FROM AWAY ~ BOOK FIVE

by Mackey Jr. , Deke

  Mr. Rothstein takes the prize. Stumbling back. Not seeing the second cylinder until he steps onto it. Only to have the thing roll beneath his foot. Taking his balance with it. Sending him crashing to the cement. Canister extended in front of him.

  It strikes the sidewalk exactly wrong. The impact compressing the metal. Critically compromising its integrity. The aluminum splits. Releasing the pressurized contents - more than a month’s worth of daily treatments - directly into Mr. Rothstein’s face in a single noxious blast.

  He doesn’t get the chance to scream. In mere seconds, his flesh liquifies. His eyeballs burst. His skull caves in. A wet hollow opening up where his face used to be. Running on some unknown programming, Rothstein claws at the ground for a few moments more before collapsing onto what’s left of the canister.

  Instinctively shielding himself, Trevor still sees it all happen. One more ghastly atrocity seared into his brain by this insane day. He stares at Mr. Rothstein’s smoking remains. Unable to fully process the scene. Recording it for later, whether he likes it or not. For now, his brain refuses to directly address the sight. Instead, it centers on a previously-assigned task: Get to Sylvie.

  Stepping past Mr. Rothstein, Trevor retrieves the remaining canister. Rather more carefully, having just watched the cautionary tale of what-could-happen play out in front of him. He re-wraps it respectfully in Mrs. Rutherford’s towel. Slings it over his shoulder once more. Rushes off across the parking lot. Weaving toward the car he’d deposited there before visiting his mother. No more than one or two lifetimes ago.

  Landing in the driver’s seat, he pauses. Securely locked inside, emotion suddenly overwhelms him. All the tragedy. All of the loss. The rivers of blood and gore. It’s more than anyone should be expected to handle. But after a single gasping sob, Trevor reins it it. No time to waste on outbursts. He needs to get to Sylvie.

  Before Schilling does.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  For a nominal fee, patrons of the Mossley Island Museum of Mystery can opt to extend their experience by playing eighteen holes of miniature golf in the basement before exiting into the mundane outside world.

  The Hunters aren’t given this choice. Their keycards do not give them access to the direct exit. Their only way out is through the MIMoM Glow-in-the-Dark Mini-putt.

  Patience worn to onionskin, they push through. Onto the black-lit course. Immediately assaulted by glowing neon and aggressively inoffensive muzak. The theme: An undersea world, filled with sunken treasure. A landscape of hot pink coral and fluorescent green seaweed, populated with luminous exotic fish.

  The Hunters trudge forward. Gritting their teeth - now shockingly white under the ultraviolet light. Praying for release from the pointless kitsch nightmare. Paying little attention to the prescribed paths. Instead, stomping directly across the lovingly constructed course. Ducking under ropes. Climbing over barriers. Whatever it takes to get to the final exit as quickly as possible.

  “The curse is real.” The voice interrupts a soulless synthesized cover of a soft-rock classic. “We’ve seen it in action. It’s destroyed countless lives. You don’t even have to find the actual treasure to fall victim to it. If you’re from away? And you search for the treasure? Bam! Cursed. Just like that.”

  As the couple crosses the eighth hole - ducking through the six-foot arc of a shark’s toothy jaw - a small spotlight turns on. Illuminating a podium, standing over the ninth. Atop it rests a single sheet of paper. Prominently displayed.

  “This is your solution... The only way you can avoid - or undo - the curse.”

  Mr. Hunter picks up the page: A membership application. For the Society of Maritime Treasure Hunters. He snorts to himself as he looks it over.

  “We’re Islanders. So, if you join us, you’ll be coming under our umbrella, and it won’t matter anymore that you’re originally from away.”

  The little woman joins her husband. Unamused. Peering at the simple boilerplate document. Eyes roving over the text.

  “No yearly dues or anything like that. This isn’t just a scam to get your money. In fact... In your case? We’ll even waive the sign-up fee. Right? Because it’d be an honor, just having you on our rolls.”

  Mrs. Hunter wants a better look. Grabs the document from her husband’s hands. He lets her take it. Situates himself behind her. Continues reading over her shoulder.

