So we finished on foot, the lot of us. No sooner did we come in sight of the place, than we started in to feelin’ sickly ourselves, from the smell in the air. Rot and ruin. Like what hangs over a beach after red tide. Enough to turn back a third of our party. Those with lesser constitutions. The rest of us kept on into town. Every last one turnin’ out their guts on the way, at least once. All but my boy. He kept himself together the whole trip, and I swear had he not, he’d’ve been sent back with the rest of ‘em.
Found the town empty. Nary a sound nor a soul to be seen. Not a gull nor a rat. A haint would’ve thought twice before hauntin’ there. We walked the streets, callin’ out without even echoes in reply. We peeked in every dark window. Knocked on every locked door. But the only living thing to be observed was the thorny black bramble climbin’ over all and sundry. Reachin’ its curlin’ fingers into every crack and crevice. Thorns three inches or more kept us back from it, and it was only later we found how lucky we were for it.
Now, it was runnin’ late in the day, and dusk swooped in fast, once given the chance. The stories we’d heard said Adderpudlians had begun to hide from the sunlight. Only comin’ out after nightfall. And though we had no reason to believe the town still held a soul beyond those we’d brought with us, we didn’t intend to turn away. Not until we were sure. So our party gathered together on Main Street to wait.
We didn’t need to wait long.
Before the sun was fully set, the first of the doors unlocked with a sound like a rifle crack. Others followed soon after. Like they’d been waitin’ on permission. Swingin’ open on all sides. Had it been meant as an ambush attack, we’d’ve been right goners. But what came out had no thought for us. Only seemed to see us at all if we got in their way, and even then they’d only note us to the degree needed to change course enough to go around us. And believe me when I tell you: Narn of us wanted to risk any physical contact with these... Specimens. If ever there was a contagious plague floatin’ ‘round, it was there in Adderpool that day.
We could see it plain. The stories... All true. They’d changed, the lot of them. All pale and sickly and wet from perspirin’. Most still had some stringy strands of hair remainin’, but they weren’t the better for it. And their skin... Hangin’ on ‘em, soft and loose. The whole town looked to me like a collection of church candles that had been lit and left to melt without bein’ supervised. Like their features had flattened out. Drifted from their proper positions. Melted wax people. And the sound of ‘em... Every too-wide mouth hung open, and you could hear their breathin’ like they was garglin’ on somethin’ thick and wet. Bubbling.
Out of the houses they came, with slow, shamblin’ shuffle-steps and they all of ‘em turned west, headin’ t’ward the docks. From the looks of it, nary a one had left town. They were all still there. Hiding away in their homes. They’d just stopped botherin’ with the rest of us.
We tried talkin’ to ‘em. Callin’ by name the ones we thought we recognize, though there weren’t many looked much like themselves anymore. If they noted us they didn’t show it. Didn’t reply. Didn’t look our way. Just kept on together. Picking up more Adderpudlians as they went. The houses drainin’ out into the streets.
After watchin’ a nonce, we went along too. Though most of us had given up on the idea of bein’ any help to these poor, damned souls, and we were all some worried about catchin’ their affliction... Curiosity held us. We weren’t leavin’ until we’d come to an understandin’ of what was goin’ on there.
So we dodged our way through the herd best we could. Tryin’ to get near the front of things for a better vantage. Stoppin’ when we reached the waterfront. Though they didn’t. Didn’t even slow. Just... Kept going. Out into the ocean. Like the job they were headed to was somewhere on the next continent. And none of us knew how to hold on to ‘em. It was all we could do to get up out of their path so as not to be borne along.
When they got out a ways - where the water was up around their chins, or just under what remained of their flattened out noses - they stopped. Stood there. Lookin’ out at the horizon. Waitin’ on some signal or instructions on how next to proceed. While others filled into the spaces around them. Until they were packed solid. Herring standin’ in a can. Only the tops of their heads poking out of the brine.
That’s when I laid eyes on her: My wife’s littlest sister. Less melted than most. Still identifiable at the back of the pack, not quite in the water yet. The latest arrivals looked to be less affected by the plague. Maybe they hadn’t been caught up by the sickness until later on. I almost pointed her out to my boy afore thinkin’ the better of it, but it didn’t matter. He’d spotted her too. And what’s more, he’d caught sight of his cousin, shufflin’ along at her side.
