The woman blinks. Otherwise, doesn’t react to the threat.
“Or those sparkling green eyes. A lifetime of sitting in one place staring off into space will be bad enough, but to do so in utter blackness? A living hell, in my opinion.” She sits back in her chair. Points. “Your ears you need to hear our questions, but really, once we’ve dispatched with your eyes, our options grow fewer and fewer, leaving us just that before getting to your lips and tongue. But honestly, if you steadfastly refuse to speak to me, then you’re removing the one and only reason I would leave either intact.”
“Man!” The captive laughs. Looks to Sylvie. “How arrogant can a person be? It’s not enough I’ve said I’ll talk to you. That I’m willing to answer your questions and all she has to do is walk her scrawny ass out of the room. This old lady’s ego is so huge, that if I won’t talk to her personally, she’s perfectly content to perform all manner of inhuman acts on me. That’s a level of pride and self-importance I’m not sure I’ve ever run into. Frankly? I don’t know how you work with her.”
The old woman stares at their prisoner. Incensed. Her expression making clear: She’s more than capable of committing every heinous act she has outlined. Finally, she stands. Straightens herself. Leaves.
“Round three!” Paralyzed. Captured. Soiled. The redhead has nothing to smile about. Even so, when Sylvie makes eye contact, the young woman’s broad grin returns. “You’ve landed a few so far, but watch out... I’ve got the reach.”
“What exactly have I landed?”
“Well, I’d be happy to show you the speargun scar from our first encounter, but, uh... Our most recent interaction seems to have rendered me unable.”
Speargun? Red flashes behind Sylvie’s eyes. Heat floods her body. The redhead is admitting to being the monster. To wearing the costume. To taking Roscoe.
“Oh, yeah... You remember.”
“I oughtta kill you right now.”
“Agreed. You absolutely should. I would. Would have already, to be honest. Though that acid stuff... No way. That’s beyond my capacity. She is one twisted screw, you know that?”
Sylvie envisions throttling the woman. Holds herself back. Any satisfaction she’d receive from watching the woman’s eyes bulge outweighed by what she knows. What she can tell them. “You said you have answers.”
“I do. But the old lady’s questions were so boring! Ugh!” She fake snores. Then wakes. Bright and cheery. “I bet you’ve got something so much more interesting to ask me, don’t you?”
Sylvie nods. Jaws grinding. “Where’s Roscoe?”
“Finally! The Sixty-Four Thousand Dollar question! I knew I could count on you. These geriatrics are a bunch of cold-ass motherfuckers. Can you believe: Not a single one of them gave the first shit what’s become of your man!”
“Yeah, I can believe it, actually. But tell me... Where is he?”
“In transit.” She licks her lips. “You’re gonna want to take this down.”
Sylvie produces her phone. Opens a note-taking app. Readies her thumbs. “Go.”
The woman closes her eyes. Rambles off a string of numbers and dots. Sylvie dutifully records every one. “What is this? A web address?”
“Your Sixty-Four Thousand Dollar answer.”
Sylvie copy-pastes the numbers into a browser. Finds herself looking at map. A red pin sticking into Mossley Island. Zooming in, the pin is sticking into Lesguettes Lighthouse.
“You’re saying he’s here?”
“Show me?” The woman’s eyes scan the screen as Sylvie holds the phone toward her. “Mm. You gotta go in closer.”
Sylvie does. As the view tightens, the pin detaches from the lighthouse. Shifts along the beach next to it. When she releases, the pin continues to wander and wobble along the shoreline.
“He’s outside. Trying to get home.” Sylvie’s already on her way out the door.
“Yeah!” The redhead shouts after her: “Go get him, girl!”
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
Schilling stretches the electrical tape. Wraps Wanda’s legs. Not leaving any slack. Not taking any chances. Securing them together before setting them back on the wheelchair’s extendible footrest.
“Quite the mess you’ve made for us today, Wanda.” Miss Philips stands in the open doorway. On the rear loading dock of the Elysian Convalescent Home.
Wanda smiles up at her. “Liked that, didja? Some of my best work.”