  “Of course, the one stipulation is: All members are required to disburse to the Society the cash equivalent of a 15% share of any booty they uncover.”

  The little woman stops reading. Her face - dark blue under blacklight - takes on a more dangerous cast.

  “An infinitesimal price to pay to avoid Pike’s curse, I think you’ll agree. And more than that, you’d have access to our decades of knowledge and experience. After all, we’ve been hunting Pike’s treasure since we were kids. If nothing else, we can help you avoid wasting time. Nobody else knows as well as we do... All the places where the treasure is absolutely not located.”

  Mrs. Hunter pushes the form back into her husband’s hands. Slips the straps of her overalls off either shoulder. Lets them drop to the floor. Steps out, wearing only her workboots, undies and a t-shirt.

  “Um... Dr. Hunter? What are you--”

  She holds up an index finger. Begging her hosts’ patience.

  Taking back the application, she lays it flat on the floor. Spreading her hands across its surface to smooth out any wrinkles. Then, without further ado, she slips her underwear out of the way. Crouches over the page. And lets loose a mighty stream of urine.

  When she has fully relieved herself, Mrs. Hunter redresses. Stands next to her man. Arms crossed. Decision made and clearly communicated.

  The PA crackles tartly: “Thank you for considering our offer.”

  Clink. The final turnstile unlocks. A blazing yellow sign informs the Hunters that they are now free to:

  EXIT THROUGH THE GIFTSHOP.

  ~

  Emerging from the dark basement is a revelation.

  The sun is shining. The day fully in motion. The sidewalk - empty when last the Hunters set foot on it - is now filled with busy people. The street abuzz with vehicles. One in particular catches Mr. Hunter’s eye: A green Jeep. Conveniently idling in the nearest parking spot.

  Their green Jeep.

  His brow furrows. When the deputy took them in for questioning, they rode in the back of her squad car. Their Jeep had been left behind. Someone had to have driven it here. Someone with knowledge of their site’s location. Someone who - while they’d wasted precious time touring the museum - would then have had access to their dig. Unattended. Able to explore it as they pleased.

  He looks to his wife. Sees her spot the vehicle. Watches the same emotions and realizations cross her face: Surprise. Recognition. Confusion. Rage. Especially rage. She pushes past him. Grabs a note left under the windshield wiper. She looks at it only briefly. Then, growls. Loudly enough to scare a pair of passing tourists. Ignoring the onlookers, she crumples the paper. Crams it into her husband’s hands. Beneath the obvious anger, he sees something else: Anxiety.

  He reaches for her, but she’s already circling the Jeep. Climbing behind the wheel. Throwing it into gear.

  Mr. Hunter scrambles. Jumping into the passenger side as his wife reverses. Barely seated when she peels out. Holding on tightly. Belting himself in. The little woman hardly noticing him as she screams through traffic. Pulling off the main drag. Onto less-congested side streets.

  Only now is he able to uncrumple the paper. As they hurtle along uneven laneways, heading out of the city. Bracing against the dashboard, he looks over the message left beneath their wiper blade. A single word. Six uppercase letters:

  C U R S E D

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  “Hey, Ren!” Netty threw wide the door. Ecstatic to find him on her welcome mat. “How’ve you been?” Before he could answer, she’d jumped across the threshold. Grabbed him in a bone-crushing bear hug.

  “Antoinet
te, I...” The young man was taken aback. Not expecting such a warm welcome. What with him being her late mother’s former partner. A walking reminder of her still-recent loss. “I was looking for your mom, actually. Your mom, Jocelyn.”

  He’d believed his appearance would be greeted with something more along the lines of maudlin acceptance. The kind rightly granted anyone dredging up past sorrows. In fact, it was this possibility which had kept him away. Far longer than he would’ve preferred.

  “Hrumph!” She smirked. “That’s just what every girl wants to hear, isn’t it?”

  “No, no! It’s not that I didn’t want to see you, it’s just that she invited me.”

  “What?!” Netty was stricken. “She’s gonna be so pissed!” Seeing Max flinch, she corrected herself: “Not at you. At herself. It’s not like her to forget an invitation like that. She’ll be horrified to have left you waiting, when you’d planned to--”

  “She didn’t, she...” Ren shook his head at his own stupidity. “It wasn’t planned. Not for now, specifically... More of an open thing. To come by and play backgammon some time.”

