FROM AWAY ~ BOOK FOUR

by Mackey Jr. , Deke

  Netty frowns. Adds the items to the list. New info clarifying nothing. Whether or not they’re connected to the holes, this silent couple from away were up to something. With no other promising leads to chase, Netty intends to find out what.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Bright pink water pours down the hill. Flows across the scouts’ former encampment. Now empty. Scouts long-since packed up. Moved on. Leaving nothing but their proverbial footprints. And a charred black log in the ash of their fire-pit.

  Above, the pump works hard. The hole emptied out, now. Hose snaking away into the tunnel. Dealing with deeper issues.

  Nearby, the Jeep idles. Towline fully extended. Reaching into the hole. Running through the tunnel. Alongside the hose. Below brightly shining new tap-lights, replacing the old ones, now shorted out. Passing a discarded pair of bolt cutters with mangled high-density carbon jaws. At the far end of the tunnel, the towline hooks to the first link in a heavy-duty length of chain, which then heads down a flight of stairs.

  Sparks at the bottom. Fizzling out in a pool of pink water. Still waist-high on Mr. Hunter.

  Currently using a blow torch to burn into the thick iron bars that so recently slammed into place between him and his bride. Each bar partly-melted. None all the way through. Resisting his every effort. As the flame sputters out, he tosses the torch aside. Frustrated. Grabs hold of the chain. Hooks it into the grate. Splashes up the stairs. Out of the water. Back along the tunnel. Aiming himself at the sunlight.

  ~

  Reversing. The Jeep’s wheels spin. Dig deep furrows. Spraying black mud into the hole the vehicle so desperately fights to escape.

  Its towline twangs. Pulled taut. Biting into the earth at the lip of the hole. Cutting into the plywood holding the walls in place. Pulling against an immovable object. Deep beneath the ground.

  But Mr. Hunter is an unstoppable force. He guns the engine. Gripping the wheel tightly as the Jeep jumps and shimmies. Bouncing in his seat as it hops from its ruts onto fresh grass. Instantly digging out new trenches. Fighting for traction.

  Somewhere below, something gives. Snaps. The Jeep leaps back a foot. Digs its wheels into fresh territory.

  The man doesn’t let up. Keeps pedal pressed to floor. Ignoring the engine’s screams. The creaking metal. The smoke pouring from beneath the hood. Everything straining to its limits. Beyond. But he keeps pushing.

  Then, an echoing clang. And suddenly, nothing holds the Jeep in place anymore. It roars backwards. To the edge of the clearing before the man thinks to brake. Too late as the Jeep slams tail-first into a tree. Mr. Hunter’s skull safety-tests his headrest. Both survive. At least one of the two: Badly dented.

  He leaps down from the driver’s seat. Engages the winch. Reversing the towline onto its barrel. Terrified he will soon see it come to a prematurely frayed end. But the cable is intact. And when it’s fully spooled, fifteen feet of heavy gauge chain remain. Attached to the very end: The mangled remains of an iron grate. The barrier that kept him out of the underground chamber. Kept his wife in. All that stood between them, now torn out by the root.

  He laughs when he sees it. Jubilant. Then, drops to his knees in the muddy tire tracks. Dissolving into tears. Sobbing to himself and the woods around him until there’s nothing left.

  This done, he rises. Gets back to work.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Simp stirs. Hurting. From the collar. The watch. The doctor she knows is behind both.

  She opens her eyes. Still in the lab, but... Everything’s wrong: Harsh lights shine from the wrong directions. Nothing looks like it’s supposed to. The doctor’s on the floor. Bleeding. The claw-lady stands over him. Holding the watch. The watch that hurts.

  A voice she’s never heard before echoes from above: “One minute, forty-five seconds remaining until full purge.”

  Simp rolls over. Gets her feet under her. Not at all understanding what is going on. Thrown by all the changes since last she was awake.

  ‘I can cancel it... The countdown. Just... Give that back to me.” The doctor holds one arm across himself. Pressed into a bloody patch on his lab coat. The other reaches toward the lady. Beckoning for the watch. “Skin chemistry’s unique. Moreso than fingerprints. This only works... With mine.”

  The claw-lady debates. Actually considering handing the watch over. Extending it in his direction. Simp can’t have that. Whistles for her attention.

