FROM AWAY ~ BOOK THREE

by Mackey Jr. , Deke

A speaker crackles: “Yes, Mrs. Rutherford?”

  “Hey, Tracy.” She turns to the table. Gathers her papers together. “Send a nurse to the Oceanus, please.”

  “Is everyone all right, there?”

  Burl’s tortured moan seems to provide an answer.

  “Not to worry. We’re fine. That’s just a visitor. Suffered an unfortunate accident.” She slides the stack into a manilla folder. Closes it. “He’ll be waiting in the corridor.”

  “Right away, Ma’am.” Click.

  Mrs. Rutherford motions Sylvie forward. “Help our friend out into the hallway, won’t you Sylvia? We have to get ready for our next conference.”

  Sylvie stoops. Gets herself under Burl’s massive arm. Struggles to lift him from the ground. Manages. With a great deal of strain and not much help from the man himself.

  Upright, Burl glowers at Mrs. Rutherford. “This isn’t halfway over. I’m going--”

  The elderly woman swats his leg lightly with the folder. He howls. The pain is nearly enough to fell him again. It brings him down to her height, anyway. Caught there by Sylvie’s efforts alone.

  Mrs. Rutherford waits patiently. Until his bellowing reduces to a whimper. “What you’re going to want to bear in mind, Burlington? When your cast is off and you’re working to get rid of the limp you’ll never entirely master? When you’re beginning to forget how much pain this was and how scared and helpless you feel right now?” She crosses to the conference room door. “There is one thing which I fervently hope you will remember at that moment...” She holds the door open, her smile icing Sylvie’s insides.

  “It could just as easily have been your spine.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Tentacles encircle Dr. Ramsey’s throat. Squeeze his windpipe closed. Cutting off the blood supply to his brain. He thrashes atop Dr. Mendez. Pulled over the rail onto her hospital bed. Kicking out. Knocking his stool over. Slamming the side table into Wanda’s bedrail.

  But Mendez holds tight. One hand of grasping, sinewy digits around Ramsey’s neck. The other locking his hands together. With his feet off the ground, he can get no leverage against her.

  A throaty warble. Wanda looks up. Through the pipes and vents snaking around above the room. Into the blackness beyond. Seeing nothing until the creature leaps down through a gap in the scaffolding. Drops to the floor between the hospital beds.

  Recovering from the landing, she stands tall. Barefoot. Scrawny arms and legs strangely elongated. Thick black collar around her neck. Beneath tattered green hospital scrubs, her skin is hairless. A patchwork of random shapes and varying tones. Haphazard. Uneven. Healed imperfectly. An earlier iteration of the procedure Dr. Ramsey had been performing on Marshall. Better than no skin at all. But maybe not by much.

  She springs into action: Grabbing hold of Dr. Ramsey’s fallen stool by its legs. Swinging it over her head. Stretching up above the grappling doctors.

  “No-no-no-no-no!” It’s all the help Wanda can offer, but no one hears her. Mendez is too busy strangling Dr. Ramsey to notice. The doctor is concentrating on choking to death. Each focusing on their own struggle, until Simp ends it for them. Bringing the stool down on Dr. Mendez’s skull.

  The first blow partly caves in her forehead. The second obliterates her face. Her body spasms. Tentacles release. Freed from their death-grip, Dr. Ramsey flops off the hospital bed. Onto the floor. Coughing. Gagging.

  Wanda looks away from the horror. Her stomach turning over. Almost immediately looks back. Sees: Pieces of Mendez’s head come away with the stool as the creature pulls it free. Her blood spattering against the plastic sheeting as one final impact stops her tremors permanently.

  Done with Mendez, Simp turns towards Wanda. Briefly assesses the threat she presents. Then, tosses the stool aside. Drops to the floor next to Dr. Ramsey. Trying to help him up. No longer homicidal. Almost tender. Gently, she lifts him to his feet.

  Color returning. Catching his breath. The doctor turns to Mendez’s bed. Sees what’s left of her. His mouth drops open. Shocked. “What have you done?”

  Simp cocks her head. Makes a birdlike noise in her throat that sounds like a question mark.

  Dr. Ramsey pushes Simp away. Distraught. Screaming: “What have you done?!”

