He returns to the bar. Wraps the towel around the remaining containers. Slings it over one shoulder, before sliding an arm under Gardner. Trying to get him upright once more. “Come on, Young Man. Help me out, here.”
Gardner groans. Focuses on Trevor briefly. “What’s yer hurry, lad?”
“Mrs. Rutherford sent the Sheriff after Sylvie. I have to get to the hospital. To warn her.”
“Ye should. Ye should go warn her, b’y.” Gardner leans back. Closing his eyes. “I’ll just...”
“Gardner--”
“Naw... I’d only slow ye down, now. No more use to ye than tits on a snake.”
“But when they find you--”
“Go on, ye horse’s arse! I can handle the Old Men when they come. Just ye worry ‘bout savin’ that wife o’ yers.”
Hating himself, Trevor can see no alternative. “All right, but I--” No point in further speechifying: Gardner appears to have passed out. Trevor pats him on the shoulder. Leaves him there.
“Good luck to you, Young Man.”
~
Gardner doesn’t wait long before rising. The moment the door closes behind Trevor, he is in motion. No one would call him light on his feet, but neither is he incapacitated. Dragging himself up from the comfortable chair. Limping around it. Far from the immobilized lump he’d portrayed himself as for the younger man’s benefit.
Sore everywhere, that much is true. The fabric touching his tender flesh a torment. Flashbulbs of pain popping wherever it brushes against him. Gingerly, he strips out of his clothes. Leaving them where they drop as he heads into Mrs. Rutherford’s bathroom. Entirely naked by the time he gets to the sauna.
After all this time. After all these years. The experience was beyond anything he’d ever imagined. Instantly erasing any misgivings against imbibing something extracted from those horrible creatures. Fully understanding why the others had kept them alive all this time. That it was no kindness they’d been doing the monsters.
He can feel the strength running through his body. Restoring him. But the effects are already failing. It isn’t enough. Not nearly.
Uncertain of the outcome. Beyond caring. He throws open the sauna door. Steam billows out. Sears his flesh. Darkening pink skin to red. Blisters bubbling across his aged torso. Clenching his dentures together, he forces himself inside. Shuts himself in.
The cabinet does an admirable job of muffling the sound of his screams.
Until they stop.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
“And that’s what you can take away from all this, kid: Sooner or later? A whipped dog will turn. If you question them, challenge them, provoke them... It’ll only be a matter of time before they come after you. So you have to be prepared. Think ahead. Get ready. Don’t be taken by surprise like I was.”
~
The hoist complained. Shuddered. Creaked. Straining to lift its load from the moon pool: A fifty litre canister of Hydreliox.
“Grab the other end.” The young man guided the cylinder over the edge of the hatch. Into the bell. “Hey!” He whistled through his teeth. “Focus, wouldja?”
“Sorry! Geez.” His sister tore herself away from examining the instrument panel. Stretching out her wetsuit as she re-joined him at the moon pool. “It’s just this place is... So cool!” She lifted the other end. Helped him carry the canister over to the wall. Removable panels already taken down. Inner workings exposed. “How long have you known these were out here?”
“A while.” The young man leaned over the compressor. Shut it down.
“And you didn’t say anything?”
He looked back at her. The two spoke the magic words together: “Circle business.” Rolling his eyes, he started detaching hoses. “Now pay attention. You need to know how to do this on your own for next time.”
She watched closely as he walked her through the steps: How to replace a nearly empty Hydreliox canister with a fresh supply. The most crucial task involved in the maintenance of the Mossley Island diving bell perimeter.
Since finally being allowed to join the Watch a few weeks earlier, she’d been shadowing her older brother. Learning the ropes. Training to assist in the various lower-end chores for which he’d been responsible since leaving Tower One. Grunt work. Bottom of the barrel. But things any future Watch Captain would need to understand.
A person couldn’t just inherit the mantle. No matter who their father was. They had to know every aspect involved in the job forward and back. And then? They still had to earn it.
“You said these used to be lookout stations?”
“It was the early warning system. Before we had the cameras installed. But nobody wanted to be stationed out here, apparently.”
