FROM AWAY ~ BOOK FIVE

by Mackey Jr. , Deke

  Here, the tunnel opens into another cellar. The water not rising high enough to flood it. Merely forming a pool in one corner of the dirt floor. All around her: Rock walls. Broken in places. Dark caverns dug out. Leading to unspecified destinations.

  Creaking footsteps draw Dawn’s attention upwards. Someone walking the floor overhead. Voices murmuring to one another. No words discernible, but one gurgling speaker is unmistakably her great-grandfather. The other: A woman.

  Climbing out of the pool, Dawn senses a difference in air quality. Though not adversely impacted by the ‘bad air’ in Adderpool, she has no trouble noticing its absence. The tunnel has almost certainly led beyond the wall. A secret passage taking her outside the town limits.

  The footsteps cross the ceiling. Dawn tracks them to a door at the top of an overworked wooden staircase. Sunlight pours in as it opens. Silhouetting her great-grandfather. A large camping cooler in his arms. Shifting it to one side, he reaches back. Shuts the door. Slides a latch.

  His eyes flash when he spots her. Anger unmistakeable, even on his distorted face. Glaring as he unloads the cooler at the base of the steps. Dropping it onto the dirt with a heavy thump. Focused on her. His intensity nearly enough to drive Dawn back into the water. He doesn’t say anything. Puts a single webbed finger to his misshapen lips. Mimes shushing. Not a suggestion. A command Dawn doesn’t dare ignore. He then turns away. Disappears down an offshoot tunnel.

  From the main floor: Not a sound. No voices. No footsteps.

  Alone, Dawn doesn’t even fight the urge. Controlled by curiosity, she can’t help herself. The cooler is too tempting. Its lid too easily removed. Investigating the contents, she finds: Fruit. Vegetables. Cans and jars. A small first aid kit. Basic supplies and groceries. The answer to a question she hadn’t yet thought to ask: How has her great-grandfather sustained himself all this time in a basically lifeless ghost town?

  But the cooler is not a kindness. It’s a payment. A transaction is underway. What could he possibly have to give in return? In answer: A large wooden cask rolls out of the passageway. Clonks against the bottom step. Its contents sloshing around as they settle.

  Dawn’s great grandfather lumbers after it. Scowling when he sees the open chest. Supplies exposed. Privacy invaded. He pauses only a moment. Long enough to close the lid. And, to backhand Dawn.

  Far across the cellar, she slams into the dirt floor before grasping what’s happened. Strained neck screaming against the blow. Bracing for another. Instead, she finds her great-grandfather already creaking up the stairs. Each bowing dangerously beneath the combined weight of the man and the barrel hoisted into his arms.

  Still reeling, Dawn re-examines her situation. With a relation - however monstrous he may appear - she’d assumed she would be safe. Clearly, she is not. She’d overstepped, certainly. Both in snooping and in following him there in the first place. Not that this warranted an attack, but - giving him every benefit of the doubt - he was old school and lived in time-locked solitude. Had she cared to, she probably could’ve anticipated such a reaction. Troubling though it may be, Dawn could adapt.

  Above her, he reaches the top step. Struggles to maintain his balance as he unlatches the door. Shuts it behind him the moment he’s through.

  There’s a thunk as he sets the barrel down. Rolling thunder as it travels across the floor.

  Dawn rushes forward while she can. Relying on the rumble to mask her passage. Scurrying up the creaking steps. Arriving at the wooden door, she searches for a crack wide enough to allow for peeking. Finds a few more than suitable for the purpose. Through one she sees:

  A sunlit log cabin. Her great-grandfather stopping the cask next to the open front door. Tipping it onto one end. Waiting patiently nearby, as he pries open the lid: Five nuns. Each holding an earthenware urn. The last nun bobs in place. Full of fidgety energy. Smiling a wide and familiar smile. It’s Paula.

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  “Ugh! Gross!” Wanda recoils from the smoky yellow puff. Grimaces at the sulfurous smell. But unlike Netty, she isn’t struck instantly unconscious as the spores enter her respiratory system. She teeters on one knee, but does not end up prostrate on the bathroom floor.

  Watching from below, Netty squeezes to one side, readying for the impact. But Wanda does not, in fact, fall over.