  Stumbling back, the creature trips over her own long limbs. Lands in a heap. Shocked. The dangerous beast who moments ago had done such damage reduced to a confused puppy. Hadn’t she saved him? Where was her praise?

  Ignoring her, Dr. Ramsey goes to Mendez’s bedside. Lifts her hands. The tentacles swing. Limp. Lifeless. He gazes on them. Brokenhearted. “Nothing less than a medical marvel. My greatest triumph to date. Ruined!”

  He whirls on the patchwork woman. “How many times must I tell you? You’re not permitted within the curtain!” She whistles in reply. A pitiful sound. Reaches out to him in supplication.

  “No! She was a miracle! And you...” He advances on her. Slapping her hands away. Smacking her across the face. “Get out, damn you!”

  She scuttles backwards. He closes the distance. Punctuating each step with another slap. “Out! Out! OUT!”

  Scrambling, she finds a split in the plastic. Escapes through it. Ramsey follows. His warped shape pursuing hers. Out of sight.

  Leaving Wanda alone. With Mendez’s dripping remains.

  She closes her eyes. Breathes.

  “I am so unbelievably screwed.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  The eye that isn’t swollen shut is mostly red where it should be mostly white. It stares at Netty with naked hatred. Its blood vessels burst in little flares.

  But this is the least of the damage Netty has done to Deputy Doug Schilling. Just one result of the vicious beating she gave him. All of which have ripened overnight.

  His face is a mottled rainbow. Predominantly purple, with no hue unaccounted for. Black stitches hold large splits together. Even reset, his nose turns distinctly to the left now. Bridge bulging in two places.

  But most disconcerting: His enormously wide, quite-possibly-insane grin. Lips drawn back in a hyena snarl. Displaying the gleaming wires zig-zagging across the former perfection of his smile. Freshly attached braces connecting every remaining tooth in two impossibly-straight rows. Locking his jaws together. Wired shut. No movement allowed, whatsoever.

  Really, he has no business being outside of a hospital, let alone at work. But there he is, in the police station: Glowering across the conference room table. Doing his best to implode Netty’s head using only the power of his mind.

  She holds his gaze. Returns the threatening look with one of her own: Boredom. Keeping an eye on him, but not especially concerned. Even so, her hand twitches slightly towards her holster when he suddenly smacks the table with the palm of one hand. He sucks back saliva before his taut lips strain to enunciate over bared teeth: “They ashked you a queshtion, Hubert.”

  She nods. Of course they did.

  Leaning forward, she addresses the speakerphone in the center of the table. “Could you please repeat that, Mrs. Rutherford? I was a bit distracted.”

  The voice from the speaker is brittle. “We asked if you were following what we’ve been saying. I believe we have our answer.”

  “Pretty sure I’ve caught the gist, Ma’am. With thirteen people setting themselves on fire last night, somebody needs to foot the blame. I’m the obvious choice. I was there. In charge. Leading negotiations. A task at which I failed pretty spectacularly, so... You’re asking me to resign from the department.” Now that she’s said it out loud, the truth sinks in. She swallows her emotions. Refuses to show them. Not to the Old Men over the phone. Certainly not to Schilling. “That pretty much cover it?”

  “No, no, Antoinette. You’ve clearly misunderstood us. We don’t feel resignation is necessary.” Other voices step over one another in the background. Fighting to agree. When they quiet, Mrs. Rutherford continues: “On the contrary, it would only add to this tragedy to throw away your years of experience. Which is why we’re me
rely asking you step down as Sheriff. If you remain on as deputy, the department can be seen as proactively responding to the anger of the community, while continuing to benefit from all the wisdom you’ve accrued in your tenure.”

  Behind her, the Old Men murmur. Prompting Mrs. Rutherford to add: “Yes, yes. Pending an internal ethics review, of course.”

  Demotion. Public humiliation. Disgrace. The end of her career. She should’ve anticipated this. Prepared for it. They’re expecting her immediate decision. With no other options, the answer is clear: “You have something for me to sign?”

  The speaker crackles. “Douglas?”

  Deputy Schilling slides a thick document across the table. Slaps a fountain pen on top of it. If his rictus could widen any, this would be the moment. Netty flips the pages. Scans through without much interest. Signs it. Rises. “It’s done.”