Before I could stop him, he ran off, my boy. Squeezin’ his way through the crowd, he came up on his cousin and grabbed hold of the boy’s arm and pulled that child back from the edge of the drink, tryin’ to save him.
To this day, I don’t even know if I went after him, or stuck to the spot or how it all happened so fast, but I couldn’t do nare a thing when my nephew took notice of my boy. Saw he was keepin’ him from the sea. And that little child opened up that wide mouth of his, and we all of us saw the rows of sharp little teeth inside before he bit down on my boy’s neck and held on until his arm was released.
He must’ve took his place among the townsfolk after, but I didn’t witness it, on account of I was tryin’ my damnedest to stop the bleeding, and then to get my son out of that accursed town.
By the time we got back to the road, the bite was turning black. My boy might’ve still been alive when we got him in the truck, but he didn’t make it as far as the doctor. We buried him in the family plot. Next to where his mother will go. The spot meant for me. The stone says: “Gardner Hendricks, Jr. - Our Brave Boy.”
It was less than a week later when we went back. That’s when we started buildin’ the wall.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
“Any questions, dere, b’y?”
The anchor chain is orange with rust. Pitted and pocked. Each link as thick around as Max’s wrists. He runs his fingers over the iron. Surprisingly smooth, despite the corrosion. Worn down by underwater currents. Only when the roll of electrical tape hits him in the forehead does Max realize he hasn’t been paying attention.
“Geez!” He recoils. Turns toward the old man. “What the hell?”
“Are ye right deef then, lad? That it?” The Electrician chews an unlit cigar stub. Shifts it from one side of his mouth to the other.
“No, I heard you!” He rubs the lump already rising over his left eyebrow. “Just never been in here before. There’s a lot to take in.”
On the main floor of Lesguettes Lighthouse - filling the space not devoted to the cafeteria and gift shop - is its main draw: The Mossley Island Maritime Museum. Nautical exhibits and display cases filled with eroded treasures reclaimed from the seabed. Telling a sanitized-for-the-public history of the island and its surrounding waters. Like most locals, Max has never before bothered to set foot inside. Now that he’s there, he can’t help but be impressed by the artifacts.
“This stuff’s kinda wicked.”
“Ye can damn-well play tourist-from-away on yer own time. I’m not here yakkin’ out of love of the sound of my own voice, y’know.” The Electrician stands behind a rope barrier. Inside a recreation of Wreck Reef. Here, a rotting sailboat rests half-buried in the sandy ocean floor. Surrounded by plastic seaweed. Green with algae. Overtaken by barnacles. The tattered remnants of its sail wired to appear to ripple in the current.
Next to the sailboat is a short pillar, topped with a metal ball. A small placard at the front of the display describes it as an underwater beacon. Explains that dozens of these orbs have been erected in a ring around the island. Broadcasting a warning. Signaling boats that they are approaching Wreck Reef. This small placard is a lie.
“I was listening, Norman. I’d only looked away a second.”
<
br /> “Then it’ll be no trial to answer me ‘reckly: Are ye clear on what’s involved in the switchover?”
“Yeah, yeah. I got it.”
The Electrician is skeptical. “And ye’ve no questions at all?”
“Nope.”
“Ye’re tellin’ me: All I told ye ‘bout pulsers... Y’understood it a hundred percent. No need to go over any part of it again?”
Max shifts. Uncomfortable. “Not a hundred percent, probably. But anything I missed? I’m sure I’ll pick it up as we go.”
“As we go?” Norman snorts. “Let’s have a go at ‘er, then.” He pats the orb. “Ye know it all, more’s the better. Come on over and show us.”
Max groans. Ducks under the rope. Joins the Electrician next to the pillar. Addresses the otherwise-empty museum. “All right, class. This big metal ball is whatcha call: A pulser. It emits a wave that’s--”
“Wrong!” The Electrician smacks the hull of the sailboat for emphasis. “Off to an auspicious start, ain’t ye, smart-ass? Pulsers don’t emit. They intensify what’s already there. Boosting the magnetic anomaly what caused Wreck Reef in the first place. But tell me: Whyfore would we want to do a thing like that?”
