“What are you--”
“I find it, I’ll let ye know.” Curt. Reversing direction. Checking the bottom row back toward the entrance.
Trevor throws up his hands. “You do that.” He peers into a dumpster-sized laundry bin. Half-filled with used white towels and robes. Shockingly dirty. Covered in sooty black patches. Trevor reaches for one. Wanting a closer look. Catching a sour whiff... He thinks better of it.
Next to the bin, a marble countertop. Stacked with their clean complement: Neatly folded white towels and robes. Freshly laundered.
Finishing the row, Gardner slams the last locker. Frustrated.
“So... It’s a steam room?”
“Nearabouts.” Gardner hobbles past. He rounds the end of the counter. Peers into the next room. “Damn!” His cane thumps the granite-tiled floor. “There’s someone in here.”
“What?” Trevor backs up a step. Reaches for the door handle.
Bing!
Coming from the hallway: The elevator’s accordion door clatters open. Footsteps approach.
Rock? Meet hard place.
~
Before the Old Man enters, they’re out of sight. Concealed behind the laundry bin. Peering out through a crack. Trevor watches the door open. Waits for the voice, telling them authorities are on the way. That the consequences for trespassing in the West Corridor are steep.
But the man who enters is not looking for them. Extremely thin. Nearly bald with a wispy white moustache. Enveloped in a heavy fleece bathrobe that only makes his stick-limbs seem more fleshless. Cinched tightly around his pencil-neck by trembling hands. Held tightly against a chill Trevor can’t sympathize with in the sticky room.
Barefoot, the man pads past. Into the main space. After a moment, Gardner breaks cover. Moves to the edge of the counter to watch. Beckons until Trevor joins him. Peers inside.
Along one wall stand six cedar cabinets: Individual saunas. Each with a small tinted window in the door. A light on the roof. Only the first currently lit. Occupied. Presumably: The someone in here to which Gardner referred. Opposite each sauna along the other wall are shower stalls. Frosted glass doors. Ending a foot above the marble basin.
The Old Man shuffles over to the first sauna. Raises knuckles to knock. Reconsiders. Leans against the next cabinet instead. Shivering.
How this is possible, is beyond Trevor. Nearly overcome by oppressive atmosphere: Hot, heavy, and wet. He glances at Gardner. Unaffected by heat or humidity. Senior citizen temperature sensors failing, no doubt. Telling him anything a few degrees below equatorial is arctic.
A sharp buzz from the sauna convinces the Old Man to stand up straight. He makes fists. Fighting the tremors. Forcing his quaking hands to still. By the time the light over the cabinet goes dark, he’s the picture of composure. Ready when the door swings open.
“Ms. Spinx.”
“Mr. Grist! I thought I had the place to myself today.” An elderly woman steps out of the sauna in a poof of steam. Nude. But covered. From head to toe, she is charred. Every inch of flesh burnt black. As she moves, little flakes crumble away. Revealing a neon pink beneath.
Trevor covers his mouth. Not at all sure what he’s witnessing.
Gardner glances over at him. Nods once. Turns back to the saunas.
“T-Taking the day, are you? I hope you’re well.” Mr. Grist crosses his arms to keep them still.
Ms. Spinx doesn’t notice. “Quite well. Just recharging the batteries.”
“Mm. I must admit to feeling something less than optimal recently.”
“Really?” She opens a small panel on the side of the sauna. Unscrews a silver canister of some kind. “That shouldn’t be.”
Once in view, Mr. Grist cannot pry his eyes away from the container. “Well, no. It shouldn’t. But I seem to have run through my allotment prematurely this month.”
“Mr. Grist.” Ms. Spinx reprimands the man. “With so much less being produced, this is no time to be wasteful.” Leaving black footprints, she crosses to the first shower. Starts the water.
“You’re right, of course.” Mr. Grist is properly reproached. “But I’ve become accustomed.”
“As have we all, sir. Concessions must be made.” She looks at him a long moment. Sees the quaking he’d attempted to disguise. Realizes what he’s angling for. She joggles her canister. Consults a gauge on its side. “Look... This tin’s all but empty, but if you’re in need... You may find solace in what little remains.”
