“Grampy?” Confused, Dawn reaches for him. “I don’t get it, what--”
Unaccustomed to moving in reverse, his bad leg gives out beneath him. He reaches back for support. Finds only Dawn’s discarded newspaper stack. Unable to bear his weight. Toppling over. Dates scattering across the attic.
“Grampy!” Dawn rushes to his side. Catches him under one arm. Props him up. Lighter than she would’ve guessed. But everything is, lately.
“Leave me be!” He doesn’t want her assistance. Pushes her away. Manages a step and a half on his own before collapsing. Spilling a crate of loose slides. Falling to the attic floor. Something cracking as he lands.
Helpless, Dawn cries. “I don’t understand! What did I do?” She kneels at his side. Desperate to help.
Martin wards her off. One shaking hand held out. Clutching at his chest with the other. Grimacing. Barely seeing his granddaughter through the pain. A bright silver flash as she leans over him. Something swinging free beneath her neck on a silver chain. Gleaming in the dim attic light. A lifetime since last he saw it. Instantly recognizable.
Worn fifty years earlier by a girl he’d done his best to forget. Whose face he’d seen so briefly. Whose memory, the charm brings flooding back to him. A girl - he can’t believe he hadn’t realized it sooner - who looked almost exactly like Dawn.
The last thing in Martin’s mind before his heart stops.
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
“Doctors said months, maybe. Not years. So I got my affairs in order. Squared it all away. Now the wife won’t need to deal with anythin’ when the time comes. What’s left is findin’ someone to take over as Electrician when I’m gone.” Norman hunches over the damaged pulse generator. Half-melted mesh cage split open along a central seam. Inner workings exposed. “Not much time left now to pass ‘long what I know. ‘Fore I get too far down the road to be much good to anybody. If I don’t, ye’ll all be right screwed, first time somethin’ breaks down.” He sets a soldering iron in its cradle. Looks up from his work. “But if somethin’ more interestin’s goin’ on out there, Max, by all means: Don’t ye worry ‘bout payin’ heed to anythin’ I’m trying to show ye here.”
“Sorry.” Max tears himself away from the window. From all the activity going on outside. The large group of Old Men and fellow members of the Watch. All gathered on the beach a short distance away.
“Stow yer sorries, and stop lookin’ off after every distraction.”
“Right. Of course. Sorry.” He turns his back to the window. Avoiding temptation.
“Worse than the cat who spotted the yarn...” Norman shifts his stool to one side. Allowing Max a better view of the semi-dissected machinery. “We’ll still need to replace the shell - I’ve got a few spares back at the shop - but the guts’re all patched. Just need to hook ‘er up and run a few tests to be sure.” He gestures to one of the large boxes he’d had Max carry down from his van earlier in the day. “Lug that over, won’t ye?”
Heavier than it looks, Max hauls the crate onto the work table. Norman opens it. Lifts out a car battery. Jumper cables. A metal box replicating all the wires and hookups of the underwater columns. This he slides in front of Max.
“Ye’re the old pro now, b’y. Get on with hookin’ ‘er up.”
Max groans: “Seriously?”
The Electrician doesn’t answer. Looks at him.
“All right, but this is getting to be some wax-on, wax-off shit right here.” Max starts in. Again. Plugging wires into their appropriate ports on the pulser. Faster now. Practiced. “I mean: If this is pretty much all you’ve got to pass along? I think we’re good. I’ve got it handled.”
The old man grunts. Max glances up. Sees Norman’s attention focused out the window. “Nice. Who’s distracted now?”
“As ye’re no longer hookin’ up the pulser, that’d still be you.”
“Pfft. That’s a dirty trick.” Max returns to the task at hand. “Anything going on out there?”
“Well... ‘Less I miss my guess... Looks like we found our Roscoe.”
~
Burl crutches along the beach. Aiming at the crowd: At least twenty fellow members of the Watch. A handful of Old Men. Surprisingly subdued. Quiet. One white-haired woman stands apart. On her phone.
“No idea, but he’s not looking good... No. We’re not going to risk moving him. We need Dr. Marquand down here, post-haste.”
Burl passes her. Pushes on. Into the pack. They spread out around the big man. Clearing a path for Roscoe’s best friend. All the way to the center of the throng. Revealing his two oldest friends. Down on the sand. One in the arms of the other.