“Hm. That’s not setting the bar very high, I’m afraid.” She looks off across the small cement lot. At the sheriff’s car parked nearby. “I can only assume Dr. Ramsey is...”
“Oh, he’s dead, all right. Dead-dead-deadski. Least I could do, really.”
Miss Philips nods. To Wanda’s surprise, the old woman may be on the verge of tears.
With one final rip, Schilling’s tape runs down to cardboard. It had gone a long way: Encircling both legs. Affixing Wanda’s upper arms to her sides. Her one forearm to her thigh. He tosses the empty roll aside. “Can’t shee her wriggling out of that.”
“But why would I even want to?”
Sneering, Schilling steps behind the chair. Grips both handles. Ready to go. “Where to?”
Miss Philips waves him off. “Thank you, Schilling. But I’ll be taking it from here.”
“I don’t mind helping, Mish Philipsh. I’d be more than happy to--”
“Fighting? Over lil’ ol’ me?” Wanda bats her eyelashes. “Golly!”
Ignoring her, Miss Philips elbows past Schilling. Forcing him back as she takes control. But Schilling doesn’t leave. Follows behind as Miss Philips pushes the wheelchair inside. She turns on him. “How kindly do you imagine we treat those who enter our Home without permission?”
Hurt and confused, Schilling waves his hands. “I jusht thought I could--”
“Cripes, Shitling!” Wanda cranes her neck around. “Take a fucking hint, why don’tcha?”
Miss Philips advances on him. “You are no longer required here, Schilling. If I must, I will happily demonstrate just how unnecessary you’ve become.”
Scowling at Wanda, the sheriff backs away. Retreats to his car.
Miss Philips waits for him to drive off before closing the loading door. Returning to the wheelchair. Rolling Wanda deeper into the Home. “Shitling, huh? I must admit I like that. Shitling.”
“I know, right? It works on so many levels.”
~
There are lots of places to hide on the catwalk.
Trevor, for instance, crouches behind an aluminum table.
Gardner, on the other hand, kneels behind a stack of crates.
Both spots hastily chosen. At the sound of a creaky door opening, where the far end of the catwalk meets the wall. Now providing minimal protection from approaching eyes: Those of Miss Philips and her wheelchair-bound captive: Trevor’s sister-in-law, Wanda.
~
“Honestly? It’s never occurred to me.”
“Years addicted to the stuff, and you’ve never once wondered where your goo originates?” Miss Philips rolls the chair dangerously close to the open edge of the catwalk. Where the chain-link ends. She unlatches part of the railing. Slides it back. Leaving the opening entirely unprotected.
“Nope.” Wanda takes in the place without comment. “I’m more the never-ask-how-the-sausage-is-made type of chick.”
“See? That’s what I most dislike about your generation: The complete lack of curiosity.”
“My generation? Really earning that Old Man title today. Aren’tcha, Phil?”
Miss Philips crosses to the center of the catwalk. Faces the massive machine suspended from the ceiling. She flips some switches. It whirrs. Lights flash. Motors power up. “You have no sense of wonder. No appreciation for what goes on behind the scenes to provide the things you need. All that concerns you is that it’s there when you reach for it.”
She works a set of levers. Overhead, a mechanical arm animates. Unfurls from the ceiling. A thick cable withdraws onto a large spool. Taking
up slack. Finally, rousing a crash-test dummy from its resting place. Lifting it into the air on a harness. “But there’s effort involved. People. Pain. Things you can’t appreciate unless you stop thinking of yourself as the ultimate end-point and reason for all things.”
“Yikes. Who’s this?” The dummy is severely damaged. Massive trauma has crushed its head. Warped its neutral features into a howling mask of agony.
Miss Philips presses buttons. Turns dials. Shifts levers. Responding, the machine swings the lifeless thing toward Wanda and the gap in the railing. “Please allow me to introduce... Ike.”
Ike lurches to a swinging stop. Silent-screaming over Wanda. She shrinks back in the wheelchair as much as the electrical tape will allow. “To be honest: I’ve never really been big on puppets.”