“Truly? That’s so... So considerate of you, Ms. Spinx. Overjoyed, he’s already taking the canister from her hands. Screwing it back into the sauna’s open panel. Fingers fumbling.
“Of course. We must look out for one another. After all, we’re all we have.” She watches him climb into the cabinet. Shakes her charcoal head as the light blinks on above it.
With steam billowing from beneath the glass door, the old woman steps into the shower. Pounded by the water, black flakes and fragments drop from her body. Becoming an ashy muck on the tile floor. Through the frosted glass, pieces of her dark silhouette lighten to pink as the charred exterior washes away.
Coast briefly clear, Gardner heads for the door. Trevor watches the black crud swirl around the drain beneath Ms. Spinx before tearing himself away.
Then gets, while the getting is good.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
The creatures are not black. They are not bulky. They are not shark-like.
They are palest milky white. Translucent in places. Long and lithe. Moving almost bonelessly. Their arms and bifurcated tails whiplike. Short spiky fins run the length of their spines. Down the outer lines of their limbs. Sharp. Dangerous.
Six have emerged so far. Moving slowly. In graceful arcs. No longer held back by the pulse, but unwilling to blunder directly into a trap. Testing the waters. Gradually expanding their territory toward the island.
Max is frozen. Halfway between terror and awe. Entranced by the creatures’ elegant spirals. Unaware of anything else until stubby fingers dig into the meat of his shoulder: The Electrician. Behind the mask, Norman’s eyes strongly advise his apprentice to return to the task at hand. Snapping Max back to reality: The island is unprotected. It’s his responsibility. His job, left unfinished. Leaving Norman on guard duty, Max swims back to the column.
There: The control panel. The switch that will divert power from the original - now dead - pulse generator into its replacement. He flips it.
No bells. No whistles. No flashing lights to announce that the new orb is receiving the power it requires. Was there something else? A final dial he’s forgotten to turn? Max’s hands spread above the panel. Ready to start button-mashing if it seems like nothing’s happening. Then: The faintest glow. Throbbing in the heart of the new pulser as it charges. Victory!
Resisting the urge to check on the creatures’ progress, he yanks the wires from the dead orb, one-by-one. A far faster process than connecting them had been. He’d intended to count down from twenty. Starting the moment he threw the switch. Forgotten entirely in his panic. No idea now how much time he had before the pulser would do its thing. Dealing with a can of worms: The mass of wires refusing to fit back into the top of the pillar. Despite there being more than enough room a few minutes earlier.
Below: A white blur glides past. Barely skirting the edge of his vision. Altogether too close for comfort. Max tenses. Doesn’t look. Concentrates on forcing the remaining wires back where they belong. Lifting the fresh orb into place. Turning it until he feels the click. Closing the panel. Locking it. Job complete.
Finally turning from the column, Max finds himself far worse off than he’d imagined. Back-to-back with the Electrician. Floating in the eye of a hurricane. Surrounded. At least ten of the monsters rocketing past. Circling the pillar in tightening spirals.
Close enough now to count the thin pointed teeth jutting up from their protruding lower jaws. To feel the bald hatred in their tiny black eyes. They’re readying to strike. Swiping at the pair as they swo
op past. Toying with them.
Norman constantly tracks the closest with the speargun. Could that be holding them at bay? Do they understand the contraption? The damage it can do?
Before the stand off can be decided, the never-ending twenty seconds finally elapses. Max feels the first pulse pound into his spine. Pushing roughly through him in ripples of displacement.
When it hits the creatures, they simply come apart. Instantly splitting into gelatinous chunks. Those furthest from the pulser have a split-second to turn away before they too are caught. Broken into pieces. Blobs of flesh and bone which lose all solidity when hit by subsequent pulses. Dispersing into a milky soup.
Before twenty more seconds have passed, the Electrician and his apprentice are once again alone in the ocean. No longer about to die, Max is elated. High on adrenaline. He did it. Saved the island from the brink of invasion. He grabs the Electrician in triumph. But Norman is not celebrating.