Roscoe’s condition stops him.
Pale. Sweat-soaked. Quaking arms held over his torso. Tightly knotted fists clutching his only covering: A torn and dirty brown robe. Roscoe twitches. Looks up. Into Burl’s eyes. Half-moans, half-whispers: “Look who... Who decided to come out.”
“Yeah.” Burl plants his crutch in the sand. Leans hard. Lowering himself to one knee. “Taping the game anyway. So I figured: Why not? May as well.”
Roscoe winces. It might’ve been a laugh.
Burl looks to Sylvie. Her brow deeply furrowed. Lips pursed into a quivering S-curve. Staring at Roscoe as if it’s the only thing keeping him alive.
“Had us all in a right terror, m’son.” Burl puts on a smile he doesn’t feel. “Whole of the Watch out looking for you. Any idea where--”
“Naw, you missed that bit, you tardy arse. Sylvie’s already asked all the questions.” Roscoe attempts to smile back. Almost achieves it. “And the short answer is: I don’t remember. Long version? I don’t fucking remember a goddamn thing.” He wince-laughs. More trouble than it’s worth. “Last I recall, I was diving under Patrol Two. Going after that thing that rammed into the drop wall. Next I know? I’m out here. Beating a pat down the beach. Just... Headed home, best I can tell.” He shivers hard. Grips his robes close. “Now? Pretty sure I’m dying.”
Burl leans over. Braces Roscoe’s shoulders. “You’re a shit-picky sight, all right. But you don’t have the first fucking clue what you’re talking about. We got the doc on her way, right? Let her take a look and tell you what’s what. If you’re dying, then? I’m on board. But I’ll take her word over an ignorant skeet like you, any weekday and twice on Sunday, however much you gripe.”
“But y’don’t know the half... Haven’t been lain this low since Sylvie’s bachelor party.”
Despite the situation, Sylvie smiles. Corrects him: “Bachelorette.”
Roscoe makes a face. “Still... Still not calling it that.” All three snicker at the old in-joke. Roscoe turns his head to the ocean. Looks out over the water. “Bad as I ever felt... Taking on those mainlander douchebags after our three-day drunk. Outside that twenty-four hour all-you-can-eat. From away motherfuckers broke three of my ribs.”
“What?” This is the part of the story Sylvie’s never heard.
“Yeah. Never told you that, did we? Didn’t know myself ‘till morning after.”
She looks to Burl. He confirms: “Made me promise not to say anything. Swore up and down he wouldn’t be the one to ruin your big day.”
“And didn’t... Worst I ever suffered ’til now, your wedding... Logy and split-headed from the drink and the smoke. Three jabbers poking at my insides whenever I tried to draw breath... All I could do to hold on. Barely made it to you and Trevor heading off on honeymoon. Don’t even remember Burl taking me to hospital.” He groans. Shudders. Draws his legs up. “This is something again, though... All that and worse...” He closes his eyes. “S’like... Fifty o’ them broken ribs all jabbing at me at once.”
Sylvie looks away. To the people encircling them. Their community. Every one - even the Old Men - anxious over Roscoe’s well-being. Every one certain he’s slipping away. Already mourning. Sylvie blinks hard against the temptation to share in their sadness. But why would she, when rage is so much more productive?
“Christ, what a noise!” Her angry s
hout startles the assembled gawkers. All leaning in to better hear Roscoe’s muted tone. “Listen up, dickhead: That was a nice story and not that I don’t appreciate the wedding present of lies I never knew you’d given me, but if you can hold out for two days with secret broken ribs, you can sure-as-shit make it through whatever you’ve got going on now. At least you can hold out until the doctor gets here. And then... Then, you can damn-well keep on holding on after that, too.”
He turns his face toward her. Soaking in her outrage. Gaining strength from her indignation.
“And you can bleat all you want about how it’s boo-hoo, the worst you ever suffered, but don’t you even debate giving in to it. Because there’s not a one among us who doesn’t need you. We’ve all...” She gulps back a sob. “I’ve lost too much to see you go, too... And I’m the frigging Captain of the Watch. So you don’t get a vote in the matter. You do not have my permission to go anywhere. Got that?”