“What?! Why? This place is awesome.”
“It’s a pain to get in and out. And time consuming. So crews had to lay in for five days at a go. That’s a long time to spend underwater. It messes with you in ways you can’t guess.” Canister exchange completed, the young man rolled the empty back to the hatch.
“Pfft. Five days? That’s nothing. I’d’ve volunteered for double shifts!”
“Sure, Sylvie. And you’d’ve been great... Right up until cabin fever set in and you started eating your own toes.” Crossing to the control panel, he flipped switches. Turned dials. Instruments lit up in response. Reported their various findings. He leaned toward a microphone: “Testing. Testing. This is Bell Two. Transmission test. Come back, Tower One.”
The radio crackled. Hummed. “This is Tower One, Bell Two. You’re coming through loud and clear. How’s our girl liking it down there in the beautiful briny? Over.”
“Loving it!” She shouted. “Over!”
Laughter from the speakers. “We read that. Over.”
“Thanks, Tower One. Over and out.” Without waiting, the young man tuned the radio to a new frequency.
“Holy cow. What do we use this thing for?” His sister was peering into a dark alcove. Inside: An ancient dive suit.
He looked at it a long moment before speaking. Into the microphone: “Patrol One? Bell Two, here. Sylvie’s on her way to hang the empty on the line. She’ll let you know when to reel it up.”
“Roger that, Bell Two.”
“Over and out.”
“Aww.” The girl was disappointed to be leaving so soon. “Right now?”
He nodded. Shut down the control panel. Knowing she would follow his orders. Never outside the Circle, certainly. But on the job? Without question. Well... Without more than one, at any rate.
Slightly slower than necessary, she pulled on her scuba gear. Stepped into her flippers. “You coming?”
“Right behind you. Just have to close up shop first.”
She climbed over the edge of the hatch. Lowered herself into the moon pool. Looked back up at him. “Ren? I’m glad it’s you showing me all this.”
Unsure how to respond, he passed her the empty cylinder.
“On the Watch like this... You and me? Together? It’s kind of how we always used to talk about, right?”
“Yeah, kind of...” He looked around. Uncomfortable. “Okay, get going. See you in a few.”
With a last salute, she bit into her regulator. Dropped into the ocean. Out of sight. Soon, not even bubbles mark her presence below.
Crossing to the kitchenette, the young man grabbed a butter knife from a drawer. Moved on to the washroom. Here, he climbed up on the toilet lid. Counted tiles: Nine from the left. Two from the ceiling. Wedging the knife next to the tile he popped it out. Revealing a hole, carved into the wall behind it.
From a pocket in his weight belt, the young man removed a key. Placed it carefully in the space. Closed the tile over it.
Hoping to never see it again. Content to know it was there. Just in case he ever needed it. Now, he was prepared. Plan B in place. He wouldn’t be taken by surprise. Not like Libby had been.
~
The key. It unlocked an airtight storage trunk. Heavy duty polypropylene. Reinforced with steel. Fire-rate
d at 1400°F for up to thirty minutes.
Its contents: Last checked by the young man the night he’d rowed it out to sea. Navigating through thin blindspots in the island’s defenses he’d discovered while watching monitors in Tower One. Timing himself to avoid patrol boats, sticking to schedules he’d seen them follow faithfully a thousand times.
Propelled by his former partner’s warning: Be prepared. Avoid getting boxed in. Always supply yourself an alternative. Gird against the inevitable betrayal.
Under cover of darkness, he’d oared the small boat out past Wreck Reef. Dumped the trunk overboard. Let its weight tow him down. To the freighter.
With research he’d found it. With dedication he’d explored it. With persistence he’d prepared it to suit his purposes. Ensuring it was as ideal a location as he could imagine. The perfect underwater hiding spot for a secret storage trunk. In as reliable an environment as he could hope to find.
There simply couldn’t be a better location in which to stash Plan B.