“Give me a break, I know what the--”
“If ye know, ye’ve no reason not to answer.”
Max sighs. Resigns himself. “It’s our electric fence. The pulse kills the enemy if they get too close.”
“It does. And without affecting us none. Pretty close to ideal, as defenses go. So long as they keep workin’. Which carries us ‘round to our raisin-detra: The switchover.” He steps aside. Gestures for Max to take his place next to the pillar. “Take us through the steps, if you will, Mr. Hubert.”
“All right, uh...” Max wracks his brain. He hadn’t been paying full attention of course, but he’d at least half-absorbed what the Electrician had been saying. He looks to the orb for clues. To the pillar. A metal plate fastened to its face. The strange spiral keyhole jogs his memory. “First, you unlock the panel, right?”
Norman nods. Holds out a key.
Max takes it. Uncertain. “You want me to actually do it?”
“Can’t very well expect ye’ll be able to deal with the real thing if you can’t demonstrate it here, can I?”
“Wait! Now I’m doing the real thing?”
Norman throws up his hands. “Did ye not grasp why ye’re here, Max? What part of this is givin’ ye trouble?”
“Can’t I just watch you do it this time? And then I’ll get the next one?”
“I know I look hale and hearty, but I’ve the cancer, b’y! It’s in my lungs!” He thumps his chest. “I’m full up with tumors, so divin’s off my dance card. It’s what the doctors call contra-indicated. As in: Doin’ it could kill me dead. Steal away those last five months I’m owed.”
Max hadn’t quite understood the requirements of his new assignment. “I thought... Sylvie said I was supposed to assist you.”
“No, b’y, she didn’t. Ye’re not to be my assistant. Ye’re my apprentice.”
“Apprentice? What’s the diff--” Suddenly, Max gets it. He’s no longer on the sidelines. Sylvie has entrusted him with a critical task. Moved him into a position of actual importance.
Norman claps him on the shoulder. “T’aint how I wanted things, neither, b’y. I had my druthers? Ye’d never be dropped into the drink without first learnin’ in the shallows. But we’ve a damaged pulser out there. And maybe she’s holdin’ on fer now, but we need to get ‘er switched out before she gives up the ghost.”
Max looks to the orb. At the key in his hand. He holds it out to the Electrician. His mentor. “Maybe you’d better show me one more time.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
The viperfish is poised to strike. Jaw stretched wide. Terrible translucent teeth almost quivering in anticipation. Ready to snap shut at any moment. At nearly three feet long, the taxidermy takes up the entire length of the center shelf.
Not what Dawn expected to find in Mother Agatha’s office.
Various mounted deep-sea fish fill the shelves. All posed mid-attack. Hanging on the wall are plates embedded with the fossilized bones of hatchetfish and bristlemouths. A ragged anglerfish skeleton is suspended on a rod beneath a glass bell. But the viperfish holds Dawn’s attention. Dares her to reach out. Run a finger along its smooth, shiny hide. Before she can:
“Dawnie...” Her father stands by the window. Shaking his head.
Disappointed, Dawn withdraws her extended index finger. Not like she’d be touching the actual thing, anyway. Not through the half-inch of shellac it’s coated in.
“Do you really need to snoop around like that?”
“It’s not snooping. It’s looking.” On the wall, a row of framed certificates catches her eye. Accolades Mother Agatha has received from various institutions: Master of Divinity. Master of Sacred Theology. Master of Comparative Religion.
“Fine.” Ren’s voice has an I-beg-of-you quality. “But look from a distance. Just, please: Don’t. Touch. Anything.”
She pointedly clasps her hands behind her back. “Happy?” She leans toward the large desk in the center of the room. Looks at a black-and-white photograph standing in a frame: A young man and woman. Stylish dress in an earlier era. Common features unmistakeable. Clearly related. With a slight start, she realizes the woman must be Mother Agatha. Far prettier as a young woman than Dawn ever would have guessed. A thousand years ago. Before she’d joined the order.
