The old woman is unimpressed. She simply waits. Phone outstretched.
The standoff doesn’t last. Sylvie reaches across her father. Takes the phone. “What?”
“I’m told you’ve encountered gillies. Live ones. You should have contacted me the instant they attacked, Sylvia.”
Sylvie grimaces. At the very least, she’d assumed the call was regarding her father. If not to offer - obviously insincere - sympathy, then at least to inquire as to his condition. That would have been bad enough. But to not even allow a moment for the pretense of caring? Even for Mrs. Rutherford, that was pretty low. “How long have you known my dad, Mrs. Rutherford?”
“I haven’t any time for reminiscing, Sylvia. It’s come to my attention that Max and the Electrician were set upon by the enemy yesterday, and it is crucial we take action, a.s.a.p.”
“You knew where to send your minion, so I can only assume you’re aware he’s had what the doctor’s calling a potentially catastrophic heart-slash-brain incident. Do you just not give a shit?”
“All I need to know of your father’s condition has already been conveyed to me directly. It was my intention not to force you to relive the painful details. Rest assured: I am well-informed and working to make certain Martin receives the finest care and treatment available. Now... Might we please attend to the matter at hand?”
Sylvie’s hand shakes. Whether from anxiety or rage, even she wouldn’t be able to say. Her teeth remain clenched as she responds: “They’re your minutes, lady. Go ahead.”
“If the island is under attack, the situation is dire, Sylvia. I need you to assemble a dive team. Best and brightest. I need you to deploy them beyond Wreck Reef. And I need you to bring at least one back.”
Sylvie blinks. Moistens her lips. “Bring back... A gilly, you’re saying?”
“Two, if possible. Alive.”
Oh, sure. Capture and contain two sea monsters of a breed no one’s even caught sight of in fifty years. Will that be all? Sure you don’t want them trained to ride unicycles along a tightrope while we’re at it? Aghast, Sylvie looks around to see if anyone else is making any sense of the old woman’s words. Mrs. Donnelly is stone-faced. Sylvie’s father offers no direct assistance. But asking herself what he might do in her position? That helps.
“Yeah... Mrs. Rutherford? I’m not going to be doing anything even close to that.”
~
Mrs. Rutherford stares at the speakerphone in disbelief. “You’re not... I’m sorry?”
“We agree on that much at least, Mrs. Rutherford. You most definitely are sorry. So, howzabout you go ahead and get together your best and brightest Old Men, and you all just try out that little mission your ownselves? The Watch will even let you use our dive equipment, if you haven’t got your own. We offer very competitive rates for bulk rentals.”
Beneath the desk, Trevor clamps a hand over his mouth. He’s witnessed his wife in action before. With salesmen. Servers. Telemarketers. But never like this.
Mrs. Rutherford, on the other hand, hasn’t experienced this side of Sylvie at all. Wasn’t even aware it existed. Accustomed to dealing with her as an anxiety-ridden submissive. No clue how to approach her angry, aggressive, mutinous side. “I’m... I know you’ve suffered a blow today. But I can’t imagine why you aren’t taking me seriously, Sylvia.”
“Oh, but I am, Mrs. Rutherford. I assure you I’m taking this whole thing extremely seriously. Because you’re asking me to take vital members of my team - which was understaffed before we lost ten guys yesterday, even though I’ve been begging you for months to allow me to expand. And you’re expecting me to send them on a suicide mission against monsters they’re unprepared to fight - because you refused to authorize the funds and resources needed for proper training. And you’re suggesting that I do so, less than a day after a massive tragedy - while we’re all still in shock and mourning - even though it probably will result in half-staffed lighthouses and patrols leaving the island only partially protected. Isn’t that what you’re asking?”
It’s all Trevor can do to keep himself from cheering.
Mrs. Rutherford does not share his enthusiasm. “No. That is not what I am asking.” The old woman plants her hands on her desk. Either side of the speakerphone. Seemingly ready to headbutt the thing into oblivion. “Because, you see, Sylvia: I’m not asking anything. It’s not a request.”
~
“Uh-huh.” Sylvie pauses. Nods.
