FROM AWAY ~ BOOK FIVE

by Mackey Jr. , Deke

  Before the first stooges had hit the ground, Wanda turned on those behind her. Raking razor talons across chests. Digging into soft bellies. Turning out insides. Spilling viscera onto Delia’s already fatally stained shag carpeting.

  Watching from afar, Wanda felt nothing. No horror. No disgust. No sympathy. Completely divorced from her own actions. Disconnected from the humanity of those being destroyed. It was all out of her control, after all.

  Wasting no time, she leapt away from the disembowelled, even as they tried to collect themselves. Mindlessly slashing a path through the squirming junkies. Tearing away limbs. Heads. Unfazed as opened arteries hosed down the interior. No way to tell who was who in the growing pile. Eventually, she must have gotten to Delia. She’s sure she did, though the specifics elude her. Nothing more noteworthy or satisfying about the woman’s gory demise than any of the others.

  Once the massacre was underway, no one attempted to stop her. Focused only on escape. Delia’s addict army stampeded for the exit. Stomped and scrambled over one another without compunction. But none evaded her reach. All were disassembled in turn. There was no victory in it. No fulfillment. Just a workmanlike resolve, intent on completion. Wanda’s autonomous avatar turning its attention from those who had stilled, to those who hadn’t yet. Diligently keeping to her task until it had been fully executed.

  Only when there was no one left to take apart had she paused. Surrounded by mounds of the dead. A scattered jigsaw puzzle with many identical pieces and little hope of reassembly. Gazing over what she had wrought, Wanda finally returned to herself. The icy distance replaced by the heat of their blood. A second skin, coating her own.

  And - seemingly - everything else as well.

  ~

  Finally, the water runs clear. Cleanliness achieved. Nothing left to wash away.

  Wanda shuts off the shower. Lets herself drip. Goose pimples rising as the steam dissipates. Her body fully hers. Sensations once again her own.

  But all those people--

  She can’t think about them. Her former associates. Fellow junkies. Can’t consider what she did to them. If indeed, she’d actually done anything. All control had been wrested away from her, hadn’t it? If she wasn’t in charge of her own body, she couldn’t possibly be responsible for its actions. But if she wasn’t... Who was?

  Forcing such unproductive thoughts from mind, she swings open the shower door. Grabs a towel. Steps out. Dodging discarded and blood-soaked fabric. Knowing it will soon need to be disposed of in an untraceable manner. Still drying off when a muted chime gripes at her from its burial place.

  For a moment, Wanda considers leaving her phone where it is. Cutting her losses, rather than digging through the grisly pile on the bathroom floor. Then, she drops to her knees on her bath towel. Plowing her hands into the hardening pile of castoff clothing. Digging through until she uncovers Dr. Ramsey’s pajama pants. Finds the pocket. Extricates her more-or-less unbloodied cellphone. Using very much re-bloodied fingers.

  A notification tells her she has a message: From Netty.

  From... Netty?

  Wanda doesn’t wait. Checks it right away.

  “--need you.” Some of the message lost. Delivered before the tone. Netty’s voice. Reduced to a choking croak. All she can manage is: “Something’s... It’s got me... But don’t... Breathe in its... Don’t... Breathe....”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  YOU MAY THINK YOUR PATH’S BEEN EASY

  IT’S ABOUT TO GET MUCH WORSE.

  COME TO

  67 GRETHAN ROAD, TONIGHT.

  OR SUFFER THE BLOODY PIKE’S CURSE.

  030845

  ~

  Hands cupped around eyes. Nose pressed to glass. Mrs. Hunter peers into the dark storefront at 67 Grethan Road. Doesn’t see much. The Mossley Island Museum of Mystery has yet to open for the day.

  A red exit sign the only illumination. Behind the counter... Difficult to make out: A dark shape. Her attention had been drawn to it as she first looked in. When it appeared to settle into its current position. Motionless ever since. Not sure what she’d witnessed - if she’d seen anything at all - Mrs. Hunter is now reluctant to look away. Certain that the moment she does, the shape will once again come to life.