Instead, he clutches at his chest. Eyes bulging behind the scuba mask. Wracked with coughs, he loses hold of the regulator. It pops from his mouth into the water. Along with an unsettling amount of blood.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
“René Lesguettes... Based on the eyewitness testimony of your own father, Martin - present when your daughter Dawn spoke of Circle business she learned of from your own lips - you have been found guilty of the crime of breaking the Circle... Do you have anything potentially exculpatory to say in your own defense which might lead us to reconsider our sentence?”
Mrs. Rutherford holds court in the lighthouse cafeteria. Picnic tables pushed out of the way. Up against the walls. The space filled with Old Men. On the periphery, Martin and Sylvie have been allowed to remain. Witnesses. In the center of the room, Ren stands alone. No longer bound. Accused and already convicted.
“No.”
“No?” Expecting trouble, Mrs. Rutherford is surprised. “No comments, questions... Arguments?”
“No.”
“Most unlike you, René.”
“No, Mrs. Rutherford. It isn’t.” Straight-backed and strong. Ren is unbowed. “I’m clearly guilty. I broke the Circle. So, while I don’t think much of the island, and have next to zero respect for its traditions and superstitions, and hold its ridiculous governing body in utter contempt... None of that matters. Because the truth is: I swore an oath in good conscience, and however I feel about the subject matter now, I broke my vows. So I freely accept the consequences.”
The Old Men murmur. Duly impressed. Ignoring the slight, if they registered it at all.
“Good lad, good lad,” says Mrs. Brass.
“A stand-up fellow,” says Mr. Pincolm.
“Decorous deportment,” says Dr. Bauer.
Even Mrs. Rutherford appreciates Ren’s stance. “A fine attitude and admirable position, René. Nevertheless... Having found you guilty - and as you have presented us with no mitigating evidence to suggest reconsideration of our verdict - it is our decision that you, René Lesguettes, be subjected forthwith to... The Bell.”
“The Bell,” concur the Old Men. “The Bell.”
Mr. Rothstein places a thick-fingered hand on Ren’s shoulder. Leads him toward the door. Facing the reality of the situation, Ren shouts over his shoulder: “Mrs. Rutherford, please!”
The room quiets.
Mrs. Rutherford smirks. This is more in keeping with the troublemaking she would expect from Ren. “I’m afraid your opportunity for dissent has passed, René.”
“I don’t want to-- I just... Before my sentence is carried out, may I have your permission to record a message to my daughter?”
She frowns. Turns to the nearest Old Men. They lean in. Briefly discuss the merits of his request in whispers and muttering. Then, breaking from her advisors, Mrs. Rutherford renders her decision: “Unfortunately, as your transgression involved the communication of illicit information to your daughter, we feel it would be counterproductive to allow you to communicate with her, now.”
“She’s a seventeen year-old from away. What’s she supposed to do when her father suddenly disappears?”
“Why... I expect she’ll turn to her family, of course.” Mrs. Rutherford indicates Ren’s father and sister. Filling him with neither hope nor confidence as Mr. Rothstein maneuvers him roughly toward the exit.
Martin limps through the crowd of white-hairs. Following alongside his son’s Spanish walk. “Don’t worry, b’y. Dawn’s my own and only granddaughter. We’ll take her in. She’ll be well looked-after.”
“No!” Ren is adamant. “You contact her mother. Get her off this godforsaken rock. Before it’s too late.” Then, he’s gone. Out the door. Off to face his sentence. Martin can only watch him go. Barely noticing as Sylvie joins him. Takes his hand.
“God-a-mercy on ya, b’y. And pray we soon meet again.”
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
“Dad?” Dawn enters the cabin. Sweating. Red-faced, despite her sunhat’s valiant efforts. Protected from above, but not from refraction. Bare arms and legs badly burnt. Attacked from all angles the whole sunny walk home. “Hello?”
The car’s outside. Her dad must have returned. After deserting her at the nunnery. In the armpit of nowhere. Must have. But the cabin is empty. “What the hell?”
For the millionth time, Dawn checks her phone. Nothing. No voicemail. No texts. No messages at all from either absentee parent. No response to her own messages. She’s been utterly cut off and set adrift. If there’s some lesson they’re trying to impart, it’s beyond her grasp.
