FROM AWAY ~ BOOK THREE

by Mackey Jr. , Deke

  This may be her only chance. “HEY! Help me! He’s got me strapped to--”

  Ramsey grabs her face with one hand. She strains against her bonds. Thrashes back and forth. He crams the rubber gloves into her mouth. Holds them in.

  “That’s her, all right.” He checks his watch. “I don’t know. Forty minutes at the outside. After that, I’ll have no choice but to move ahead whether you’re... Yes, all right.” He clicks the earpiece. Disconnects.

  With a heavy sigh, he turns to look at his patient. Still gripping her face. “I’ve decided to allow you the full experience this time, Wanda.” Maintaining the gaze, he reaches into a drawer. Pulls out a roll of surgical tape. “You were anaesthetized on your first visit. To maintain secrecy.”

  He tears off a strip with his teeth. Affixes it across her mouth. Cheek-to-cheek. Over the gloves. “Sadly necessary, but it left you in no condition to appreciate the effects of pure, undiluted ichthyoplasm.” Two more tape strips form an asterisk. Secure her punishment. Sentence her to an extended period subjected to the sour taste of latex and cornstarch.

  “We have no such limitations on this occasion. There’s no need to dull your senses. Better to let you take it all in. Absorb every ounce.” He returns his attention to the bedside table. Takes hold of the canister. “It’s a journey quite unparalleled, I assure you. To deprive you of it, twice? Simply unconscionable.”

  Six sharp thrusts. Dr. Ramsey primes the pump. Stopping when the pressure makes more impossible. Taking up the hose, he aims the nozzle at Wanda’s arm. Her own arm. Her uninjured original.

  Muffled by the rubber gloves, Wanda screams. He doesn’t need to do this. Surely they can come to a deal of some kind. In her head, she begs. In the plastic-walled room, it’s just noise. Dr. Ramsey waits for her to get it out of her system. Waits for her to still. Then, he sprays.

  The goo burns, of course. Freezes and burns on contact. As always. Only moreso. So much stronger. So much purer. Unlike any sensation provided by the trailer park goo she’s used to.

  And this is no small rectangle, painted on a hip with a tiny brush. Even as agony and euphoria flood Wanda’s system, Dr. Ramsey continues the application. Spraying her from elbow to wrist. Coating her entire forearm. Continuing over her hand. Her flesh fries. Bubbles. Blackens. It’s too much. Much too much. Far more than she can handle.

  She struggles to maintain. To hold onto some sense of control. Even as she does, she’s pretty sure she’s pissed herself. Possibly worse.

  Overwhelmed, she cedes to the goo. Lets it do with her as it will.

  Given the opening, it forces her out of herself. Taking her far, far away.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  Mrs. Hunter paces. Clicks her flashlight. On. Off

  On: The inscription on the steps. Recognizable characters. The same language used on the stone tablet. The shapes familiar, but impossible to decipher on her own.

  Off: Squares of light shine through the iron grate above. Her husband on the other side. Spinning the ancient decoder dial. Cross-referencing. Working hard to translate the message. To save her.

  On: The walls on either side. The dinosaur-fish carvings. Angry. Dead-eyed. Mouths wide. Sharp scales and spiny fins. Tails each split into two. Like illustrations from a map of unknown territories: Here, there be monsters.

  Off: Darkness all-but complete in the chamber. The room could have any dimensions. No longer necessarily a cage in which she’s confined. The walls are gone. No need to feel anxious or trapped.

  On: The bronze disk. Centered on the far wall. Almost certainly key to her escape. The size of a dinner plate. An arc of semi-circles cut into its upper circumference describe the phases of the moon. Eight shapes arcing from waning to waxing to waning again. Thin crescent slivers almost touching the horizon line on either side.

  Off: Mrs. Hunter crosses the blackness. Finds the two steps leading to the wall. Climbs them blind. Approaches where she remembers the disk hanging.

  On: She shines the beam into the moons. Each a few inches deep. Keyholes? Might one correct choice release her, while all others spell doom? Is there an order in which they must be selected?

