This made it no harder to join. To Roscoe, the Circle is a community based around a story everyone agrees to take seriously. Something they all pretend to accept as fact. It’s the glue that bonds them. More importantly, it separates them from outsiders. It doesn’t have to be true to play that role. In fact, it’s almost better it isn’t.
Even now - faced with the thing - he still has trouble making sense of its existence. How can it be? A semi-humanoid underwater species no one else has ever documented? Of which no one has seen any sign in decades? Bullshit. Unlikely at best. And yet... Here it is.
Roscoe rounds the edge of the drop wall. Pulls himself along. Hand over hand. Beneath the boat. Towards the creature.
~
Low-res. Fritzing in and out. Warped through the fish-eye lenses. In murky water. Colored by monochrome night-vision.
Burl and Sylvie can more or less see Roscoe pull himself through the water. Along the inside of the drop wall. Right up to the thing. Once there, he gives each camera a thumbs up, then turns to the problem at hand.
He puts his head altogether too close to the spikes. Peering between the creature and the iron gate. Examining how it has impaled itself. How best to detach it.
After a moment’s deliberation, Roscoe decides. Holds tightly to the iron gate with one hand. Reaches in behind the thing with the other. Working on dislodging one wound at a time. Fresh blood clouds spread as its injuries are freshly aggravated. Making it even harder for Burl and Sylvie to grasp what’s happening when the thing suddenly awakens.
As it first thrashes, they assume Roscoe is causing the movement: Yanking at the thing to get it free of the wall. Then, he’s knocked back. Slicing open his arm against the sharpened points. Spilling his own blood into the water. He grabs for his speargun. Fires prematurely. Losing his bolt to the blackness. Whirling desperately to regain control.
Bubbles froth around the thing. It coils to strike. Lashes out with its powerful tails against an utterly defenseless Roscoe. Sends him careening through the water. Unable to keep himself from hitting the wall. Partly protected by his scuba tank, but receiving fresh gouges across his ribs and hip all the same.
“Get him out of there!” Sylvie pulls on her mask. Grabs her speargun. Jumps over the transom. Into the water.
Burl runs for the winch. Hand-cranks the thing. Sucking in the tow-line as quickly as possible.
~
Sylvie slides into the ocean. Dropping past Roscoe. Swimming back up to him as quickly as she can. He’s holding his bleeding side. Weakly paddling out from under the boat. The tow-line pulling him forward as much as he can manage on his own.
The creature? She searches the murk in all directions. It’s nowhere to be seen.
But she can’t worry about that now. Sylvie grabs Roscoe beneath his arms. The moment she has him, he goes limp. Lets her take over. Swimming one-handed for all she’s worth, she tows him towards the surface.
“BURL!” She spits out her regulator as soon as there is air to breathe.
The big man comes to the side. Sees Sylvie towing Roscoe. Behind him, the sonar blips. The blips intensify as Sylvie swims closer. Even moreso as Burl reaches out to take hold of his friend and pull him out of the ocean. Then, something gleaming black breaks the surface. Cuts between them. Slamming into Roscoe. Wrenching him from their grips. Taking him back under.
“NO!” Sylvie is powerless to stop it.
The tow-line zips through the water. Reaches the end of its slack. Twangs as it pulls tight, then snaps back. Nothing at its end but a carabiner and some torn fabric.
“Go! Go! GO!” Sylvie pulls herself up the ladder. “Don’t lose them!”
Burl runs for the dash. Hits a button marked: RELEASE. The drop-walls instantly detach from the sides of the boat. Disappear into the deep. He cranks the engine. Throttles forward. Sends the boat planing through the water. Following a red dot just barely still in range of their sonar.
Headed back. Towards the island.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Sue smells them coming. Leaps to his feet. Straight from sleeping to barking. Defending his home. Desperately trying to alert his woman that strangers are arriving.
Entirely deaf now, he can’t hear his own barks. Wouldn’t be able to, even if his woman hadn’t had his vocal chords removed. This only makes him try harder. It’s his job, after all. Scaring away undesirables. Or at least, warning of their approach.