For all his frailty, she can feel her father’s strength flowing into her. Reinforcing her resolve. Blasting away any latent impulse to simply accept Mrs. Rutherford’s orders and do as she’s told. “Well, then, Mrs. Rutherford, neither is this: Go fuck yourself.” She pulls the phone away from her ear. Chucks it past Mrs. Donnelly. Out the door. Into the hospital corridor.
Shocked, the old woman watches it shatter. Looks daggers back at Sylvie.
But Sylvie’s done with her. Waves her off. “Go on. Fetch.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Max walks. Aimless. Through woods. Across open fields. Avoiding civilization. Trying to clear his troubled mind.
Initially, he’d intended to follow Dawn. Despite her brush off, he was determined to keep an eye on her. Regardless of any promises she insisted he make. He couldn’t just allow her to wander off with that twisted mutant... Thing. But the more he’d thought about it, the more he asked himself: How much help would he provide?
At every step since meeting her, Dawn has proven herself stronger. Smarter. More capable than Max could ever be. Even when the situation had been dire, she’d never needed him in any way. Quite the opposite.
In fact - if past events were any indication - she’d probably be better off without him. Because then, she wouldn’t need to stop and save his dumb ass all the time. So, ultimately, Max had decided he should let her go.
Also? Soon after they’d entered the woods, she and her monstrous companion had lost him completely.
So, on his own again, Max had opted to wander. To ruminate. With far more bumping around inside his skull than he’s given himself a chance to process. Until recently, his primary concern had been maintaining a reasonably consistent supply of weed, and finding time to partake in it. How long ago had it been, since his worries were of such little significance? A week? Was that possible?
And since then?
Caught in an explosion. Badly injured. Hospitalized. Best friend killed. Because Max had been too cowardly to check on the generator himself.
Recovering from the blast, he let two girls he can barely stand introduce him to a dangerous and seriously addictive drug. Leaving him with a craving he’s not entirely certain he’s shaken. One which still peeks out its head whenever he’s not actively engaged. Reminding him of an alternate pastime, in case he’s forgotten its potential delights.
And, oh yeah... The mythical monsters supposedly surrounding the island awaiting the opportunity to attack? They’ve turned out to be anything-but-mythical and... They’ve now attacked. One more incident which he barely survived. And only thanks to the help of a fat, cranky, cancer-ridden electrician who risked his own life saving Max’s ass.
After which? A whole other set of monsters turned up. Wormy ones which no one even knew to look out for. They massacred a bunch of unsuspecting and good-hearted folks trying to protect their community. All Max could do was run. Save his own skin.
And finally: The girl. The single thing to happen to him in the last week that he wouldn’t instantly erase if given the option. Off she races. Into untold danger. Without him. And all he can do is watch her go. And worry.
Who wouldn’t be overwhelmed? The weight is immense. It’s all he can do to remain upright.
At the far edge of a potato field, Max comes to a chain-link fence. Climbs over. Finds himself facing countless uniform rows of dead or dying pine trees. A failed Christmas tree farm, now reduced to a conifer cemetery. What is wrong with this island? Don’t evergreens flourish in practically every climate?
Instead, none are more than five or six feet tall. Brittle branches half-filled with dry, orange needles. Tinkling to the ground at the slightest touch. One stiff breeze away from full-frontal tree nudity.
Stretching out his arms on either side, Max walks along a pine corridor. Stripping needles from gnarled boughs. Carpeting the ground underfoot. The dead trees are not without defenses: Globs of sour sap stick to his fingers. Sharp twigs scratch against his hands. Slicing fine red lines along his wrists and forearms. This only speeds his passage. From walk to trot to run. Until Max is blazing along the trail full-speed.
He hits the end of the row without slowing. Bursts forth from the expired Ponderosa Pine plantation. Out onto a worn dirt path. Leading to a gravel lane. Homes on either side. Surprised, he puts on the brakes. Without intending to - consciously - Max has returned to a small community he’s only recently visited. One he hadn’t realized his proximity to.