  Off: She reaches for the disk. Runs light fingers along cold metal edges. She doesn’t press inside. Doesn’t test to see if the disk moves. Simply traces its shapes in the darkness. It would be imprudent to do more than that, however tempting.

  On: Her feet. Standing on her own salvation. Lines of code inscribed in stone. Her husband will have an answer soon. Specific steps for her to perform. A proper order in which to perform them. Simple tasks, undoubtedly. It must be nearly decoded by now.

  Off: Her hand finds the disk again. The metal warms beneath her touch. She won’t turn it. Won’t push her fingers into the moons. Doesn’t need to do anything at all. It’s out of her hands, now.

  All she needs? A little patience.

  ~

  The message was easily decoded. Mr. Hunter finished a while ago.

  He sits on the stone staircase. Phone balanced on one knee. Notebook on the other. Iron decoder in his lap. He taps his teeth with a mechanical pencil. Glares at the completed translation as though he might intimidate it into changing. A strategy which hasn’t worked so far.

  Sighing, he slides the pencil into the notebook coil. Tears out the page. Folds it carefully in half. Then? Again. And again. Until he has produced a paper airplane.

  This he carries to the iron grate blocking what was once a doorway. He shines his flashlight into the chamber. Spots his wife: Head back. Eyes closed. On the steps. Examining the bronze plate. Probing the moon-holes with her fingers.

  Of course.

  He drags the flashlight across the bars. Clanking to get her attention.

  She hears it. Ignores him. Four fingers of each hand are slotted into the phases of the moon. Eight little clicks are audible as she presses. The bronze plate unlocks. She rotates it. Clockwise. Until the horizon line is entirely vertical. Aligned with the separation in the wall.

  Invisible gears turn. Chains clank. Pulleys creak.

  Mrs. Hunter pulls her fingers free. Watches as the wall splits. The halves slide away from one another. Revealing a small alcove. Ladder rungs inside. Leading upwards.

  The doors stop. Hidden mechanisms fall silent. The Hunters hold their breath. Vigilant for further movement. But no other shoe drops.

  Mrs. Hunter grins up at her man. Proud of her accomplishment. She figured out what was necessary. On her own. Revealed an exit. Without his help. Or any nasty repercussions. Best of all: She didn’t have to wait.

  Pissed, he crumples up the paper airplane. Reaches his hand through the grate - manages to get halfway up his forearm before the bars get too tight. Flicking his wrist, he tosses the paper ball down to her.

  She snatches it from the air. Looks up in time to see him walk away from the entrance without further acknowledgement. On tiptoes, she can just see him trudging up the stairs. Hears him digging in the toolbox.

  She uncrumples the airplane. Unfolds the paper. Flattens it out against her leg. Reads her husband’s familiar block-printing:

  TURN THE DIAL TO MOVE AHEAD

  LEST YOU STARVE AND END UP DEAD

  TO WARD OFF FURTHER FOUL ATTACK

  MOVE ONLY ONWARD, NEVER BACK.

  She glances down at the inscription beneath her feet. No underlining on the original. Her husband’s addition. For emphasis. But why?

  Above, he returns to the grate. Positions the blades of a bolt cutter around one of the bars. Squeezes. Hard. The blades quake with the effort, but don’t seem to sink in.

  Mr. Hunter checks the result. Runs a finger over the bar. Looking for the scoring he must have caused. Finding no sign. Repositioning the bolt cutter, he tries again.

  His groan starts low. Pitches up as he tries to pinch through the bar. The blades shake mightily until the pressure becomes too much. Not for the grate, which is entirely unaffected. But for the bolt cutter itself.

  The handles snap. The cutt
ing head topples between the bars. Falls to the floor of the chamber. Leaving Mr. Hunter holding a pair of useless metal sticks.

  Mrs. Hunter sighs. Steps down to the main floor to retrieve the bolt cutter. As her weight leaves the stone stair, it moves. Rising two inches with a loud clunk.

  A second trigger. Setting a new hidden apparatus in action. But why?

  She looks down at her fist. At the crumpled paper. The translated message.

  NEVER BACK

  Stepping down? That was going back.