  Instead, she lashes out at the vine. “Fuck you, Stringbean!” Pissed, she hacks through it with... Bizarre hands. Mutated claws which Netty finds herself utterly incapable of making sense of. Even assuming they’re Halloween costume gloves Wanda has decided to wear for some reason... When last they’d been in one another’s presence, Wanda had only one hand to cover. Netty had been there when the other was crushed into paste. Its loss had been nothing if not decisive.

  As the tensing ivy constricts around her, Netty questions her own perception. The spores must have some sort of long-lasting hallucinatory effect. Or, possibly, she’s sustained brain damage while deprived of oxygen. But easily, the least likely alternative is the possibility that Wanda has somehow actually regrown a hand, and developed webbed talons.

  Whatever the reality, in Netty’s delusional fantasy, she watches Wanda make short work of the black vines. Pruning them into kindling. Using those crazy claws, she slices through Netty’s bonds. Frees her from the ivy’s grasp. Pulling her to her feet with the same webbed hands, Wanda half-carries her ex-girlfriend out of the bathroom. Only setting her down once well beyond the plant’s long reach.

  “You ok-- Holy shit!”

  Netty frowns. No idea why Wanda’s staring. Into her left eye. Then, at her right.

  “Sorry, it’s just... Your eyes. They’re all Hammer Dracula, y’know?”

  Netty hadn’t known. But she understands: The blood vessels in her eyes must have burst while the vine was cutting off her air supply. Swallowing hard, she releases a raspy gasp. Nothing more.

  “Can’t you talk?”

  Netty shakes her head. Mimes strangling herself. Points back to the bathroom.

  “Oh, it did, did it?” Wanda rises. “That won’t stand.”

  Netty stands back. Watches Wanda storm away. Wondering how long the hallucinations will last. Unable to guess what might actually be going on with the woman’s hands, while her imagination is showing her those impossible flashing talons.

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  “Aphasia?”

  “That’s right. It’s a communication disorder.” Doctor Clemmons stands with Sylvie. Outside her father’s room. “In Mr. Lesguettes’s case, what this means is: The stroke has damaged the language centers in his brain.”

  Sylvie digests this. “You’re saying he hasn’t gone crazy, then?”

  The doctor half-smiles. “No. In fact, there’s every possibility his intellect will be basically unaffected.”

  “But... All that gobbledygook he was spouting...”

  “We call that word salad. What’s tricky is: He doesn’t realize we can’t make sense of it. In his head, it all sounds clear and correct. That’s why he’s been so frustrated. He simply can’t grasp why we’ve been unable to comprehend him.”

  “No, that doesn’t make any sense. He understood me. At least, it seemed as though--”

  “Aphasia has many variations.” She glances into the room. Her patient still resting quietly. “He’ll be out for a while yet, but when the sedation wears off, we’ll be better able to ascertain just where he’s at.”

  Sylvie exhales.

  “The good news is: He can most likely make a full recovery. It’s a matter of re-learning. Re-assigning words that have been jumbled around in his mental dictionary and making them stick.” She squeezes Sylvie’s arm. “It is treatable. But positivity is key. You must remain optimistic. For your father’s sake.”

  “Doctor, if my dad sees me being positive and optimistic? He’s going to think I had the stroke.”

  Dr. Clemmons smiles. “Well, maybe try to split the--”

  Sylvie’s phone chirps. A text from Bernie: REN’S OKAY.
ALIVE. CALL NOW.

  “Um, I just need to...”

  The doctor waves her off. Steps away as Sylvie dials.

  Bernie picks up on the first ring. “Sylvie.”

  “What is--”

  “He’s just showed up. Visually, not on the GPS. The tracker’s gone. The whole suit, actually. But we’re seeing him now. On Camera Four. He’s nearly reached the Reef.”

  It makes no sense. Sylvie can’t bring herself to accept it. Guarding against further pain. “But... The depth gauge... He self-destructed.”

  “I don’t know what to tell you, Sylvie. Somehow? Somewhere along the way? He changed out of the dive suit. Into something... Not new, exactly, but not an antique either. You’ll have to ask him, and make sure I’m there when you do, because...” She laughs. “I already know: That’s going to be one hell of a story.”