  “Geez! It’s about time, chick!” The claw-lady moves to her. Helps her up. “Thought he’d tagged you out for good.”

  The doctor snarls from the floor. “Traitor!” Pink spittle mists the air. “I saved you. You’ll pay... For your betrayal.”

  “One minute, thirty seconds remaining until full purge.”

  Simp tugs at the lady. Chirps. Points off. Through the plastic sheeting. Toward the exit.

  “Yeah, I want to go, believe you me. But... I fucked up. The watch is only part of it. It needs to be on his arm to work as a key.” The women look down at the man who made them what they are. “It won’t work without him.”

  He snickers. Coughs. A bloody froth bubbling in the corners of his mouth. “No escape... Without me.”

  “I don’t think we have a choice.”

  Simp whistles low. Takes the watch. Looks at the prongs. Crouching next to the doctor, she takes his hand. Lines the prongs up with the holes in the back of his wrist. Presses them into place. Hard enough to momentarily distract him from the sucking chest wound.

  “One minute, fifteen seconds remaining until full purge.”

  The doctor looks up at her. Pitiful. “Release me... I’ll stop the countdown.”

  But Simp’s not letting go. Instead, her grip tightens. She rises above him. Holding fast. Planting one large foot against his chest for leverage, she pulls for all she’s worth. Twists. Tears.

  Until the doctor’s arm comes off.

  “Holy shit!” The claw-lady steps back as Simp turns to show her what she’s done. Proud. Expecting praise. “Uh, yeah, that’s... Not sure it’ll work anymore but... Okay. Good job, Simp!”

  The doctor blinks in shock. Staring at his ragged shoulder. Watching his own blood pump out onto the floor. “My arm...” His voice bubbly. “It’s gone... I have no arm.”

  “Yeah.” The claw-lady waggles her stump at him. “Sure sucks to be you, huh?”

  Simp whistles to her. Steps through the plastic wall. No more time to waste on him. And no more him to waste time on. With a last frothy gurgle, the doctor slumps over and bleeds out.

  ~

  “One minute remaining until full purge.”

  The women charge down the corridor. Plastic curtains rippling on either side as they pass. Simp thrusting Dr. Ramsey’s arm ahead. An offering to the double-doors awaiting their arrival. Dark porthole eyes judging the value of their sacrifice. Deciding their fate.

  Finding them worthy.

  Shunk. Shunk. Deadbolts slide back. The doors swing open. Beyond them, the corridor lights up. White cement walls inviting them onward. Toward freedom.

  “Wait, wait!” Wanda stops short. “I can’t without...” She turns back. Cups hands to mouth: “Marshall!”

  “Forty-five seconds remaining until full purge.”

  “Marshall” Wanda runs to the nearest curtain. Karate-chops through with her talons. Spreads the plastic apart. Regrets it.

  Inside: An array of plexi-glass cylinders. Earlier test subjects floating in each. Far more of them than Wanda could’ve guessed. Mutated to varying degrees. None strictly human at the time of preservation. All shifted toward sea-life. Bearing scales. Tentacles. Pincers. Had they all been addicts? Like her? Like Marshall? The dregs of society with no value beyond the results of Dr. Ramsey’s experimentation?

  Behind her, Simp chitters.

  “I know! I know!” Wanda tears herself away. Moves to the next curtain. “But it’s my fault he’s here. I can’t just leave him behind, can I?” She tears open the plastic.

  Inside: An examina
tion room. Dr. Mendez’s tentacle hand partially flayed on the table.

  “Thirty seconds remaining until full purge. Commencing initial purge.”

  “Initial purge? What does--”

  A flash of light at the end of the corridor. Flame blasts down from the scaffolding above. Incinerating the first rooms on either side. The plastic sheeting melts through. Blackens. Slops to the floor. Liquified by the great heat.

  “Right... Initial purge. Huh.”

  Entirely distracted, Wanda doesn’t register Simp’s approach. Doesn’t notice the long arm snaking across her until it pulls tight. Lifts her up. Wanda struggles as Simp carries her to the double-doors. But not much. Any real hope of rescuing Marshall gone when he didn’t respond to her shouts.