Frowning hurts her cheeks. Her forehead. Skin tight and achy. More badly burnt than she realizes. Frisbee-throwing her hat onto the kitchenette’s narrow counter, Dawn heads for the bathroom to assess the damage.
~
Lobster red in the mirror. Skin peeling. Her reflection a mud-cracked desert floor. Managing to look even more sore and crispy than she feels. Which is saying something. Dawn brushes flakes from her temples. The scarlet hue reaching into her blonde hairline. Making each strand stand out like neon yellow.
One flake persistent. Won’t brush away. She pinches at it. Pulls. Slowly removes a thin sheet of skin. Nearly the full width of her forehead.
Ew-ew-ew!
She drops it onto the counter. Then pushes it off. Into the waste basket.
The flesh beneath is raw: Even paler than her usual fair complexion. Off-white. Barely hinting at peach. The peeling edge stands up along her brow. Too tempting to resist. Hurting as Dawn plucks at the corners of each eye. Pulls a crackly layer of dermis from both cheeks. Eyelids. Feeling good, too: An itch scratched as she tugs the dead skin free from the bridge of her nose. Licking fresh lips as the chapped ones peel away. Molting all the way to her jawline before the thin dry flesh tears. Leaving her holding a reversed half-mask of herself.
She holds it up for examination. Then drops it into the trash. With the rest of her face.
~
Slathered in sunscreen. Sunhat firmly in place. Dawn emerges from the cabin. Sits on the porch steps. No sign of her formerly crimson complexion. Barely any color to her at all. Sunburn peeled or scrubbed away. Beneath the chaff, she is porcelain.
Across the grounds: The other cabins are empty. Like her own. Between them, the grass freshly mown. Uniform. The world scented with the clippings. By the pond, the Talbot Inn stands tall. Dawn’s eyes are drawn to a third floor window. Where a curtain has escaped. Sporadically stirred to flap against the siding in the breeze.
“Guys?” Dawn talks to the air. “Now’d be a good time for a surprise visit, if you’re into it. I wouldn’t mind having one of our little chats.” Dawn closes her eyes. Waits. Listening.
No response. No movement. No sign she’s anything but alone. “I’ve got so many questions, and I’m not sure anyone else can answer them.” She examines her hands. Finds a blot of unabsorbed sunscreen. Rubs it in. “Not that there’s anybody else to ask. Even if I wanted to. My Mom and Dad... Radio-silent for some reason. Don’t get me wrong: I’m usually pretty go
od on my own, but...”
She groans. “You’re not even there, are you? Kind of unfair, y’know? You said you’d always be around. Well, this would be a good time to prove it.” She glances back at the porch. The Adirondack chairs on either side of the front door remain empty. No motionless senior citizens have suddenly materialized to present her with enigmatic advice. Despite the ridiculousness of her hope, Dawn’s disappointed to find it unfulfilled. “Right. Of course not.”
She stands. Sighs. Brushes off her bum.
The breeze picks up. Blows cool grass clippings across her sandals. Tickling her feet. The flapping curtain draws her attention back to the Talbot Inn. The dark third floor window.
Dawn freezes. Squints. Not sure what she’s seeing. Behind the drapery. Revealed in flashes: An elderly couple in dark sunglasses. The Waxes.
Instantly, Dawn is off the porch. Headed for the Inn. Afraid to look away from the window. Doing her best not to blink. Certain they can’t escape as long as she’s watching. Eyes already burning from the effort. Angle changing as she approaches. Windowsill rising to cut them off as she gets near.
While she can still see the tops of their heads, Dawn stops. Shouts: “What should I... Should I come up, then?” They don’t respond. Naturally. But a gentle gust of wind curls the curtain. Beckons.
Close enough. Dawn continues on. Into the Talbot Inn.
~
Halfway to the second floor, Graham appears. Blocking Dawn’s path. “And how may I be of service today, Miss Lesguettes?”
“Oh, uh... You can just...” Dawn stumbles. “I’m okay, thanks.” Unable to progress until he moves aside. Either direction acceptable. Instead, he just smiles. Content to stand there. In silence. For as long as Dawn can bear it. Which - as it turns out - isn’t very long. “I’m just, uh... Paying a visit. So...”
FROM AWAY ~ BOOK FOUR Page 16