  Sylvie looks to the ceiling. Lets it sink in: Ren’s alive. Again. Thank goodness. That bastard. The emotional whiplash... It’s getting to be a bit much.

  “Are you going? To meet him?”

  Sylvie mulls her answer. Then: “We’re not authorized to do that, Bernie.”

  “No. No. Of course not.”

  “His sentence won’t be considered fully carried out until he’s reached the shore on his own steam. Any assistance prior to that risks nullifying the--”

  “Absolutely. I understand. One hundred percent...” Bernie waits a beat. “In that case, you’re going to want to avoid Lassard Beach. Because that looks to be where he’s headed. Where he’ll come out. So... You know... That information should help you. To keep your distance.”

  Sylvie smiles a tired smile. “Will do.”

  “And if you can get past all your bullshit family nonsense? Give him a hug for me.”

  “Will do.”

  Hanging up, she looks into her father’s room. He’s still out. Will be for a while. If she’s lucky, he’ll stay that way until she returns. With his son.

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  The lovely woman who answers the door is impeccably put together. In her late sixties. Tall and thin. Graceful and poised. Given a million guesses, Max could never have picked her as the Electrician’s wife. Short and fat. Cranky and disheveled. The cigar-chomping Norman Sudder seems to be her opposite in every regard.

  “The Apprentice, I presume?”

  “It’s Max, Mrs. Sudder.”

  Until this moment, Max had been reasonably certain he had the wrong house. The address he’d been given over the phone had led him to one in a string of swanky, upscale dwellings. Unlike the standard Mossley Island home: No well-weathered clapboard in sight. Instead: Elegant stonework. Pristinely maintained. Elaborate landscaping with a finely manicured lawn. Hard to imagine Norman being allowed to drive his beat-up van through the neighborhood, let alone living there.

  “Hm.” She baldly looks him over. Pausing on his filthy hands: Covered in scratches. Pine sap. Dirt. The rest of him not substantially better. Her gaze stops to the east of his knees. “And this is...”

  Sitting patiently by Max’s side: His new companion. “This is Sue.”

  Mrs. Sudder’s sculpted eyebrows raise. “You do realize you have yourself a boy-dog there, don’tcha, son?”

  “I didn’t name him. He came with it.”

  “Hm.” She bends down. Loops a french-tipped finger through Sue’s collar. Guides him inside. “You look like you could use a drink, old man.”

  Without an invite of his own, Max follows. Every bit as impressed with the interior. Trying to envision the Electrician in this space. Staining that chaise. Marking up the glossy baby grand with greasy fingerprints. Somehow, he cannot make the pieces fit.

  “Please, stick to the-- Ah-ah-ah!”

  Max freezes. Finds Mrs. Sudder glaring at his foot. One step past the black tile foyer. Onto her immaculate white carpeting. Unlike Sue, who is being led along a protective clear vinyl pathway. One of many authorized routes Max now sees criss-crossing the floor. Defending her home against grimy hobos such as himself.

  “Shit!” Max hops onto the transparent runner. Leaving a dark footprint behind. “I’m so--”

  “Stay!” It’s unclear who Mrs. Sudder is addressing. Max and Sue each play it safe: They plant roots. Freeze to the spot, as she reaches into the coat closet. Pulls out a power-steamer. Runs it over the offending blemish. In three passes the spot is erased. Mrs. Sudder continues until she hits fifteen.

  The rest of the house betrays a similar level of care. Spotless. Dustless. Immaculate. At least: What can be seen of it from the narrow plastic path. Before Mrs. Sudder whisks the pair along. Into her state-of-the-art kitchen.

  Granite and stainless steel. A dozen highly specialized appliances spaced along the countertop. None appear to have been used. Every surface reflective and gleaming. Max crosses his arms. Studiously avoids touching anything. Lest his filth contaminate the space. Afraid even to lean.

  Moving to the sink, Mrs. Sudder runs water into a glass bowl. Some sort of heavy crystal with many sharp facets. When it’s half-full, she sets it down in front of Sue. His face is in it - lapping madly - before it can even reach the tiles.

  Noticing her other guest’s discomfort, Mrs. Sudder gestures to a row of black leather barstools tucked beneath the breakfast bar. “Please. Sit.”