Up-close, Ike’s spongy surface is pockmarked. Stained. Covered in deep gouges. His one remaining leg is missing its foot. Ike is not the man he once was.
“This is Ike Seven, actually. Moving perilously close to Gardner’s hiding spot, Miss Philips pulls on rubber gloves. Opens a crate. Removes two packages of fish-waste. Drops them onto a table. “Like his brethren before him - and the Hermans and Georges before them - Ike’s basically the undervalued migrant worker who harvests the lemons for your lemonade.”
“Uh-huh. Well, this has all been very--” Wanda notices the vacuum-packed bag in her captor’s hand. A fish head peers out at her from the grue inside. “What the fuck is that?”
“Fish-waste.” Miss Philips tears open the bag. Dumps it all over Ike. Rubs it into him without a second thought. Tucks the bits and pieces into his rips and tears. “They love it. Simply cannot say no. For fifty years they’ve never turned one down.”
“Yeah, no. I can see why.” Wanda grimaces at the smell. “And I might’ve zoned out there for a minute and missed something, because frankly you’ve just be droning on and on, but... Who is this they?”
Miss Philips smiles. “They’re who you’ll be meeting next.” She returns to the machine’s control panel. Dumping empty bag and rubber gloves into a trashcan on the way. Taking hold of the levers, she guides the mechanical arm. Out through the gap in the railing. Dangling Ike over the tank. Dripping blood and viscera into the water below.
“They know Ike’s still too high. Beyond their grasp. They won’t bother trying until they have a chance at reaching him.” She sets the cable unspooling. Lowering Ike.
“I guess they’re real smart, aren’t they? Whoever they are.” Wanda watches the mannequin descend until his battered skull is level with the catwalk itself.
Which is when two fish-creatures leap from the tank. Slam into Ike from either side. One latches dagger teeth onto his torso. The other sinks into his thigh. Both thrash and roll. Trying to dislodge hunks. To tear Ike apart. Despite all his previous damage, the dummy stays strong.
Seeing this, Wanda’s brain pops. Her entire world turns over. These are them. The creatures. The threat her father has always claimed to be protecting the island against. Unverifiable existence proven. Dangling from an oversized marionette.
Miss Philips leans in. Close to Wanda’s ear. Whispers: “That’s right... They’re real.”
Holding onto Ike with dagger teeth and powerful jaws. Tiny black eyes filled with rage. Raking him to the bone with all-too familiar looking black talons. Shredding the spongey skin from his hips.
Miss Philips presses a red button. A sharp electric zap rings out. Disengages the monsters. With convulsive spasms, they release. Drop back into the tank as Ike is raised out of range of their leaps.
“You... Cocksuckers!” Wanda boils red with rage. “These things have been here all along, and you’ve never... Do you have any idea how much of a difference this would’ve made? Just seeing this?”
“Of course we know. Don’t be stupid.” Miss Philips guides Ike back to the catwalk. Returns him to his table.
“Because most of us? We didn’t take it seriously. How much safer would the island have been if we’d believed in what we were doing? If the Circle had just shared--”
“Oh, the Circle doesn’t know. Are you kidding? Your father would never have allowed us to keep any alive. No. Aim your outrage squarely at the Old Men.” She crosses to Ike. Inspects the damage.
Wanda is incredulous. “But... Why?”
Grabbing a cordless tool, Miss Philips goes to work on Ike’s chest. “It’s not enough to fight back the enemy. There’s no victory in turning them away, if they remain free to return at any time. We needed to study them. Understand how they operate. Find their weaknesses. To ensure that - when the time came - we’d be equipped to deal with them in a more permanent fashion. At least... That was the original intention.” She steps back from Ike’s open torso. Removing what looks like a large mason jar. “But then, far more importantly... We discovered this.”
She displays the glass container to Wanda. Iridescent rainbows sparkle from the blackness of the substance sloshing around inside. “Ichthyoplasm. It’s their venom. Meant to anesthetize their prey. It discharges when they bite down. This is how we milk it from them. This is where your goo comes from.”