  Still holding Ramsey’s arm ahead of them, Simp totes Wanda along the white hallway. Long legs carrying them quickly away from the firey mayhem even as rooms are incinerated two at a time. Flames still visible through the portholes as the doors close and lock behind them.

  “Fifteen seconds remaining until full purge.”

  As the final doors open, the earth quakes. The lights flicker.

  “Put me down, Simp. I’m okay now.”

  The two move through the doors. Up the ramp leading to the barn. Above them, the hydraulic lift. Hiding the entrance. Trapping them inside. Sensing Dr. Ramsey’s arm, the lift begins to rise. Slowly.

  “Ten seconds to full purge.”

  Too slowly.

  A series of explosions from below rock the world. The white corridor goes dark. The lift stops. “Shit!”

  “Five seconds to full purge.”

  Simp pushes Wanda aside. Squeezes into the small space at the top of the ramp. Braces her back against the lift. Pushes. Forcing it open.

  “Four”

  Wanda scoots out into the barn.

  “Three.”

  Simp just barely squirms through.

  “Two.”

  Wanda throws open the barn door as Simp lopes toward her.

  “One.”

  Dr. Ramsey’s quaint little country barn explodes.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Earbuds in. Gardner watches his little television. A fifteen-inch. The largest allowed in private rooms. Only permitted if used without volume. To maintain a peaceful atmosphere for all residents. The headphones make his ears ache. He’s forced to squint to make out the tiny faces. But at least he’s no longer suffering the company of the rest of the geriatrics out in the lounge.

  He doesn’t look up when lunch arrives. Just drags forward the rolling table that fits in place over his chair. A tray is deposited in front of him. The cover removed. Gardner surveys the uninspiring spread. “If I wasn’t goddamn gut-foundered, I’d tell ye where to stick this.”

  The kitchen worker doesn’t respond. Doesn’t leave, either. Just stands at the edge of Gardner’s peripheral vision. Irritating him. “If yer expectin’ an offer to share my pie, yer like to get old waitin’.”

  He scowls over at the visitor. Not hospital staff. Even more irksome: Wilma’s son, Trevor. Holding tightly to the tray cover. Gardner groans. Pops out one earbud. “Yeah? What’re ye looking for? Some kinda apology?”

  “No.” Trevor’s voice is quiet. His face blank. “Makes no difference if you’re sorry.”

  Gardner turns away. Frees his utensils from the napkin wrapped around them. Digs into his square of tuna casserole. “Shit’s even worse if it gets cold, so...” He takes a bite. Pretends the man isn’t still standing there. Watching him. Clearly: Not going anywhere until he gets... Whatever it is he’s waiting for.

  “Look: It gets under a man’s skin. Watchin’ these old fogeys lose their minds. I’m gettin’ up there, myself. I know it’s not long off for me, neither. It doesn’t exactly instill a person with hope, watchin’ everyone else’s marbles roll away.”

  “Not everyone else’s.”

  Gardner groans. “Yer right stunned, b’y, if ye think yer mother’s not--”

  “No. The Old Men. They’ve all still got their marbles, don’t they?”

  Gardner’s eyes widen. Just for a moment. Then, he returns to his lunch. Pulls the foil cover from a plastic cup of apple juice. “Wouldn’t know about that.” His mouth must be dry. He nearly empties the container in one go. “No business of mine. I’ve no dealings with anyone in their circle.”

  “Isn’t what I heard, Young Man.”

  Gardner spills lunch into his lap. Peas and tuna shreds. “Jayzus.”

  “Not big on the nickname, are you?”

  “No, I’m not.” He pushes away the table. Shakes out his shirt. “Not hardly.”

  “Used to be one of them. So I’m told. Until they gave you the boot. Making you the one and only former Old Man.”

  “Yeah, yeah. T’aint no secret.” He tosses down his napkin. “But maybe let’s us get down to brass tacks, huh? Have ye come to torment yer elder? Or is there somethin’ more yer wantin’ from me?”

  Trevor moves past the table. Pulls over a footstool. Plants next to Gardner’s chair. “Circle Business caused the death of my son.”

  “No shit.” Gardner’s bushy eyebrows raise. He glances out the door. Scoping the empty hallway. Speaking low: “Can’t say it’d surprise me none. But I’m a decade out of the loop, b’y. I wouldn’t know nothin’ about that.”