  Using his least dirty fingers, Max pulls out a stool. Climbs onto it. “So, Norman... He’s--”

  “I’ll raise him.” Mrs. Sudder presses the button on a wall-mounted intercom.

  After a sharp buzz, an even sharper voice responds: “Be in when I’m finished, woman. Not before!”

  She shrugs. Doesn’t bother replying. “He’s just out back. Shouldn’t be long.”

  Max glances through sliding glass doors into the backyard. His mouth drops open. Shocked by the sight.

  In stark contrast to everything he’s seen of the Sudder household thus far, the backyard is quite literally a junk-heap. Piled with discarded air conditioners. Water heaters. Electronics. Several vehicles worth of auto parts. Cutting through the center, a tight corridor leads to a large coach house. One bay door hanging open. Swinging in the breeze. Parked half-in, half-out: The Electrician’s unwashed van.

  “Life’s a series of compromises.” Mrs. Sudder nods out the window. “He gets that. I get this. It’s our trade-off.”

  Inside the coach house, a light flashes intermittently.

  “What’s he up to, out there?”

  “Frankly, Max? Your guess is as good as mine.” She sets a glass of water on the counter in front of him. The crystal tumbler matches the bowl Sue has now emptied. “Would you risk going out there, if you didn’t absolutely have to?”

  Faced with the two extremes of the Sudder estate, Max isn’t sure which world he’d prefer. But before he’s forced to invent an answer--

  WHOMP!

  Something explodes in the coach house. A thunderous sonic boom shakes the kitchen. Instantly shattering the windows and both sliding glass doors.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  The emergency doors are heavy. Cracking them open takes a powerful push, but Trevor manages it. After what has been, unquestionably, the most bizarre day of his life, he forces his way out of the Home. Escaping into its rear parking lot.

  Immediately, he’s confronted by: Fresh air. Blue skies. And Mr. Rothstein.

  Newly returned from Lesguettes Lighthouse. Just reaching a key toward the door handle as Trevor bursts forth. He yanks his hand back at the last moment. Narrowly evading bloody knuckles. Even so, Mr. Rothstein does not move politely to one side. Gives no quarter to the man attempting to exit. Trevor is not an Old Man. He’s not supposed to be there. They both know it.

  “Go ahead, then...” Mr. Rothstein crosses his arms. “May as well give it a shot.”

  “Okay, uh... I was visiting my mother.” Trevor tries. “She’s a resident? I was just on the way out, and... I got myself a bit lost.” He smiles a lame smile. “It’s all good now, though.”

  “Right...” The Old Man nods
grimly. “You’re Sylvie’s, aren’t you? She send you here?”

  Trevor’s heart sinks. “Sylvie doesn’t know anything about it.”

  “Oh, but that doesn’t seem likely, though. Does it?”

  Trevor shrugs. “I’ll give you that: It does not.”

  Mr. Rothstein cocks his head. Looks at the terrycloth towel slung over Trevor’s shoulder. “And what is it you’re toting there, Mr. Sylvie?”

  In what little space he has, Trevor backs up “Look, I’m tired. And all I want to do--”

  “Are those--” A glint from inside the towel’s folds. Aluminum catching in the sunlight. It’s all Mr. Rothstein needs to identify the two shapes. His eyes widen. He grabs for the towel. More quickly than Trevor could’ve guessed possible. Loosely tied, it comes away easily. Dumping both canisters to the sidewalk with loud clangs.

  The men dive. Grabbing for the same one. Each latches on. Rising. Mr. Rothstein lifts a foot. Kicks out with his heel toward Trevor’s knee.

  Trevor twists. Barely avoiding the blow. His adversary’s foot cracks the cement beneath their feet. Had it struck his leg, Trevor would have been permanently crippled at minimum.

  Holding tight, he shoves. Forcing the Old Man into the wall. Mr. Rothstein turns with the impact. Reversing the situation. Slamming Trevor against the brick in return. Pinning him there. Continuing to pivot, he gets an elbow between them. Jams it into the younger man’s chest. For leverage. Push-pulling the container. Loosening Trevor’s fingers. Until, finally: He releases.