  “We’d all like to thank you for your service, Sheriff Hubert. I hope you know how much we respect and appreciate all you’ve done for the island. I’m sure your new position will suit you, and you’ll continue to be a credit to the department.”

  Netty’s grunted reply may or may not carry through the speakerphone.

  “Be sure to exchange your badge, Antoinette. Wouldn’t want any confusion amongst the public.”

  Netty stops. Plucks the star from her breast. Sets it down on the table. “Anything else?”

  “That appears to be every--”

  Netty hits a button. Disconnects the call. Continues towards the door.

  “Don’t you want to know?” Spit froths between Schilling’s clenched teeth. “Who your new bosh ish?”

  “If ever I find myself giving a shit, I’ll go check the jar on Mrs. Rutherford’s desk. See whose balls she’s got bottled up there.”

  Schilling is on his feet. Towering over the former Sheriff. A wall of twitchy muscle and resentment. Before he can speak, the speakerphone trills. Announcing the intercom. A call from reception. “Sheriff?” Millie’s thin voice is inherently apologetic. “We just got word from Midgate on Paula Fields?”

  Netty reaches for the Speak button, but Schilling intercepts her wrist. Holds it tight. “Oh, no, no, Deputy Hubert. It’sh not for you.”

  “Paula Fields is my case.”

  He smiles. Releases her hand. “She wash your cayshe.” He dares Netty to reach out again. His implied threat only sweetens the pot. She nevertheless manages to resist temptation. Waits.

  Millie’s sorry to interrupt again: “Sheriff?”

  Sucking back spittle, Schilling leans across the table. Reaches over the speakerphone. Past it. Picks up Netty’s star. Brushes it off. Pins it to his own chest.

  She looks at him blandly. Refusing to give him anything to work with.

  He doesn’t need anything more. “Shome jackash hash been digging holesh all over the island. That’s your new ashignment. Find out who.”

  Netty blinks. “Holes.”

  “Yeah. Holesh...” He grins in anticipation of his own punchline. “Thought it shounded right up your alley, Deputy. Given your... Proclivitiesh.”

  Netty can visualize the paths her fists might follow. Sees her strikes exploiting his injuries. Reopening cuts. Loosening more teeth. It’d be good. Satisfying, temporarily. But ultimately not worth the trouble. The fantasy will have to be enough for now.

  “I’m on it.” She turns on one heel. Strides out of the room. Unbowed.

  “And don’t you worry about Paula Fieldsh, Deputy!” He shouts after her. “I’ll be taking on her cayshe, pershonally.”

  Netty’s not worried. She’s been waiting for that call from Midgate General Hospital. Ready to file that particular report for weeks.

  Ren, on the other hand? He’s not going to take it well at all.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Mr. Hunter scrapes half the skin from his knuckles. Hurrying. Trying to single-handedly navigate the ladder down the narrow corridor at top speed. Brushing too close to one plywood wall. Scouring the back of his hand against unsanded edges and raised nail heads waiting at exactly the wrong angle.

  Blood runs hot between his fingers. Probably full of slivers, too. No time to pause for first aid. His window too slender. A matter of seconds before his wife decides to throw caution to the wind and climb down into the room on her own.

  So he rushes on. Little red spats marking his trail. Soaking into the earth.

  At the top of the staircase, he twists awkwardly. Tilts the ladder into the hole. Grazes the ceiling with its rubber feet. Almost loses his grip, slick with his own bloody lubrication. Betrayed by his own urgency.

  He looks to the bottom of the steps. Sees his time has run out: His wife is no longer waiting for him. She’s now lowering herself through the small doorway. Into the chamber below.

  No! He dumps the ladder to one side. Takes the stairs two at a time. Grabs for her hand, just as she lets go. Missing her wrist by a hair’s width.

  Mrs. Hunter lands on the chamber floor safely. Ankles untwisted. Knees unsprained. But as she stands, the floor beneath her depresses. Not quite the solid rock it seems, it drops three inches with a shuddering clunk.

  Out of sight, gears turn. Stone shifts. Something mechanical is set into motion.

  Above, Mr. Hunter leans through the doorway. Arms reaching toward his wife. He freezes as the sounds grind behind the walls. Aware of the danger, but unmoving.

  She leaps for his hands. Not grabbing on. Smacking at them. Punching. Cracking his knuckles with her own. Nailing him directly on a bloody open sore she didn’t see him receive. Flinching back from the strike, he disappears through the entrance.