Roscoe clenches his teeth. Nods.
~
The brown robe.
Late to join the gathering on the beach, Max only spots it when everyone moves aside. Allowing Dr. Marquand a path to her patient. It’s mud-caked. Hanging from him in shreds. Apparently, the only thing he’s wearing.
Max has seen it before. Where?
It takes a moment to connect the dots. To remember the beat-down he’d received. From people wearing hooded cloaks identical to this. Only a day earlier. The misadventure nearly lost in the crush of all he’d been through since.
Was there a connection? Are brown robes so uncommon as to be noteworthy?
A prolonged moan from Roscoe. Protest against Dr. Marquand trying to convince him to unlock his arms from his midsection. Much smaller than her patient, she makes little headway. Sits back on her heels. Frustrated. “I cannot help you if you don’t allow me.” The doctor’s voice rises. All heads turned away to give Roscoe privacy now pivot back. “You say the worst of it is in your stomach. Please. Let me see.”
“I’m trying, Doc, but it hurts... It hurts too much.”
“Give him space, you two.”
Still kneeling, Burl and Sylvie do as they’re told. Shuffle back a foot.
Roscoe tries opening his arms. Quaking as he does. Still clutching the robe shut over himself. Crying in pain.
What had been done to him while he’d been gone? A chill runs up Max’s spine as he thinks of it. Until a more important question presents itself: If the brown robes were responsible for Roscoe’s disappearance, what plans might they have for Dawn?
“Sylvie!”
She looks up as he approaches. Misery shifting to anger. “Not. Now.”
“Yes, now. Right now.” He hooks her by the elbow. Pulls her to her feet. Away from Roscoe’s examination. Surprised and off-balance, he moves her through the crowd and a short distance away before she manages to yank her arm from his grip.
“Max! What the hell?!”
“Argh! I can’t!” Roscoe cries out. “Burl, I... Help me out here, you stupid bastard!”
Burl looks to the doctor. She nods.
Careful of his cast, he maneuvers behind his friend. Takes hold of Roscoe’s wrists. Strains to pull the slightly smaller man’s arms open. Hundreds of drunken arm wrestling matches have shown the men to be evenly matched. Today is no different.
“For fuck’s sake.” Sylvie sneers at Max. Starts back across the sand to lend her help. He grabs for her elbow again. Ready this time, she slips his grasp. Whirls. Cracks him with a solid backhand. Knocks him to the sand.
“Stop! Listen!” Max waves his hands in surrender. Blood running from his lip. “I’ve seen that robe before!”
“What?” Sylvie stops. Lowers the fist she’s prepared for him. “Where?”
“A bunch of guys wearing them were spying on Dawn yesterday.”
Sylvie looks at Roscoe: Arms pulled halfway open. Held there with no small amount of effort by Burl. “What do you mean, spying?”
“They were watching her.” Max gets to his feet. Brushing sand from his legs. “From some trees. They... Got away. Before I could--”
“How many?”
Max searches his mind. “I dunno... Four? They were hiding, so...”
“And what were you--”
“Look! You’re not getting it: Whoever took Roscoe... They’ve been following Dawn, too. Dawn, your niece? She’s in danger. So this isn’t interrogation time. It’s call out the cavalry time. You need to send out a posse. To find her. And make sure she’s safe.”
“Max! She’s fine. She’s here. At the lighthouse with my dad.” Sylvie looks him over. Reassessing. She touches his arm. “The robes. It could be helpful. We’ll look into it. When we can.”
Relieved, Max nods. “Sorry, I... Sorry.” Dawn’s safe. Up those stairs. That’s what matters.
Roscoe’s groaning sobs escalate.
“I got him, Doc! Do your thing.” Having finally pried Roscoe’s arms apart, Burl presses his wrists into the sand. All of his weight dedicated to restraining his friend. The doctor carefully pulls open the robe. Looks over the man’s torso. Gasps.
Though big by any standard, no one would ever have called Roscoe fat. Playing highschool football had built him into a wall of muscle - a condition he’d worked hard to maintain ever since. But now - with his robe pulled back - the swollen globe of Roscoe’s stomach protrudes. Enormous. Distended.