  Behind either wall, stone grinds against stone. Little bits of debris tumble from the mouths of the sculpted dino-fish. Behind their fat lips and tiny teeth, panels slide away. Inside each mouth is blackness, but only for a moment.

  Unblocked, a torrent of water bursts forth. Blasting out of each gaping maw. Pouring into the room from either side.

  Mrs. Hunter scrambles backwards. Up, onto the steps. Out of the water. Already ankle-high. Steadily rising.

  Above, her husband’s face presses hard against the grating. Reflecting her own horror back at her as the water quickly rises.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  “Last chance, Max. We’re going.” Allison tugs at his elbow.

  “No.” He pulls his arm away. Still holding his shirt collar over his lower face. Voice muffled. “You’re not going anywhere.”

  “Pretty sure we are.” Allison jingles her keys at him.

  Below, Dawn continues along the road to Adderpool. Unlike anyone else he’s ever seen make the journey. Walking. Taking her time. Easily reaching the zone where the least committed flag-planters turn back. As far as he had gotten on his first go. In no particular hurry. Like the air isn’t getting to her at all.

  “He’s not hearing you, Allison.”

  “He’d better. ‘Cause I’m not saying it again.”

  “Say it all you want.” He faces the girls. They’re so much angrier than makes any sense. What had Dawn done to incur such wrath? “You two play at being mean girls, but there’s no way you’d leave her out there on her own. Not after she saved you both.”

  “Oh, whatever, Max.” Allison scoffs openly. “As if we needed her help. We’ve only done it six times already.”

  “And, no offense, but if you can do it...” Mandi trails off.

  “Guys,” Max pleads. “We can’t go... She’s Aaron’s cousin.”

  Mandi plops down on the rock next to him. “Here’s the thing, Max: We don’t know her. Don’t know if she’s cool. But it’s getting late in the day and I don’t know about you, but...” She reaches into the pocket of her denim jacket. Produces a nailpolish bottle. “I’m really feeling a need.”

  Nearly empty. What little remains in the bottle sparkles at Max. Fills his awareness. After pushing goo far from his mind, his body shifts gears in response to the sight. Tensing. Readying itself for the icy burn.

  Allison kneels down. “No one’s saying we should desert her permanently. I’m not a monster. Only that we should maybe take advantage of this alone time.”

  “We just need a little privacy.” Mandi runs a finger along Max’s arm. “Brush-brush here, brush-brush there. Shouldn’t take long.”

  “Then we’ll totally come back for her. Afterwards.”

  Sounds reasonable enough. Max wouldn’t be nodding if it didn’t, would he? Wouldn’t let them take him by the hands. Pull him to standing. Lead him away from the gap in the wall.

  As they do, his shirt collar falls away from his face. Unobstructed, he inhales the air. His body rebels. Doubling him over. Anything left in his digestive system comes rushing up. Little more than stomach acid at this point. It splashes against the rocks.

  “Dude! What the fuck?” The girls release his wrists. Leap back. Barely dodging a splattering.

  “Ma-ax!” Mandi shakes her fist. Tightly clenching the nailpolish bottle. “I almost dropped--”

  “Put that shit away!” The bad air has cleared Max’s head. “We’re not going anywhere. Not until Dawn gets back.” Retreating, he climbs back to the gap in the wall. Searches the road.

  “Holy...” Blinking doesn’t change what he’s seeing. “I don’t believe it.”

  Mandi and Allison step carefully around the vomit. Join Max. Their eyes bug out when they spot Dawn. Still walking away. About to pass the farthest flags anyone ever planted along the road to Adderpool.

  ~

  Dawn keeps waiting for it to hit her. So far, she remains unaffected.

  Neither sick nor dizzy. Chilly, maybe. But she’d been feeling that long before coming over the wall.

  The nearer she’s gotten to the town, the stronger the smell has become. Still, it’s not bad, so much as... Organic. A natural scent. Nothing toxic or chemical about it. Like fish on a beach. Or peat in the woods. Off, maybe. But not dangerous.

  The town looms large. Its buildings more damaged than they’d appeared from afar. Doors off hinges. Walls split open. Black burn marks where fires had raged. And everywhere, that ragged black vine. Crawling through. Climbing over. Coiling its thin probing tendrils into every cavity.