Two girls pull a limping boy along. One holding either hand. Moving in and out of darkness. From the light of one halogen streetlamp to the next.
Seeing Sue, they abandon the boy. Run up. Stopping just outside his range. Inches beyond the small circle of territory his chain allows him. Not close enough for him to get at, however valiantly he may try. There they stay. Barking back at him.
Also, entirely silently.
He vaguely remembers them doing this before. Taunting him for his fundamental failure as a dog. How he despises them. If he could get closer, things would be very different.
“That’s so fucked.” The boy keeps a wary distance. “Who would do something like that?” Concerned. He doesn’t belong with them. Sue knows it. Still, he’s a stranger. So he gets the barks, too.
“Shut up! It’s just a dog.”
The girls turn to the boy. “Um. Ever think maybe they did it out of kindness?”
“He was too loud. All the time. People were demanding Delia put him to sleep. Isn’t this better?”
The boy’s not so sure.
“Oh, who cares, Max! We’re wasting time.” They gesture him forward. “Give it to him.”
“Move beyond your animal nature. Become something more.”
The boy approaches. Reaches into the grocery bag he’s carrying. Pulls out the sealed container they made him take from the fridge at home. Pops it open. Holds it out so Sue can smell them: Hamburger patties.
The dog freezes. Some basic training from long ago tells him: If he holds still, he will get some of that smell. If he waits patiently, he gets to share.
The girls laugh. They’ve never seen him not barking. Now they mimic his tongue hanging out. Salivating.
“That’s hilarious!” One girl grabs a patty. Holds it in the air. Sue leaps. Snaps at it. Choking himself in his desperation. She holds it ever out of his reach.
“Oh! Oh! Let me have one, too!” The other girl grabs for the container.
The boy pulls it away. “No.”
“Come on! I want to see who can make him jump higher.”
“Forget it. That’s cruel.” The boy sets the container down. Slides it past the girl. Inside Sue’s perimeter. “He’s been through enough.”
Sue’s face is in the container before it stops moving. Scarfing down the meat. Can’t even remember how long it’s been since he’s had a meal like that.
That boy is all right. A good one. The total is not high.
When Sue looks up again, the people have disappeared. Probably into the woman’s trailer. She’s never taken security very seriously.
Regardless, he’s done his job. Sue turns in place a few times. Flops to the ground.
Satisfied.
~
“Put your wallet away, boy. I know you know how this works.” Delia holds a smaller, sample-size nailpolish bottle out towards Max. The black goo inside sparkles. “First one’s always free.”
“Uh-huh.” He takes it. “But how much is the next one?”
“Negotiable.” She smiles down from her pile of mattresses and cushions. Her full figure almost camouflaged amongst the soft rounded pillows. Her eyes slide over Max. Sticking in places. Looking forward to the day when he’s forced to barter.
He looks into the bottle. Holds it up to a lamp in the corner. As if the world’s dimmest bulb wasn’t weak enough, someone’s also covered the shade in scarves. What light escapes, shines through the small glass jar. Revealing: Swirling, nebulous colors buried in blackness. A Hubble photograph of a distant galaxy.
“Max!” Mandi sl
aps him on the shoulder. “At least say thank you!”
Allison gives him one from the other side. “Show some appreciation.”
“Girls, girls! Leave the boy be. I don’t need his gratitude.” She lays back on her pillows. Unconcerned. “Charity is its own reward... Eventually.”
Max shakes the bottle. “So... It hurts, right?”
“Oh, most assuredly. All the best things do. In the best of all possible ways.” Delia’s eyebrow cocks. Suspicious. She holds out her palm. “But if you’re having second thoughts...”
To be honest, he may not even have had first ones.
Allison pulls Max back. “No, no! He wants it.”
Delia looks serious. “It’s easy to think - when something is offered to you, gratis - that it has no value. In this case, that is not the case. If you aren’t intending to take advantage of my generosity, then I must insist...” She beckons with one hand. “I would be displeased to discover my gift had not been enjoyed by the intended recipient.”