In a way, his presence there seems inevitable. Another choice made on his behalf. Without his input. Decreed by the same fates responsible for knocking him hither and yon over the preceding days. Who is he to question or fight it?
Brushing pointy orange needles from shoulders, arms, and legs, Max resigns himself to it. Continues on into the Dunroamin Trailer Park. Heading straight for Delia’s trailer.
~
Sue shivers. Eyes wide. Whites showing. Panting from anxiety.
He’s failed. Proven himself incapable of protecting the trailer. He hadn’t realized anything was amiss until the screaming started. Screaming so loud, even he could hear it. All but deaf, the sound had been the first to reach the old hound dog in years. Even so, rather than bark for help, he’d instantly turned tail. Darted into his doghouse. Cowering while the horrific noise continued. Hidden there still, though silence has long since returned.
Now, a scent cuts through his terror. Tickles his snout. A person is approaching. One he knows as kind and gentle. A rarity in his experience. Sue jumps to his feet. Exits the doghouse. Hamburger Boy is coming. Almost certainly intending to visit the trailer. That can’t be allowed today. Not after what Sue has heard.
So he barks. The greatest performance he’s ever mustered. Up on hind legs. Dancing on the end of his chain. Howling. Growling. Whining. Making as much commotion as he can manage. All to convince the boy to keep away. All without producing any sound at all, because his woman long ago had his vocal chords surgically removed.
The boy stops a few feet away. “I know. I know. You’re right: I’m a piece of shit.” Tired. Defeated. Like so many Sue’s seen come and go. But the trailer only ever makes those problems worse. And that was before whatever mayhem had occurred in there that day.
Sue drops to all fours. Paces.
The human comes closer. Kneels. Holding his hand out. No hamburger in it. “You’re a good ol’ boy. And I appreciate all your efforts on my behalf.”
Sue nuzzles his palm. Circles around behind him. Blocking his path to the trailer. Bumping his hip. Trying to shift him away. The boy loses his balance a moment. Stands. “Nice try. But we both know it’s where I’m headed eventually, don’t we? What other options do I really have on this stupid island?” He shakes his head. “Not sure why I’ve even been fighting it.”
Stepping over the dog’s chains, Hamburger Boy continues on toward Delia’s trailer. Sue snaps. Latches onto his pant-cuff. Yanks him back a step. Then, two.
After a few awkward hops, the boy stabilizes. Bracing himself. Watching Sue - attached to his jeans - whipping his head back and forth until he’s too spent to continue. “You done, dog?”
Sue is. Releases him. Panting slightly.
“I appreciate it, dude. Really I do. But you need to accept when you’ve lost, right? Like it or not, I’m going to see Delia. So let’s both try to face the inevitable with something like dignity.”
Tattered pant cuff dragging, Hamburger Boy heads for the trailer. Sue whimpers silently. Another failure-to-protect. No choice but to allow the nice human to go.
~
Max gags the moment he steps inside.
Somehow, he’d forgotten the stink of Delia’s trailer. Fortunately, the last time he’d eaten anything was a distant and fully digested memory. Otherwise, he’d be spraying the interior with it. Because even worse than his previous visit - when the place had reeked of sweaty bodies and forgotten hygiene - the trailer had taken on a distinctly outhouse aroma. As though the shiftless denizens now laying all over the floor had simultaneously decided that trips to use the facilities were no longer worth the trouble.
Before going further, Max allows his eyes to adjust. Today, the place glows red. The little sunlight that sneaks in is filtered through fabric-covered windows. Red scarves lain over the single lamp in the corner help limit the minimal illumination to a narrow monochrome spectrum. The effect is appropriately ghastly.
Max feels a mental tug. In the deepest recesses of his mind. A warning: Something is off.
But of course something’s off. This is where the bored and desperate congregate. Where they apply a toxic chemical to their own bodies. Burning to crispy a layer of their own skin and knocking themselves out of existence for a time. How could a place like this feel anything but wrong?
Red wherever he looks. Insidious stink inescapable. But neither sense explains the feeling. Perhaps it’s the quality of silence. Not the unquiet quiet of unconscious people. None of the predictable shifting and scratching. No coughs or moans. Instead: An utter absence of sound, despite the large number of addicts that have clearly gathered there. Their dark shapes prostrate on the floor, as they were on his previous visit. Surrounding him.