Ren grumbles: “I’ll be happy if we get out of here without breaking anything.”
“Nonsense!” Mother Agatha sweeps into the room. Door closing behind her. “There’s nothing here she can damage. Touch away, I say.”
Without looking to her father for further permission, Dawn touches. She swipes her fingertips along the smooth side of the viperfish. Scrapes a nail along the ribbing in its fin. Then - for good measure - taps the tapered point of one sharp tooth. It doesn’t break her skin.
Satisfied, she steps back. Without meeting her father’s disapproving look. “Did you catch any of these?”
The nun sighs. “All of this, I inherited from my father.” She waves at the wall of deceased sea-life. Steps behind her desk. Seats herself. “Knowing the lengths he went to in order to acquire these specimens, I couldn’t bear to part with any. But... I couldn’t stand to have them looking at me all the time either, so... The collection resides in my office.” She laughs. “Of course, I spend far more time here than in my own room. But at least I’m no longer trying to sleep with old ping-pong eyes there staring down at me.”
Dawn looks at the hatchetfish in question. Shivers at the idea of it watching her in her sleep.
“How have the Islanders been treating you, Dawn? When last we met you were concerned about coming from away.”
“Mostly pretty friendly. With a couple glaring exceptions.” Dawn glowers at the memory of Mandi and Allison. Their general nastiness. Their final betrayal: Deserting her in Adderpool.
“Hope you won’t hold a few bad apples against the tree.” Mother Agatha smiles warmly. “Speaking of which, Paula was telling us you were hoping to fill in your family tree. Have you been able to meet more of the Lesguettes Clan?”
“Some. Not under the best circum--”
“When exactly will we be able to see Paula?” Patience expired, Ren’s all business. Still assuming he faces an uncooperative foe, despite Mother Agatha’s friendly and welcoming tone.
“Dad!”
“No, Dawn, that’s all right. It’s why you’ve come. I don’t blame your father one bit for being anxious.” She turns towards Ren. “Paula’s getting checked out right now. It shouldn’t be much longer.”
“Who, exactly, is checking her out? What sort of training do they have?”
“Our sisters come from all backgrounds, with extensive training in many fields.”
“And the facilities? How can your infirmary possibly be enough to deal with the sort of injuries Paula has sustained?
”
“You might be surprised. But generally, we prefer a more holistic approach.”
Ren’s dubious bullshit meter turns his face into a mask of suspicion. “Holistic?”
“Whenever possible, the sisterhood prefers... Natural remedies, over the harsh chemically-engineered drugs recommended by modern western medicine.”
“Uh... Huh.” Ren looks to Dawn. Already, she can see him attempting to work out some sort of escape plan to extricate Paula from the dangerous cult in which she’s somehow found herself.
“That and the healing power of prayer, of course.”
“Oh, of course.” Ren does not roll his eyes. Demanding great effort on his part. “Look... Paula Fields is a friend of ours. Dawn’s godmother, actually. She’s family. And if she’s decided to join your order, we’ll have no choice but to respect that. But if she’s put herself in a position where her already shaky health is compromised--”
A knock at the door. Paula sticks her head in. “Mother Agatha? Theresa told me you wanted--” She sees Dawn. Ren. Throws the door open. Rushes in. On her own two feet. Without any casts, crutches or wheelchair. No elaborate halo contraption holding her head and neck in place. Stripped of the bandages that covered the majority of her body when last the Lesguettes saw her.
“Dawnie!” Paula slams into Dawn. Lifts her off her feet in a bone-crushing embrace. Spins her around. Dangerously close to the shelf of taxidermy.
As she’s manhandled, Dawn’s initial shock turns to joy. She laughs. Returns the hug. Grabs onto the woman, still comatose two days before. Squeezing back with every bit as much force. “Paula! You’re okay!”
“I am! I’m okay and you’re okay! And I’m here and you’re here, and Ren’s here, too!” She sets Dawn down but doesn’t let go. “Hi Ren! Did you see? We’re okay!”
FROM AWAY ~ BOOK FOUR Page 9