“You’re going to try it, aren’t you, Max?” Mandi wraps an arm around him. Runs her fingers over his chest. Up to his chin. She turns his face towards her own. “For me?”
Allison pushes up. Squeezes Max into a sandwich. “We really wanted to share this with you.”
This is their seductive act. A parody of second-hand stories and softcore made-for-cable movies. They all but bat their eyelashes. It doesn’t really work on Max. He lets them think it does.
“Where do we, uh...”
The girls squee with joy.
“Mandi, dear. Find your friend a quiet corner, if you please.” Delia waves her off. She obediently pulls Max away. “Allison? A moment?”
Allison hangs back. Her friends leave the bedroom without her.
Delia extends a full-size nailpolish bottle to her. “Your finder’s fee.”
Allison reaches for it. Stops. “Each.”
“Of course.” Delia smiles. Adds another. “I can rest assured Mandi will get hers?”
“Of course.” Allison snatches both away. “If there’s anyone else you want brought in, just let us know. We’re highly influential.”
Delia nods.
Allison is dismissed.
~
Mandi leads Max. Over. Around. Through the mass of nearly motionless bodies. How she intuits where to step in the near-complete darkness is beyond him.
Until now, Max hasn’t realized just how full the trailer actually is. People are everywhere, Filling nearly every available opening. He tries to follow Mandi’s steps precisely. Wincing each time his full weight comes down on his left leg. He manages to avoid stomping anyone, though he comes close more than once.
When they reach an empty space against a wall, he plops down next to her. At least it’s out of the way. Where no one passing by is likely to step on them, either.
Aaron would not be impressed.
Max thinks of the lighthouse balcony. Getting high. Putting his face between the bars. Just flying. Aaron never understood. Refused to even try. And he’d missed out. Always giving Max sideways looks for his smoke-breaks. Now he’d never know.
Mandi smiles. Pulls his jacket off him. Too hot in the trailer for that. Human space heaters cooking away all around him. She tugs at his t-shirt, moving it up around his chest. He stops her for a moment, then... What the hell? Leans forward. Lets her take it off of him.
Little gauze patches stand out in the darkness. His wounds, still healing. Mandi touches each one. Connecting-the-dots down towards his belt-line. Holding her finger against the lowest one. Looking into his eyes. Biting her lip.
Allison joins them. Passes Mandi a nailpolish bottle. Pulls off her borrowed hoodie to catch up. Drops it onto Max. Still damp inside from the water balloons.
Around them: Nobody notices. Nobody cares.
Max isn’t sure if he does. The girls are not why he’s here. There is no reason why he’s here. Just no longer any reason for him not to be. Without Aaron - without his disapproval - he knows he’ll end up there sooner or later. He may as well get it out of the way.
From either side, the girls kiss him. One another. Mandi leans back. Tugs her shorts down over one hip. This is where she hides her addiction: A brick wall pattern. Colored flesh-rectangles. Eleven. So far. She unscrews the lid from her nailpolish bottle. Lets a drop fall from the brush. Paints a twelfth brick into place.
She returns brush to bottle. Screws it shut. Just before it hits her.
Sizzling.
Her body suddenly convulses. Muscles flexing as one. Her skin crackles. Cooks as the goo absorbs. Blackens. One hand grabs hold of Max’s forearm. Clenches. So tight, he worries his bones will fracture. Then, it’s done. She relaxes. Limbs turning to jelly. Flopping back onto the floor.
Max looks at the new brick. Even in the darkness he can see it’s turned black. The goo itself has burnt away. Leaving her flesh badly charred.
“Mandi?” No response. Breathing hard. Eyes rolled back. “Is she all right?”
Allison laughs. “No... She’s so much better.” She plucks the sample bottle from his hand. “I’ll do you, okay?”
He turns to her. “Where?”
“Doesn’t matter. Someplace it won’t be obvious.” She looks him over. Excited. Pushes his shoulder. Eases him back. Onto the floor. “Your stomach, let’s say.”