“What the holy hell?” Burl knows it isn’t right. A murmur runs through those assembled. Even non-lifelong pals can tell there’s something distinctly unnatural about Roscoe’s abdomen. All are immobilized by the sight. Uncertain whether they should back away or get a closer look.
“What? What’s hap--” Despite the pain, Roscoe looks down. Quiets. Distracted from his own suffering by the sight of himself. Not understanding what he’s seeing. “What is-- Is it-- Is it-- Is it...”
Committed to her vocation, the doctor soldiers on. Presses her fingers into the bulbous paunch. Firmly testing Roscoe’s flesh. Feeling for abnormalities. Suddenly, she jerks her hands away. “Good God!”
“What? What is it?”
Eyes bulging in horror. Dr. Marquand stares at Roscoe’s belly. “S-Something... Moved.”
No sooner has she said it, than forty-two somethings tear open Roscoe’s torso from the inside. Bursting onto the beach in a squirming wave. Each roughly two feet long and pearly white beneath a coating of blood and grue. Little more to them than a sucking ring of razor teeth propelled forward by a thin whipping tail.
The first wave to escape find Burl and Dr. Marquand immediately. Burrow into them before either can raise hands to defend themselves. Powerless to stop the creatures. Shrieking. Flailing at themselves. Briefly. Soon, too much damage is wreaked on their vitals for them to do more than slump over. The doctor into the sand. Burl on top of Roscoe’s remains.
Skipping past these already inhabited bodies, the remainder are already boring into the next-nearest spectators. Only now beginning to grasp the threat unleashed in front of them. Once inside, the monsters rip through their temporary hosts. Changing direction whenever they hit bone. Ricocheting bullets digging gory tunnels. Then, exiting. In search of more living prey on which to feast.
Relatively few of the eyeless creatures disappear into the ocean. One or two thrash off across empty stretches of beach. The vast majority find their way into nearby victims, even as they scramble to evade the little nightmares. Tripping over themselves. One another. Screaming as they’re bored into.
Horrified, Sylvie staggers back. Far too late to help... Roscoe? Burl? Anyone really. Only alive at all thanks to her distance from the epicenter of the living fragmentation bomb that was Roscoe. A distance decreasing as the monsters emerge from her fallen comrades. Looking for more flesh on which to feast. Aiming themselves in her direction.
Suddenly, she is yanked from the scene. Hand gripped firmly by another. Pulling hard. Forcing her to run. Max. Booting full-tilt up the beach with her in tow. Headed for the boathouse.
&
nbsp; CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
The diving suit is ancient, but still in working order.
Thick leather wherever it needs to be flexible. Brass and aluminum everywhere else. Its head: A massive metal globe. Covered in three dozen small glass portholes. Aimed out at all angles. Its hands: Spheres sporting mechanical hooks and vises. Befitting the suit, the simple tools look dangerous. Cold. Insensitive. Appropriate to the environment in which they’re meant to serve.
The suit stands empty. Biding its time in its dark alcove. A decade since its last use. Not much longer to wait now. Recently oiled and sealed. New tanks filled. Connected. Ready for action.
For a brief period - earlier that day - the tight quarters had been the scene of a swarm of activity. Instruments had been tested. Supplies replenished. Stale atmosphere was flushed from the chamber. Replaced by a fresh mixture: Hydrogen. Helium. Nitrogen. Oxygen. Not air, strictly speaking. Breathable gases required to avoid the risk of nitrogen narcosis.
Eventually, these servicings were completed. The busy visitors departed. Motion-sensitive lights dimmed. Calm descended once again. In almost every way, the chamber has resumed its former inert state.
With one exception.
Lain at the heavily weighted feet of the diving suit. Sedation still in effect. Consciousness yet to return. Stretched out on the cold metal floor: Ren Lesguettes.
Soon, he’ll wake. Shaking off the after-effects of the drug cocktail forcibly injected into him, he’ll try to make sense of the cramped space. He’ll look out through the porthole into the dark water surrounding him and finally understand where he finds himself.
In a diving bell. Suspended ten feet above the ocean floor. Ten miles from the coast of Mossley Island.
And why?
Because he broke the Circle.
FROM AWAY ~ BOOK FOUR Page 22