  “You mean, what she said at the funeral?” Netty laughed. “Ren, that was three months ago.”

  “Yeah... I just... I know it was nothing compared to what you guys must’ve gone through, but after Libby... Losing her? As a partner? It hit me kinda hard.”

  Netty nodded. Closed the front door behind her. “Come on.” She grabbed Ren by the wrist. Led him to the porch swing. “Have a seat. She shouldn’t be much longer. A few minutes or so.”

  She took the right side. He hesitated only briefly before taking the left. After an awkward moment - syncing their swinging rhythm - they began to talk. Before they knew it, they’d swung away the afternoon.

  Contrary to Netty’s assertion, three hours passed before her mom backed into the driveway. Just in time for dinner. Exactly when she’d told Netty she’d be home.

  For his part? Ren hadn’t noticed the time passing at all.

  ~

  From a distance, the various ships that make up Wreck Reef blend together. Silhouetting into a single twisted mass. But even from a closer vantage, it can be difficult to tell where one ends and the next begins.

  Ahead, a schooner lies crushed beneath a tugboat. Bound together by a common living skin: Coral. Algae. Barnacles. Spreading out in all directions. Onto other ships. Dumped atop one another like a child’s discarded playthings. Forming peaks and valleys. A vast underwater mountain range.

  Ren stays low. Swimming over the rocks. Nearly there. Almost in range of the pulser and the safety it represents. Approaching the Reef, Ren finally allows himself thoughts of the future. Of surviving. Of consequences.

  How worried must Dawn be by this point? Has she gone to the police regarding his disappearance? Has that pulled Netty into the situation? What will she have told his daughter? Will she hate him when he returns? How will he explain his absence? Without once again breaking the Circle, that is.

  Beyond his daughter, he now needs to speak to the rest of his family. His father. His sister. Conversations he would never have imagined himself having. But the Circle needs to know: Gillies are real. And they’re out there again. Threatening the island.

  Assuming they aren’t already aware.

  Hurrying along, he aims himself toward a gap. An open trough between wrecks. With relatively little jagged debris jutting forth, waiting to impale him. The route least likely to require a tetanus shot afterwards.

  Nearly there, when a shadow slides across his path. All the warning Ren gets.

  He dodges instinctively. Spins. Narrowly avoiding the slashing talons. Getting an unwanted close-up on the thing’s snapping fangs. Face-to-face with his attacker. One enraged eye glaring at him.

  The other? Gone. Just a black void staring back at Ren from a ruined and empty eye-socket.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  Each cement step echoes as Sylvie stomps down. Nearly to the bottom now. Coming to a landing, she turns. Stops suddenly. Her path obstructed by someone on their way up.

  “Shylvie...” Sheriff Doug Schilling smiles. His mouth full of metal. Glinting in the harsh fluorescent light. “Jusht who I wash coming to shee.” He widens his stance. Broad shoulders and barrel chest easily blocking the entire staircase.

  “Aw, Christ.” Sylvie shakes her head. “Figures the Old Men would send along their yipping lapdog.”

  If Schilling minds the designation, he doesn’t show it. “You know, I almosht took the elevator? I would’ve mished you if I had. Musht be my lucky day.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure about that.” Sylvie takes one step closer. Given the height difference, the two steps remaining between the pair bring them just about eye-to-eye.

  He settles one hand on his holster. “Sho, you know what thish ish about... We’re shupposhed to have a little chat. About how you need to shtart doing ash you’re told. But I get the feeling it’sh not going to be enough to convinch you to change your waysh. Sho, maybe we should jusht forego that part and get down to bushinesh.”

  “Whah? I don’t think I understood a single word of...” Sylvie frowns. Cocks her head to one side. “What the fuck’s wrong with your mouth?”

  Schilling’s lips tighten involuntarily. “That’sh not... It’sh none of your--”

  “All right, all right. Don’t get yourself in a huff, there. You were saying?”