  Standing back from the building - at the sidewalk’s edge - Mr. Hunter takes it all in. Scrutinizing the strange façade. Its oddly canted windows. The exaggerated cartoon architecture. Someone’s poorly researched impression of a seventeenth century pirate tavern.

  He watches his wife try the door. Again. Rattling the handle to no avail. Banging on the glass with the edge of her fist. Getting no response. No light or movement from any of the windows above.

  He consults the decoded invitation. Re-reads it. Cringing again at its arrhythmic pattern. Honing in on those last six digits.

  The only obvious numbers on the building belong to the street address over the door. Nothing appears to have been hidden in the architecture. No secret messages he can pry out of the goofy front. To either side, the businesses are ordinary. Standard-issue giftshops catering to tourists. But before the one on the left: A shadowy recess. Easily overlooked. One shallow step and a featureless black door. No window. No lock. No handle. An emergency exit? Access to apartments above? Possibly.

  Mr. Hunter moves closer. Gets a better look. Set into the wall: A numeric keypad. He whistles for his wife’s attention. Points her to the little display. Her eyes widen as she sees it.

  He’s already extending the translated message toward her when she snatches it away. Checks it quickly. Enters the digits: 0-3-0-8-4-5.

  A click. A pop. The door swings inward.

  ~

  At the end of the blank hallway: A beaded curtain. Tinkling as Mr. Hunter slips through. Into the museum’s front lobby.

  His wife stops him. Gripping his elbow. Holding him back. He follows her gaze to the dark shape behind the counter. The figure she saw from outside. Hunched over the unlit display case. Staring in at the contents. More clearly a person, but no easier to make out its features now that they’re in the same room.

  Mrs. Hunter steps around her husband. Approaches the counter. At the ready. The thin black fabric draping the figure stirs slightly in the room’s natural air currents. Giving the impression of life. Possibly explaining the movement she believed she’d caught sight of from outside.

  She reaches for the cloth. Grabs a handful. About to tug on it when the thing lurches to life. Growing suddenly to twice her height. Spinning in place. Stretching long, gnarled fingers toward her. She stumbles back. Just out of reach. Its horrible sneering face splits open in a malignant leer.

  “DO YOU DARE TO ENTER--” is all it gets out before Mrs. Hunter delivers a roundhouse kick to the side of its skull. Something in its neck cracks loudly. Echoing in the museum lobby as the head falls limply to one side. The figure tips back. Then, rights itself. Fingers clutching at the air. Hydraulics hiss as its outstretched arms lower mechanically to its sides.

  Slowly... Carefully... Both husband and wife approach. Ready for the thing to rise again. Neither flinching when the museum PA system crackles: “All right, well... We had this whole thing planned? But I guess you guys weren’t really into that, huh?

  The Hunters look at one another.

  “Any idea how much it costs to repair animatronics these days? A lot is how much. A very lot.” The disembodied voice is truly pained by the idea of the expense awaiting him. “And it’s not like there’s anybody who can do it on the island or anything. We need to pay a guy from away just to come out.”

  Mr. Hunter slides behind the counter. Finds a bank of switches on the wall. Lights up the place. Mrs. Hunter pulls the black cloth from the figure. Revealing: A robotic pirate. Its head partly detached. Dangling on wires and a few intact mechanisms.

  “Supposed to be a big show for you guys. Make it something fresh and fun... The Captain there was just going to invite you inside, so we could give you our whole pitch. Let you know all the ways we co
uld help you out with your--”

  Mrs. Hunter slaps her forehead. It’s all just a come-on! Late-to-the-party interlopers expecting to swoop in and take a share of the proceeds of all their hard work. Her husband heads directly for the front door. Unlocks it. She turns in a circle. Aims both middle fingers at any place she figures a camera might be hidden.

  “No, hold on! We’re legit, I swear!” The voice rises to a whine. Desperate. “We had the cipher, didn’t we? The runes? For the invitation? Well, that’s not all we’ve got...”

  Halfway gone, the Hunters pause in the doorway. Dubious, but waiting to hear the rest.

  “We know all about your oath of silence, but we also know: It’s not going to be enough. Not if you want to escape the curse. That’s why you need us. We can help. And you’re going to want to hear what we have to say, I swear.”