He doesn’t say. Leaves it to her.
This is what happens without Aaron. Where Max ends up. How long ago would he have visited this trailer without that kid around? How deep would he be? What wall would he be sleeping against?
Allison unscrews the lid. Lifts the brush out. Paints a rectangle just under Max’s belly button.
It’s shockingly cold. Then, it’s hot. Then, Max understands.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Marshall is everywhere. Inescapable. Wherever Wanda looks. There he is.
Ultimately, there hadn’t been much blood to deal with. Less than she’d dreaded, anyway.
He’d apparently locked himself in the bathroom to escape the Old Men. The door was now busted off its hinges. Leaning against the wall in the hallway. Some blood on the tiles. Mostly in the tub. Where they must’ve wrapped him up.
Running the shower until the hot water ran out dealt with it for the most part. Elbow grease took care of the tiles. The porous grout between them would probably never shake the pink tinting. A permanent reminder.
Now, the bigger problem is skin. Dry, discarded bits of Marshall. All over her trailer.
Unlike the bizarre flesh-sock she’d found, most of it is unidentifiable as coming from any specific body part. With one glaring exception... And truly, the less said about that gnarly discovery, the better.
The very idea of his desiccated cast-off flesh hanging around the trailer is only adding to the itchiness that resurged almost the minute she left the hospital.
So Wanda - never known for fastidious cleanliness - moves through her home on hand and knees. Scouring the place. Searching high and low for any and all remaining fragments of Marshall. Discarding them in a plastic grocery bag hung over her stumpy wrist. Scratching at the new bandages whenever her hand isn’t actively doing something else.
Cursing Marshall.
Poor Marshall.
When this is done, she ties up the bag. Drops it outside her front door. Glad to be rid of it. Quickly, goes to wash her hand, before she accidentally bites her nails or something and ends up eating little fragments of the guy.
For the record: One-handed hand-washing... It just plain sucks.
As she finishes, she glances at herself in the mirror. Not something she’d purposely been avoiding, but still, it had been a while. She looks rough. But more than anything else, her injured arm grabs her attention. She extends it towards her reflection. Flexes it.
Suddenly, she thinks she may understand what Mother Agatha had been reacting to, back in the Post-Operative Care Unit. The old nun had been at Wanda’s bedside immediately after her initial surgery. Saw Wanda’s arm at t
he time. So she knew when she grabbed it that there was something different.
Eighteen hours earlier, Wanda stood in front of the mirror in her hospital room. Displaying her newly cropped limb to herself. And when she had - she was almost certain - it had ended just below her elbow. Now, somehow, she had an entire forearm. All the way up to where her wrist should be.
Could she really be misremembering so badly? Was this just a strange manifestation of phantom limb? Mis-estimating the length of her own arm? What other explanation could there be? Her arm couldn’t grow back...
Could it?
She turns the thing. Inspects it. Compares it to her intact arm. The difference is obvious. Her injured arm is thinner. A farmer’s tan ends just below her elbow. The skin beyond that, pale. Almost white. Hairless. Maybe the hospital had shaved away her fine armhairs for the sake of surgery, but that didn’t explain anything else.
Miss Philips’ words come back to her: “The procedure was a complete success,” she’d said. “You should have full use in a matter of days.” Wanda had taken it as a cruel tease. Just messing with her. But the old woman had also referred to... Wanda’s hand.
No. That wasn’t possible. It couldn’t be.
Wanda squints at her arm in the mirror. Nearly complete once more. And she has to know.
She scratches at the stump. Digs into the fresh dressing. Pulls at the bandages. Unwraps the wound. Lets the gauze fall to the bathroom floor.
What’s beneath is a mess: A gnarled, mangled lump. Raw. Red. Oozing.
Folds of her skin are stretched out to cover the worst of it, presumably. Meant to take hold. Heal in place. Keep everything together. Like Marshall’s skin does not. The overlapping twists of flesh looking like nothing so much as an undersized, clenched fist.
FROM AWAY ~ BOOK TWO Page 14