  Schilling groans in frustration. Unclips his holster from his belt. Sets it down on the landing. “Thish ish it. Your lasht warning... Mishush Rutherford expectsh you to do what she told you to. If you can’t carry out her ordersh, you need to undershtand there are conshequenches.”

  Sylvie doesn’t answer. Just stares at him. Then: “Seriously, what’s going on in there? You get braces?”

  “No! My jaw’sh wired shut. Obvioushly!”

  She leans closer. Squinting at his mouth. “Doesn’t all that hardware hurt? Up against the inside of your lips like that?”

  “I can handle it.”

  “Yeah? How ‘bout now?” Sylvie mashes the palm of her hand into Schilling’s mouth. Adding a little twist at the end for good measure.

  Clutching at his face, Schilling reels. Spitting blood all over himself. Stumbling back, he loses his footing. Misses three steps entirely. Crashes down on his tailbone on the next landing. The last before the ground floor.

  In terrible pain, he looks up. Sees Sylvie standing over him. Holding his own gun. “You can tell the old bastards I don’t give one red rat turd about their orders. The Watch was never meant to be their private army, and the second those worm things chewed their way through our ranks, war was officially declared. Meaning: We’ll no longer be paying even the slightest attention to the egomaniacal decrees of selfish old men and women too stupid to know their time has passed.”

  She looks at the gun. Disgusted to even be holding it. “As for you... You go ahead and come at me again some time. Just see if it turns out any better for you.” With that, Sylvie continues on her way. Leaving Schilling to his misery.

  One hand covering his bleeding mouth, the other clutching his bruised ass, he’s not sure which end is suffering more. Far from chasing after her, all he can really do is listen as Sylvie’s heavy feet echo down the last few stairs. Before she clatters through the exit. And out into the world.

  ~

  The washroom door flings inward. Its handle shatters the wall tiles on impact. Sticks in the newly formed crack. Schilling doesn’t bother trying to pull it free.

  “No. Shylvie’sh not here.” Every word is painful. “Duty nursh told me: I jusht mished her. He holds the phone to one side. Spits into the sink as best he can through wired teeth. Expels small clots: Blood. Saliva. Unidentifiable solid bits. “Shoundsh like I musht’ve been coming up in the elevator, shame time she wash going down the shtairsh.”

  “I have to tell you, Douglas: That is very disappointing news.” Mrs. Rutherford’s voice over the phone is as shrill as he’s ever heard it.


  “Couldn’t be helped. No way to know she wouldn’t shtay with her dad.” Schilling looks at himself in the mirror. Once his greatest pleasure. Now - face pulped by Sylvie, while still recovering from an earlier beating - it’s torture. “Gimme time. I’ll catch up with her.”

  “Time is precisely what we lack.” A quiver in the old woman’s speech. Something has her shaken. Badly. “She must be convinced to follow our orders as soon as possible.”

  “Might not be ash eashy ash that. She’sh a tougher nut to crack than you think.” With cautious fingers, he pinches his lower lip. Peels it gingerly away from his teeth. Cringing. Not hard to assess the damage. Inside: His mouth is shredded hamburger. Deep gouges where the metal brackets affixed to each tooth sliced into the soft flesh inside his lips. As he disturbs the wounds, his blood begins to flow once more.

  “Nonsense. She’s a nervous little mouse playing at being strong.”

  “Uh-huh.” Could’ve fooled him. Schilling spits again. In the mirror - beyond his own reflection - the hospital corridor is visible, through the wedged-open door. Here, an anxious man steps into view. Pausing to glance over his shoulder. As if worried someone is following him.

  Schilling squints. Recognizing the man before he hurries on. “Hey, uh... What if we had shome other leverage?”

  “What are you thinking?”

  “Well, she’sh got a hushband right? What if we had him? Think we could forche her co-operation that way?”

  “Possibly... But there are other reasons we need to find Trevor.”

  “Sherioushly? He’sh outshide of the Chircle, isn’t he? Real eshtate or shomething?”

  “That was our understanding as well. Nevertheless, we have reason to believe he may have stolen something from the Home. Something extremely valuable to us. A canister. If you could re-acquire this item... Undamaged... We’d be highly appreciative.”