  “No, but you know other things. And I get the feeling you wouldn’t cry yourself to sleep to hear the West Corridor had collapsed on itself.”

  “I would not.” He laughs. Bitter. “But that’s a ceiling I share. Don’t need it cavin’ in on me, too if it goes. And if word got back we were havin’ this little confab? That might be the best either of us could expect to come of it.”

  “As far as I’m concerned... With all they’ve taken from me? Mutually-assured destruction would be worth the risk.”

  Gardner assesses Trevor. The younger man: Earnest. Raw. On the edge. “Don’t have the first clue, do ye? Sure as shit ye don’t know what yer up against.”

  “Tell me.”

  Gardner scoffs. Shakes his head. “Can’t be told. Ye’d nare believe a word of it.”

  “You’re right about that. Because I don’t so far.” Trevor crosses his arms. “But I don’t have to. Even if it’s all make-believe bullshit about fish-people and ancient evil, I’m going to expose the Circle to the light of day. No more hiding behind their secret society. When I’m done? The world will know what they’re up to. And every last one of those ancient assholes will be held accountable.”

  Gardner purses his lips. Squints at Trevor. Nods.

  He reaches for the table. Pulls it close. Reclaiming his lunch. Then lifts the tiny wedge of pie from its indentation on the lunch tray. Sets in on his napkin. Pushes it toward Trevor. “You like key-lime?”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  The pulser is failing. Its blue-white inner glow dims. Flickers as Max swims toward the pillar. Weighed down by the replacement orb. Heavy on a strap across his torso.

  The last of them, Norman had said as he hung the metal sphere across his apprentice. The only spare remaining. Despite his warnings, the Old Men had been unwilling to pay for the necessary components. Unjustifiable, they said, until they’d used up what they had. Assuming they’d never need to replace more than one at any given time.

  Eyes ahead. Max focuses on the column. Avoids glancing in the direction of Wreck Reef. Rarely had he come so close to the ring of sunken vessels. Where - to hear Islanders tell it - countless lost souls were doomed to wander the deep for eternity. In waking life, he’d never put stock in the stories, but nevertheless, those waterlogged ghosts had always haunted his dreams. The last thing he needs is to imagine sea-bound specters beckoning to him from every black niche. Better to ignore it completely.

  Reaching the obelisk, Max unstraps the replacement. Hangs it from one of the hooks on either side of the pillar. In contrast, the old pulser is in far worse shape than he’d realized. The Electrician had hoped it might be salvageable. Seeing the damag
e up close, the possibility of repair seems highly doubtful. Tarnished by years underwater, even before the attack. A large square of metal mesh torn back. Rough edges melted by acidic gel into sharp points. The glowing center bent away from its connections. Casing cracked. Wires exposed. How the thing is working at all is a mystery.

  As though responding to the thought, the inner light fades. Nearly goes out entirely before recovering. Getting its strength back. Glowing a bright white once more. Spurred to action, Max gets to work. Repeating instructions in his mind.

  Step One: Unlock the panel.

  A metal plate on the pillar’s face. A circular keyhole its only feature. An elastic band around Max’s wrist holds the key. He pulls it tight. Slides it home. Feels tumblers fall into place. Chunk: The plate swings open. Revealing controls identical to those he’d been practicing on. As promised. Before he can fret over which dial to turn first, a movement demands his attention.

  It could’ve been anything. Underwater, everything is always in motion. But from the corner of his eye, it was a flash. Erratic. Standing out sharply against the languid tendrils of seaweed waving below.

  Involuntarily, Max looks to the nearest shipwreck: A steamboat. The island’s main ferry, once upon a time. Goosebumps rise beneath his wetsuit. In every dark hollow he imagines a face. Black against black with beady black eyes gleaming. He shakes it off. Nothing there. Not really. Nothing watching him from the darkness. Just his own conjurings. Keeping him from completing the task at hand.

  Step Two: Detach current pulse generator from column.

  A series of switches hold the damaged orb in place. Max releases them in order. Lifts the sphere from its mount. Hangs it from the remaining hook. Bottom-side up. Allowing access to the muddle of tubes, wires, and hoses still connecting it to the pillar. Every one with a twin. Two complete sets. One attaching the old pulser. The other meant for its replacement. Currently? Entirely entangled.