FROM AWAY ~ BOOK FIVE

by Mackey Jr. , Deke

  “Leave it to me...” Schilling smiles. Blood on his teeth as he reopens the cuts inside his lip. “I’ll shee what I can do.”

  ~

  Trevor takes his father-in-law’s hand. Squeezes. Almost expecting the old man’s standard crippling vice-grip in return. Instead, getting nothing at all. For the first time, possessing the firmer grasp. Not a comforting victory.

  He’d liked Martin from the start. If somewhat distant, the in-laws had always shared a good-natured admiration for one another. Each fully recognizing: Anyone who can put up with Sylvie long-term deserves a measure of respect. Anyone who can love her? All the moreso.

  But Trevor had not found Sylvie at her father’s bedside. Why was he even surprised? She’s about the least sentimental person he’s ever known. In the past, he’d always seen that as a sign of his wife’s inner strength. But with her stoniness following Aaron’s death it had become clear to him: She’s plainly broken.

  Still... For the time being... She is his wife. He has a duty to protect her. From the Old Men. From the sheriff they sent to teach her a lesson. So... If not at the hospital with her sick father, where might she be?

  Trevor groans at his own stupidity. After all, where is it that Sylvie can almost always be found? At home with her family? Not hardly. At work. On the job. He should never have come to the hospital. He should’ve headed directly for the lighthouse. Even if she’s not currently there, they’ll almost certainly know where to find her. Undoubtedly: Off on Circle business.

  He gives his father-in-law’s limp hand a parting pat. Exits the room. Three steps down the hallway, he freezes. Bewildered. Finding himself faced with exactly the trouble he’d come looking for.

  Standing at the other end of the empty corridor: Sheriff Schilling. Facing Trevor. As though he’s been waiting for hours. Solid. Steady. Bigger than he remembers. Meaner. But with all Trevor’s been through recently, is he really going to be intimidated by some muscle-headed cop? After coming face-to-face with actual monsters? This is just a man. And this confrontation is the whole reason he’s there in the first place?

  Trevor starts forward. So does the sheriff.

  “She’s not here, Schilling.”

  “Oh, no?”

  “No. And you don’t need to keep looking. Because I’m not going to let you hurt her.”

  “Oh, shonny-boy... I wanted to hurt Shylvie? Wouldn’t be a thing you could do to shtop me. But ash it turnsh out, she’sh not why I’m here. Not anymore.”

  A chill runs down Trevor’s spine. He’d rushed off on this mission without giving it much consideration. Thinking only of the threat to his wife. But given what he’d seen at the Home - not to mention the role he’d personally played in the deaths of several Old Men - he should’ve known better.

  “Sho, tell me: What’d you do with the canishter, Trevor?”

  Shit... This isn’t at all how this was supposed to go. He was there to save the damsel, not become distressed himself. In trying to help Sylvie, Trevor has unknowingly walked himself into a trap. “What, uh... What canister?”

  “Ohhhh...” Schilling’s lips quiver into something more or less like a smile. “I was sho hoping you would shay shomething like that.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  He lowers the ladle into the barrel. Hand quaking.

  The five nuns have lined up along the wall. Each waiting their turn. Not looking in his direction. Afraid of him: The mutated freak hiding in the abandoned town. As they should be. He could break the whole bunch like a bundle of twigs, if he so desired. But just this moment, he’s more afraid of them. Of what they might know. What they might guess at any minute.

  His secret: That Madeline is in the cellar.

  The longer they remain, the more likely it is he will give something away. He must get this over with as quickly as possible. If they knew... If they were to tell Mother Agatha? He shudders at the thought. Fights himself. To steady the shaking. Before one of them notices. Before they figure out that there’s something he’s desperate to hide. Before they realize the truth.

  But why had she followed? She was always such a good girl. Always listened. Why hadn’t she done as she was told? After so long away, he’d expected she’d want to reacquaint herself with their home. Instead, she’d chased him into the tunnels. Trailed him to the cabin. And now, if they see her? It will ruin everything.