“You’re the suppliers.” Wanda is overwhelmed. “Are you seriously... This is about money?”
Miss Philips laughs. “The money doesn’t hurt, but no. We’re not just suppliers...” Holding up the jar, she stares into the black liquid with barely masked hunger.
Wanda knows that look. “You’re users.”
“There you go!” Miss Philips sets the jar down next to Ike’s head. “How else could we keep our skin so supple and coats so shiny for so very long?”
“But you don’t act like--”
“At first we did. In the beginning, we weren’t any different from you or any other addict. Except we had access to all the ichthyoplasm we could possibly desire.” She detaches the cable from the dummy’s harness. Pulls it clear of the table. “Now, of course, we’ve discovered different delivery methods. All the benefits without the nasty side effects.”
“Well, thanks for sharing all your secrets in such a timely manner.” Wanda’s scowl could strip paint. “No way this information could’ve benefitted anyone otherwise doomed to die skinless.”
“Well, it’s an unusual situation, isn’t it? A special occasion. What better time to share?”
“Your centenary already? My, how the years have flown.”
“No. I’m celebrating the removal of a particularly irritating sliver.” She steps behind Wanda’s wheelchair. “One I’ve wanted to tweeze away for ages, but been forced to endure so as not to endanger our long-standing relationship with the rough-hewn two-by-four from which she originated. A sliver whose recent actions - the cataclysmic destruction she has wrought on Dr. Ramsey and the crucial work he’s been doing - have finally changed company policy on sliver-expulsion.”
“Ohhhhh... I think I catch your drift...” Wanda wink-winks over her shoulder at the old woman. Then, stage-whispers: “Ike, buddy... I think you might be in trouble, here.”
Miss Philips dumps fish guts and blood over Wanda’s head. Soaks her. Grabbing the cable, she wraps it around Wanda’s chest. Weaves it through the electrical tape encircling the younger woman.
Wanda writhes in the chair. Shaking her head. Spitting fish bits. Too close to the edge of the catwalk for such wild movements. Blinded by blood. Desperate.
Back at the controls, Miss Philips reels the cable in. Lifts the still-wriggling Wanda from the chair. Swings her out over the water. Blood dripping. Exciting the creatures circling below.
“Goodbye, Wanda.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
“So just what mischief have ya gotten up to, ducky?” Martin leans against an attic rafter. Watches his granddaughter burrow through mountains of material. Ephemera collected over the years by his late wife.
For all that she stowed away, Merryweather spent little effort organizing her collections. While many decades-worth of the local newspaper are undoubtedly housed here, they’re scattered without
logic across the attic. Tied into bundles of months or years. Interspersed amongst the rest of the detritus.
“Mischief? What do you mean?” Between a pair of hatboxes, Dawn finds another bundle of The Mossley Dispatch: Faithful weekly chronicle of island goings-on. Established 1865. A thin broadsheet, often amounting to little more than obituaries and classified ads.
“Ya said ya thought that in his leavin’ yer Da might’ve been tryin’ to impart some lesson to ya. I’m inquirin’ as to how ya might’ve gone about earning that lesson?”
“Oh. Right.” Dawn pauses. Head down. Debating how much to share with her grandfather about her adventures. Opting for honesty. “Yesterday? I went to visit Adderpool.”
Martin stiffens. Recovers. Plays it cool. “Plant yer flag, didja? He can’t well hold that against ya. Yer Da pulled that one his ownself. Both yer aunts, too. Rite of passage, ya might say. None too smart, on account of the bad air hangin’ about. But nothin’ most Islander kids haven’t tried. And now that ya done it, ya can be done with it.” He watches her closely. “Just the once... Probably enough, yeah?”
His unease doesn’t escape Dawn’s notice. “Maybe. I don’t know.” She riffles through the newspapers. Pulling against the rough twine binding them together. Checking dates. One stray from 1948. The rest from 1977. Digging out a particular edition from a particular date is proving to be a crapshoot. “I’m pretty sure I could get my flag a lot further in, if I gave it another go.”
FROM AWAY ~ BOOK FOUR Page 20