Across the congested space: Delia’s throne room. Black inside. No sign of the boss-lady herself. No one waiting to usher him in. Has he arrived outside business hours? Mandi and Allison neglected to inform him of proper goo-purchasing protocols. All he knows is: Delia has it. He wants it. So, Max aims for the dark doorway. Cautiously negotiating the junkie minefield. Careful not to crush unsuspecting fingers or toes as he crosses. Each step squishing beneath his sneakers. The cheap carpet soaked through with... Something. A liquid, sucking against his rubber soles as he lifts each foot. Sticky.
This is what finally stops his progress across the trailer. Reaching halfway, he pauses. Allowing the data to coalesce in his head. Abruptly, he redirects toward the nearest window. Readying himself for groans. For complaints. Shrieks even, as the light of morning burns unprepared and bloodshot eyeballs. Max grabs a corner of the blackout fabric - as soaked and sticky as the rug underfoot - and yanks. Ungluing it from the glass. Pulling it down.
Pure white sunlight glares into the room. But the contents remain red. Floors. Walls. A portion of ceiling. The trailer has been painted in blood.
The drug addicts littering the carpet have not passed out. They have passed away. Not simple, died-in-their-sleep-of-natural-causes dead. They are messy, complicated dead: Dismembered. Disemboweled. Decapitated. Taken to pieces in a savage attack. Only through careful collection and reassembly will it ever be known with any certainty how many people are spread throughout the trailer.
For Max’s part, this is information he doesn’t really require. His only need? Out.
Carpet squeaking beneath him, he pivots on one bloody sneaker. Makes for the door. Avoiding everything. Reaching for the handle, he freezes. From either side, Mandi and Allison stare up at him. Eyes full of spite.
Max swallows hard. Throws open the door. Exits.
He doesn’t really care to guess what’s become of their bodies.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
The water runs hot. Steaming the mirror. The windows. The tiles.
Practically mummified, Wanda unwraps. Peeling away Delia’s stolen bedsheets. Shucking Dr. Ramsey’s hand-me-downs. Easier said than done: The blood has formed a tight bond against her skin. Adhering fabric to flesh. She unsticks an inch at a time. Unspooling ruined clothes and bedding onto the bathroom floor.
In the misted-over mirro
r she sees herself: A red blur stepping into the shower. Out-of-focus. A reasonable reflection of how she feels.
Beneath the showerhead, she turns. Lets its pressure pound her aches away. Loosening her stiff joints and strained muscles. She watches the water course down the drain: Tinting pink at first. Then just plain red.
Bracing one hand against the shower wall, she screams and screams again. Continuing until the need burns itself out. Crumbling into tears. Overdue, but solving nothing.
Only then does Wanda address her chest. Rubbing at the splotch of charcoal burned there. The darkest parts dissolving away under her fingertips. Careful not to cut herself with her own sharp claws. Picking at one edge until the burn tears away. A scab whose job has been completed. The skin beneath is slightly more raw than that which surrounds it. Pinker, though not by much under the scalding hot water. The physical reminder fading.
Not so, the memory...
~
The teenage girl had grinned as she splashed the goo between Wanda’s breasts. Hissing through her teeth. Mimicking the sizzle as Wanda’s flesh was seared.
Abruptly, Wanda’s anger had subsided. A reptilian calm settled in as she separated from the scene. Still present. But now a spectator. Watching from a corner of the ceiling. Removed from culpability. Ceding all responsibility over what came next.
She was surprised to see how easily her own flexing fingers ripped through the packing tape binding them together. Watching herself throw her captors forward as a group. Those whose grips didn’t slip colliding with Allison and Delia. Slamming both into the trailer wall.
As a viewer, Wanda cheered herself on. With no doubt who the hero was. Nor what the villains deserved. Unsettling to see her own strength in action. All she could accomplish, simply by getting out of her own way.
FROM AWAY ~ BOOK FIVE Page 16