  Mrs. Hunter looks to her husband. Concerned, if not quite intrigued. He nods back at her. In grudging agreement: It might be worth their while to stay. Hear them out. Whoever they were.

  “Please just... We have nothing but respect for the two of you. We’re fans from way back, really. We’ve been following your progress since you unearthed the Dungannon Psalter.”

  Mr. Hunter blinks. Certainly one of their more obscure cases to reference. Lending the slightest credence to the claim.

  “We want to help. If we can. Please come inside. No strings, just... Hear us out. That’s all we’re asking.”

  The robot pirate shudders. One arm raises. Holds out a pair of blank keycards. On the far side of the lobby, a turnstile lights up: The entrance to the museum. Beyond it, a sea shanty plays tinnily. Promising any visitor a corn-pone trip through the hoariest of maritime cliches.

  Mrs. Hunter sighs. Re-enters. Plucks the cards from the robot’s grip. Holds one out to her man. He takes it. Close behind as she slides hers through the turnstile’s card reader. Beep! A green light grants access. Bars unlock. Rotate. She pushes through.

  “Good choice, Hunters. A wise decision. You won’t be sorry.”

  Mr. Hunter already is. But he slides his card. Follows his wife into the museum and whatever else the voice has planned for them.

  Ch-clack. The front door re-locks itself.

  Gears whirr as the robot-pirate’s arm lowers. Shivering as it powers down.

  One at a time, the lobby lights go out. Leaving the room bathed only in the red light of the exit sign.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  It’s right behind him. On his tail. He’s sure of it.

  Ren can’t bring himself to confirm the suspicion. Won’t look back again. Only forward. Moving clumsily through an expanse of tangled seaweed and thick green algae. Constantly losing footing. Suit too heavy to swim. Too light without the weighted boots to simply walk in. His progress awkward. Halting. But he can’t allow himself to slow. Not with that monster undoubtedly closing in. Its one remaining eye filled with rage. The other, lost. Taken by Ren with one lucky stab. His dive suit’s built-in pincers not nearly so useless as they seem. Bits of gore still stuck to them following the strike.

  The creature must be after him by now. Thrusting its talons toward him this very moment. Seeking revenge for its disfigurement. Blackness streaming from its empty eye socket. Clouding the water.

  While still in sight of the bell, he’d glanced back once. Saw the frenzied creature, fighting to escape through the bell’s former viewing window. The slot too narrow to squeeze through, though that hadn’t stopped it from trying. Emerging backwards. Twin tails thrashing. Slapping against the side. Its chest the sole sticking point. Deeply gouged by the window’s remaining glass shards. The damage not stopping it. Driven by desperate rage. Only a matter of time before it freed itself.

  Time which has now almost certainly passed.

  At the top of a rise, Ren surveys the valley ahead. Helmet light just reaching the first outlier: A twin engine Cessna. Caught in Mossley Island’s anomalous magnetic field, while flying too low. Instantly dead in the air. Gliding farther from Wreck Reef than the average shipwreck before ditching, but eventually meeting the same fate. Sinking to a final rest in the seaweed below. Away from the main curve of the underwater graveyard.

  Dizzy with excitement, Ren veers to one side. Top-heavy. Losing balance. Lungs straining to filter anything useful from what little air remains. The needle on his gauge edging into the red. But he can’t stop now. Not when he’s come so far. Continuing on auto-pilot. Wending his way toward Plan B.

  Assuming it’s still out there to find.

  After twenty-five years. Exposed to harsh salt-water environs. Corroding. Breaking down. Disturbed by any number of uninvited guests. Worse yet, Ren’s no longer certain he’ll recognize it, even if he makes it that far without suffocating. Struggling to visualize... Not quite able to bring it to mind. Having trouble remembering now exactly what Plan B entailed. Coming up empty. Starting to panic.

  Had there ever been such a thing? Was it even plausible? An escape route he’d somehow planned for himself decades earlier. In case of this very eventuality. It was seeming increasingly unlikely. Instead, maybe the idea of it had simply been a way to keep himself calmly moving forward. A trick to maintain momentum.