  Something terrible had happened here. Something not explained by sickness, inbreeding, or fish-sex. A violent storm had torn through the town, wreaking destruction on all sides, and none of the stories Dawn had heard adequately justified the devastation.

  She should plant her flag. Max’s. Go back. While she still can. She feels fine, but that doesn’t mean the bad air isn’t having an impact. She’s come too far to be saved should she find herself overcome. Why go further? Because she can? She’s already shown up those horrible girls.

  So Dawn bends. Pushes Max’s flag into the ground. Based on past performance, no one will ever believe he made it so far on his own. But at least she can be assured it won’t be uprooted again any time soon.

  What a nasty thing for Mandi and Allison to do. To a friend. Knowing how sick the place makes him.

  She pulls out the marker they’d given her to personalize her own flag. Fights to remove its too-tight cap. Back home, office supply stores aren’t allowed to sell markers like this anymore. At that thickness? They’re almost exclusively used by vandals for tagging.

  A little spark flares in her mind. One she should definitely - but absolutely cannot - ignore. In one bright flash it points out how close she’s come to the nearest building. How directly its big, blank, robin’s-egg-blue siding faces the crumbling crack in the wall.

  She glances back. Sees three heads peering down. Max waves enthusiastically. The others? Clearly pissed. Knowing they’ve been beaten by the girl from away. Any potential friend-ship has sailed. Allison underlines the point with a secretly extended middle finger.

  Making up Dawn’s mind. Knowing better. But unable to help herself.

  She uncaps the marker. Goes to work.

  ~

  “She dropped her flag!” Mandi’s confused. “What is she... Is she going further?!”

  “I’m not going in after her, if she keels over. I can tell you that much right now.”

  “It’s too far anyway. None of us could make it.” Max wills Dawn to turn back. It has no effect.

  She walks the last few yards to the nearest building. Farther into Adderpool than her audience has ever even heard of anyone going. She runs a hand over the siding. Clears away accumulated dust. Grime. A big circle of it. Reaching as high up as she can stretch. Brushing it off onto her sweatshirt. Then, with the marker, she draws a huge semi-circle with a flat base. Around its upper arc, she adds seven smaller radiating lines.

  Allison screws up her face. “The fuck’s that supposed to be?”

  Max knows. “It’s a D on its side. D for Dawn, but dawn like a sunrise, see? It must be her signature.”

  Ohhhhh. They can see it now.

  “That’s stupid.” Allison declares.

  Tag finished, Dawn stands back. Admires her work. Then - pointing out of the rising sun - she draws a big speech bubble. Inside, she writes:

  M & A CAN SUCK IT!

  M gasp
s!

  A fumes.

  Max laughs. Then stops. Then laughs again.

  Seriously offended, the girls get to their feet.

  “Come on, guys. No one will ever make the connection. That could refer to anybody.” Max tries his best to pacify them. “Hey! It could even be Max and Aaron!”

  They’re not buying.

  “You know what, Max?” Allison can barely contain her rage. “All this? Hanging out. Taking you to Delia’s. Getting you free shit and everything else? That was us feeling sorry for you. Because your one-and-only loser friend was so fucking worthless, he couldn’t help but blow himself up.”

  Max’s smile fades. Even so, he’s happy. Seeing their true colors displayed openly at last. No games. No pretend. Just who they really are.

  Mandi adds her two cents: “When we saw your little video, you were just... Too sad. And not like, sorrowful sad. I’m saying: You were totally pathetic.”

  “It was pure charity, coming to cheer you up. Our public-service for the month.”

  Max nods. “Don’t think I don’t appreciate it.”

  Allison ignores him. Spins. Takes Mandi by the arm. “Anyway, we’ve done our time.”

  “Earned our reward.” Mandi shakes the nailpolish bottle at him. His stomach does a strange little flip. Desire or repulsion, he can’t quite tell. He takes this as a good sign.

  “But you be sure to have fun with your little friend from away, Max.”

  He should’ve sent them packing when they first showed up at his house. Too weak then to turn away their company. Their attention. A mistake he won’t be making again.