic. Arms in the light. In control.

  “From a cursory examination, you remain an ideal subject.”

  Wanda’s stomach flips at the thought. “You think you can cure me?”

  “Cure you? The Old Men would have my head.” Dr. Ramsey takes a step back. “Go ahead now, Simp.”

  “Simp?”

  The plastic sheeting envelopes Wanda. Long arms wrap her instantly. Pin her arms to her sides. Cutting off her vision. Her air. Her equilibrium.

  She shouts. The plastic pulls tight across her face. Over mouth and nose. Holding sound in. Keeping oxygen out.

  She struggles for breath. There is none to be had.

  Her awareness flickers. Fades.

  As her limp form is dropped to the floor, the last shape she sees is that of a strange woman with elongated limbs. Blurred and warped through the sheeting. Covered in mismatched patches of skin.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Sheets of plywood under one arm. Bundle of studs beneath the other. Mr. Hunter carries his load down the tunnel. Moving through a dim zone of twilight towards the next bright patch. The LED tap-lights placed along the walls. Spread as far apart as possible. Darkness slipping back into the spaces between.

  Ahead: The tunnel’s current end. His wife holding her tape measure. Pressing it into the furthest corner of the dig. Blade extended along the base of the wall. Measuring back to the entrance. Thirty feet.

  Satisfied, she releases the lock. The spring takes over. Reels the metal tape back in. The big man jerks away as the blade slices past him. Keeps his grip on the plywood. Drops the rest.

  Unapologetic, his wife tosses the tape measure back into her dented red toolbox. Grabs her shovel. Digs into the western wall. Outlining the opening to a new branch. Dropping each shovelful into the plastic garbage can stationed behind her.

  The man frowns. Sets down the rest of the lumber. Removes a beat-up notebook from his back pocket. Flips through scribbled notes and diagrams until he finds: A drawing of the stone tablet they had found buried in the hole. The glyphs carved into it.

  Beneath the image, he’s written his translation:

  THIRTY FEET SOUTH, THEN DOWN.

  THE NEXT STEPS WILL REVEAL THEMSELVES.

  Down. Not west. Why is she turning west?

  She sees him coming. Keeps shoveling until he catches hold of the handle. Stops her.

  Irritated, she yanks the shovel away. Gives him her grudging attention. He holds out his notebook. Taps the word: DOWN.

  The little woman scowls. Rolls her eyes. Sliding a toolbox drawer open, she produces her own notebook. Riffles through to her own translation:

  THIRTY FEET SOUTH, THEN WEST.

  THE NEXT STEPS WILL REVEAL THEMSELVES.

  West. Not down. A crucial difference.

  The man looks back and forth between the two translations. Comparing.

  Mrs. Hunter puts up with it for a few seconds. Then, throws down her shovel in frustration. Pushes past her husband. Heads back up the tunnel.

  ~

  The stone tablet. Four lines of strange runic characters. Cracked through its center. Bisected by the l
ittle woman’s shovel in a fit of rage. Removed from the hole, complete with the earth surrounding it. Transferred into a shallow crate. As intact as they could manage.

  The symbol in question - either DOWN or WEST - sits directly inside the cracked area. Broken into shards, but still basically legible.

  Mr. Hunter finds the glyph easily on the ancient iron decoder dial they had liberated from a small museum in South America. Cross-references the result in an equally old book. This, forcibly donated by a collector in Kiev. The book backs him up. Identifies the symbol as meaning: DOWN.

  Frowning, Mrs. Hunter takes the decoder. Turns its dial two clicks clockwise. To a symbol identical in every facet except orientation. The same image, but rotated forty-five degrees from her husband’s.

  His mouth hangs open.

  They’d decoded the tablet’s instructions separately. Intending to double-check against one another. Even so, they’d missed the discrepancy. Each confident in their own results.

  Either translation equally valid based on the evidence. But the fragments had shifted on impact. There is no longer any way to know how they’d originally connected to the whole.

  The couple look up from the tablet. Into one another’s faces.

  Now what?

  ~

  The garbage can fills double-quick. Clods of dirt tossed in from both sides.

  Mrs. Hunter carves out her offshoot tunnel to the west.

  Mr. Hunter digs his fresh hole into the tunnel floor.

  The Hunters work feverishly. Starting back-to-back. Moving slowly apart as they progress. Throwing earth over their shoulders. Covering themselves. One another. The tunnel itself, clouded with dirt.

  Until a clang rings out.

  The big man has struck something. Buried in the earth. Another tablet? Their next instructions?