~
Returning a quarter century later - long past believing he might ever need to seek it out again - Ren had no reason to expect the trunk would still be there. Or, if still there, that it might remain intact. Exposed to the elements for all that time? The ocean, so cruel and unforgiving? It was almost ludicrous to hold out such a hope. But, nevertheless, he’d grabbed the key from Bell Two. Proceeded with Plan B in his pocket. As Libby had advised so long ago.
By the time he reached the freighter, he was running on autopilot. Oxygen deprivation had begun to take its toll. Stealing from his mind his own secret machinations. Still, he stumbled accidentally along the path he’d prepared for just such an eventuality. Motivated by parts of his mind hidden even from himself. Hastened along by memory. By a vivid hallucination. By the ghost of his long-dead partner.
Entering the freighter, Ren had followed its corridors. Found his way, somehow, into a passage clogged with discarded fifty litre cylinders. A dozen at least. Mossy green with the algae that quickly coats every surface left to the ocean’s care. Seeing their familiar shapes, the dimming pilot light still flickering in back of Ren’s brain flared with a single word: Hydreliox.
The cylinders were there, because he’d put them there.
They were fundamental to Plan B.
Powered by this almost certainly futile spark of hope, Ren dragged himself forward. To a door. He locked the dive suit’s pincers onto the wheel mounted dead center. Pulled himself to kneeling. Rotated the wheel until it clicked. Toppled into the phonebooth-sized space as the door swung inward.
Here, he faced another door. Though barely functioning by this point, his mind still somehow grasped the requirements: Shut the first door behind you. Open the second. Beyond it: One of the freighter’s smallest self-contained cargo holds. Not much larger than a walk-in closet, but tall. With a ladder leading to a platform overhead.
Intended for dry storage. Guaranteed watertight to protect cargo from the effects of moisture during trans-Atlantic voyages. Many compartments had been damaged in the wreck. Twisted. Punctured. This one had survived intact.
Here, as a young man, Ren had dragged the mostly-used cylinders now lining the corridor, after replacing them in the Diving Bells. He’d emptied each into the enclosed space. Slowly displacing ocean with air. Trapping a breathable bubble inside. In effect: Creating an all-new secret diving bell. When he’d left, he’d closed the airlock doors behind him. Crossed his fingers the seals would hold. They were, after all, guaranteed.
But twenty-five years? That was asking a lot.
Nevertheless, that’s how much time passed before he once again found himself in that cargo hold. Carefully climbing the ladder. Emerging from the water halfway up. Into air whose quality he couldn’t test except by breathing it. Hardly reaching the platform before tearing off his helmet. Nearly passing out from the sweetness of freely drawing breath once again. On hands and knees. Letting his lungs take what they needed before turning his attention to the platform’s only other occupant: The trunk. Seemingly unaffected by the years.
In a pocket on his weight belt: The key.
~
The detritus from the dive suit explosion has yet to fully clear when Ren peers out from the freighter’s deck hatch. The water hazy. Bits and pieces of gilly still spinning in place. Deciding whether to float to the surface or sink to the bottom. Most will disintegrate long before reaching either destination.
Tentative, Ren scans the area. No creatures to be seen. None intact, at any rate. He drops the now-emptied cylinder. The engine responsible for his inflated dive-suit’s brief final flight.
With no enemies in sight, Ren emerges. Moving now on flipper power. Wearing a - comparatively - modern wetsuit and scuba gear. Courtesy of: The well-prepared young man he once was. Also? Fitted to that young man. Extremely tight in places. Cutting into Ren’s current, and more... Mature physique.
He swims to the edge of the freighter. Surveys the terrain ahead. Already within view of Wreck Reef.
Feeling himself again. Exhausted, but in control of his faculties. Fully oxygenated. Two fresh tanks strapped to his back... If one can call twenty-five year old air ‘fresh’. At any rate - for the first time since awakening at the bottom of the ocean - he’s no longer worried about his air supply. His main objective: Get within range of the nearest pulser. As quickly as possible. Before more gillies catch up with him. Seeking revenge on behalf of their atomized brethren.
To this end, Ren dives over the edge of the freighter. Beginning the final leg of his journey home.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
Halfway down the staircase, Dawn stops.