  Air supply dangerously low... On the razor’s edge of exhaustion after hours of walking... Ren’s tired imagination is unable to conceive of any alternative explanation. Perhaps Plan B has served its purpose. Motivating him to continue when all hope had been lost. But now? Reality has become inescapable.

  Past the small aircraft, the seaweed slopes away. A truly gargantuan shape becoming clear ahead: A sunken freighter. Stretching in either direction the width of several football fields. Blocking any potential progress as definitively as the chasm had. There’s almost a relief to it: All of Ren’s options evaporating at once. The question of Plan B becoming moot. Now he can stop. He can let go. He’s failed. The Old Men have won.

  Except: A movement. Catching his attention. Drawing his gaze.

  And there she stands. By a rusty-edged hole in the hull. Hair coiling in the current. Skin pale blue. She gestures for him to follow. Then, disappears into the hole.

  With no other option, Ren follows Libby into the freighter.

  ~

  “To light your way.”

  The boy spilled wax onto the casket. Pressed the candle into the drippings. Held it until it was secure. Adding to the flickering congregation already gathered there.

  “You taught me so much, I... I won’t forget.” His graveside turn complete, he moved on. A line of waiting Watch members still stretching off through the cemetery behind him. Candle-flames dancing like captured will-o’-wisps. Ahead: The bereaved family. Jocelyn and Antoinette. He hadn’t been able to look at them during the service. Knew he could avoid it no longer.

  Intending a glance-nod-and-and-move-along combo, he was trapped when Jocelyn locked eyes with him. Held out her hand. Inviting him over.

  Antoinette smiled at him bravely as he approached. He returned it. Hoped he wouldn’t be required to speak. Uncertain what might spill forth if he should be forced to open his mouth. Taking her mother’s hand, he allowed Jocelyn to pull him into a tight embrace. Shivering as she whispered into his ear: “Libby loved you, Ren. Said you were her favorite partner ever.”

  The boy shuddered. His nigh-constant sense of guilt threatening to pour out in every direction. With one last squeeze, Jocelyn released him from the hug, but quickly grabbed him by the shoulders. Held him eye-to-eye. “Promise me you’ll come by some time, all right? You still owe me a game. And without Libby, who’m I supposed to--” She caught herself. Choked the emotions back down. “Just promise.”

  He nodded. Of course he would.

  A game was the very least he owed her.

  ~

  “Wait!” Ren’s voice is weak inside the helmet.

  He’s fallen behind. Lost sight of Libby. Already unsteady, the slanting corridors of the old freighter only add to his disorientation.

  Somewhere ahead, a s
hadow passes a dim beam of light. He moves toward it. Finds a porthole. Outside: The ocean has brightened. Swimming past? Something far darker.

  Gillies. At least six. Circling. Staying low. Just above the field of seaweed. Searching. For him, obviously. How long before they trail him to the freighter’s rusty hole? Before they slip inside? Without thinking, he’d trapped himself. Libby had trapped him. Either her ghost or his guilt-fueled hallucination of it.

  Unable to continue. Breath coming in little fruitless gasps. Lungs aching. Instead of following the phantasm, maybe he should’ve made for the surface. Blaze-of-glory style. He could have watched the depth-pressure gauge freak out as he ascended. Blown himself up and gotten it all over with. Who knows? Maybe he could’ve taken a few of those creatures out at the same time. Provided a service to the island in the process.

  Instead, he leans into the wall. Slides along it. Plopping down beneath the porthole. Watching the light play across the opposite wall. Next to him on the floor, he finds a backgammon game, already in progress. On the other side of it: Libby. Cross-legged. Shaking her dice cup. “Can’t end like this, kid.”

  He examines the board. The game nowhere near completion. “Nobody’s won yet.”

  “Exactly my point.” She looks up at him. Underwater eyes strangely matte. Without gloss or gleam. Lifeless. “Whose move is it?”

  He thinks. Can’t quite recall his last roll. “Mine, I think.”

  “That’s right.” She smirks. “It is your move... So? Move!”

  ~