  Just as an iron grate slices across the opening. Slams into place between the two chambers. Missing the chance to bisect Mr. Hunter by milliseconds.

  Entrance blocked, the machinery stills. Quiets.

  Mr. Hunter glares down through thick iron bars at his impatient, unnecessary-risk-taking wife.

  She shrugs.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  Max heaves and heaves. All vomited out.

  Doubled over. Clutching a boulder for balance. At the base of the rock mound. As far as he could get before the sudden wave of nausea had overtaken him.

  Dawn can’t help but glance down. Concerned. “Max? Is there anything I can--” He waves her off. Retching one last time. An extended spasm with no real climax.

  She averts her eyes. Looks off through the opening in the wall. After Mandi and Allison. Holding hands. Headed into Adderpool.

  Ignoring all the warning signs. Poo-pooing bad air and toxic contamination. They’d held their breath. Slid down the broken rocks on the other side. Now running top speed over the ramshackle covered bridge. Towards the town.

  Even in the light of day, Adderpool is grim. Cloaked in shadow, despite an open sky. The sun unwilling to gaze directly on the town. Refracting in only under duress. Resisted by the dismal mist crawling between grey buildings with disintegrating brick walls. Every roof bowing under the weight of moss. Some caving in. Broken windows staring blindly. None intact.

  Untended, the town’s foliage has revolted. Claimed the space for its own. A scraggly black ivy climbs over every surface. Invades every crevice. Wraps Adderpool in organic razor-wire. Sharp-edged. Dangerous.

  Halfway across the no-man’s land between the town and its wall, the fog fades. Unwilling to stray too far from home. Here, the girls slow. Bend over. Searching through hundreds of small flags planted along the side of the road.

  “Ugh. Don’t you smell that?” Max’s voice muffled through his shirt. Holding it over his mouth and nose as he climbs the rubble. “It’s like you’re not even bothered at all.”

  “No, no. It’s totally repugnant.” Dawn scowls. Wrinkles her nose. Playing along. “Yuck!”

  To her sensibilities, the air is only slightly musty. Reminiscent of her grandmother’s cellar. Not a great smell, but mostly inoffensive. But - between the girls’ disgusted groans and Max’s barfing - her opinion is clearly outside the norm. “I ju
st... Must have a high stink-tolerance, I guess.”

  “Lucky.” He joins her. Gazes over the crumbled edge. Checks the girls’ progress. “Not me.”

  “So I saw. You’re doing all right now, though?”

  “Yeah... Sorry about that. Happens every time.”

  Mandi shrieks. Pulls up a small flag. Waves it in triumph.

  “Okay, Max. They said you’d fill me in: What is with the flags?”

  Max sighs. “It’s a dare. You look for the one you planted, last time. Try to move it closer to town, this time.”

  Dawn is mystified. “Habba-whuh?”

  Max’s eyes crinkle above his t-shirt filter. “You know what cow-tipping is?”

  “I’m... Familiar with the concept.”

  Allison yanks Mandi’s flag away. Holds it arm’s length from her. The two squabble. Playing flag tug-of-war.

  “This is that: A stupid Island-thing that stupid Island-kids do for stupid Island-fun, because there’s really nothing better to do on this stupid Island.”

  “Wow! Judgy much?”

  “Hey, I’m not excluding myself. My flag is down there somewhere. I qualify as a stupid Island kid, don’t I?”

  Dawn smiles. “Not sure I’ve collected enough data to make such an assessment.”

  “Then take my word for it: Everybody gets stupid, if they’re bored enough.” As he watches, Mandi stoops. Pulls up another flag. Offers it to Allison. They trade. Move further up the road to town.

  “There. They’ve both found their flags. Now the point is: Each time you try to re-plant yours closer to town.”

  “I don’t get it...” Slowing down, Allison pulls a few heavy steps ahead of Mandi, who is now barely moving at all. Weighed down by an unseen burden. “What’s stopping them?”

  “The air. Whatever’s in it... It gets worse the nearer you get. Harder to breathe. More dangerous.”

  “Dangerous?” Dawn scoffs.

  Max nods. Serious. “People have died. Every few years, somebody goes too far. Gets overwhelmed. Passes out. And then, unless somebody rescues them...”