She’d been right behind him. Chasing her great-grandfather through his own home. Losing sight of him for mere moments. A matter of steps between them when she followed him into the stairwell. But now, he’s disappeared.
Below: The unfinished cellar is flooded. A still, silent pool filling the space. Without so much as a ripple to mark her great-grandfather’s passage. No windows or doors through which to exit. He’s simply vanished. However improbable, there’s only one direction he could’ve gone from here: Under.
Stumped, Dawn sits on the steps. Watches the water. Hoping to wait him out. Surely he can’t hold his breath forever.
“They’re early.” That’s what he’d said when he heard the bell. But who was? He’d told her himself: None of the other townsfolk had survived. And as she’d seen firsthand - when Max attempted to ‘save’ her from the town - no outsiders can withstand extended exposure to Adderpool’s toxic atmosphere. Nevertheless, someone had rung the bell. Someone he hadn’t wanted to keep waiting. He’d been expecting the call. Just not so soon. A standing appointment, then? Perhaps he’s not quite the hermit he appears to be.
Lost in thought, Dawn jumps when the bell clangs again. No longer far away. Right here in the basement with her. She scans the ceiling. Finds the cowbell in question. Suspended between rafters. A thin wire leads away through eyelets screwed into the wood. Irregularly spaced across the ceiling. Traveling down the far wall. Into the water.
It’s manually operated. Whoever is ringing it... Must be on the other end of that wire. Before she can second-guess herself, Dawn descends the remaining steps. Into the water. To her waist. To her chest. Intense cold making her regret it, but she pushes forward. Beneath her feet, the cellar floor is rough. Cracked and uneven. She bobs along toward the bell wire. Takes a breath. Submerges.
Underwater, her vision is momentarily blurry. Then - in a blink - the world comes into perfect focus. Revealing: The foundation is broken. A section of wall and floor torn out completely. Large cement chunks pushed to either side. Stripped down to the dirt. In the middle of this cleared area: A tunnel leads away from the cellar. Along its rough-hewn ceiling: The wire.
Dawn pops to the surface. Takes a deep breath. Dives back under.
She doesn’t emerge again.
~
The tunnel tests her.
Its len
gth: Interminable. Its width: Ever-changing. Narrowing at points to a circumference so tight, Dawn can’t imagine her great-grandfather squeezing through.
Before long, she’s blind. Dim basement light left far behind. Enclosed in utter blackness. Slowed by uncertainty. Anxious to avoid crashing her skull into some unseen outcropping. Moving forward by feel. Guiding herself along the walls with probing fingertips.
Despite the vast distance and unknown duration of her swim, Dawn’s lungs do not strain. She becomes neither lightheaded, nor dizzy. She’s fine. Operating at full capacity. No longer actively holding her breath. Realizing now: She’s somehow moved beyond that necessity.
Not unlike her previous swim, where she’d made it halfway out to sea on a single breath. Hard to ignore: Something has been changing inside her. Less surprising now, in the context of every other island weirdness she’s encountered. No longer scary, anyway. And with the revelation of her mother’s island background... Dawn has all the explanation she needs: A genetic inheritance from her maternal grandmother. Who may not have shown signs of the plague before being rescued from Adderpool, but surely must have contracted something. Passed it down to Dawn in some hidden form not fully brought to the surface until she journeyed back to the island herself.
After an eternity, Dawn’s vision returns. The tunnel taking form around her as light forces its way into the water ahead. A bright spot shining down from above. Marking the end of the line.
~
No frantic gasping for air as Dawn emerges.
She rises from the water slowly. Cautious. Only as far as her eyeline, initially. The dry world blurry until another blink brings clarity. Strange. She touches a finger to one lid. Presses. Detecting something more rigid beneath. Slipped to one side, like a lost contact. She blinks more purposefully. Feels this secondary lens slide into place. Mostly transparent. Protecting her eyes underwater. Built-in goggles. A week ago, the discovery would’ve horrified and disgusted her. Now? She accepts it as a gift of nature. Blinks the lens away. Moves on.
FROM AWAY ~ BOOK FIVE Page 21