  The ladle dips. Disappearing into shimmering blackness. As it emerges, the first nun steps forward. Holding out her urn. “Fully prepared am I, to receive her magnificent bounty.”

  He lifts the ladle. Pours it into the vessel. The thick liquid hisses momentarily as it meets its new container. Then settles.

  “More precious than life itself, I pledge I shall not spill a drop.” The nun still doesn’t look at him. Takes no notice of his unsteady hand. Concentrating on her urn alone. On the vow she’s made to keep its contents safe. Focused on her task, she steps back. Pivots on one heel. Exits the cabin.

  No sooner has she cleared the path, than the next in line steps up to take her place. Pushing forward an urn of her own. “Fully prepared am I, to receive her magnificent bounty.”

  He lowers the ladle. Hand still shaking. Grazing the interior of the barrel, the scoop rattles sharply. An alarm clock, cutting through the cabin. Awakening everyone to the possibility that something warrants their closer attention.

  If the nuns don’t already know what it is, they soon will. One will notice his nerves. The flopsweat cascading down his cheeks. She’ll wonder at the cause. If not this nun, surely the next. It takes only one. Then? That will be that. His lack of self-control will have given everything away.

  For now: Heads remain bowed. Eyes averted.

  So, he fills the second nun’s urn.

  “More precious than life itself, I pledge I shall not spill a drop.” She steps away without calling him out. Doesn’t accuse him of hiding anything. Staring into the oily liquid in her jar as she walks carefully away.

  The third moves into her place. Holds out her urn. “Full-fully prepared am I, to, um... Receive her magnificent bounty.”

  He lowers the ladle. His arm quivering only mildly. Barely noticeable at all.

  She’s nervous. The nun is. Worried about her own performance. All of her attention aimed inward. She doesn’t give the slightest damn about him. None of them do. They all have their own anxieties. He holds no importance to them at all beyond his delivery of the dark substance for which they’ve come.

  He fills the third nun’s urn.

  “More p-precious than life itself, I shall not-- Sorry... I pledge I shall not spill a drop.” She exits. Walking a bit more slowly than her sisters had. Choosing her steps a bit more carefully. Not taking any chances.

  The fourth comes forward. Second-to-last. It’s nearly over, now. She holds out her urn. Interested in nothing beyond it. “Fully prepared am I, to receive her magnificent bounty.”

  He lowers the ladle. Hand steady. In control. All is well. Business as usual. They don’t know. Of course they don’t. Can’t possibly. How could anyone guess such a thing? That Madeline had returned, after all these years? He’s overreacting. Because the fallout would be so extreme. If one were to inform Mother Agatha... He doesn’t even want to dream about what might happen, then.

  He fills the fourth nun’s urn.

  “More precious than life itself, I pledge I shall not spill a drop.” She glides away.

  The final nun moves into position. Past it. Back again. Unable to stand in one spot for any length of time. Must be nerves, too. Like the third nun. Her anxiety simply displaying in a different way. She knows nothing. None of them do.

  He lowers the ladle. Needing to stoop slightly. The barrel’s contents getting low. Soon he’ll need to venture deep again. To replenish the supply.

  “Guillau-aume...” The last nun sings his name. “Guillaume-Guillaume!”

  He stiffens. Fumbles the ladle. Spills its contents back into the barrel. Needing to scoop again. This is not h
ow things are done. The nun’s wide smile is too much. It’s disconcerting.

  “Have you met her yet, Guillaume?”

  His heart stops. Her? Has he met her? What is this woman saying? What does she know? Has she come to squeeze him for an admission of guilt?

  She only laughs at his confusion. “No? Not yet? Well, soon you will. I’ve seen it. And next, you have to meet her.” She holds out her urn.

  He automatically lifts the ladle. Tremors returned. Arm quaking badly again. Waiting for it to steady, he asks: “Wh-Who? Met who?”

  “Pfft! You know!” Seeing his frown, she elaborates: “Your great-granddaughter, that’s who.”

  He blinks his cloudy eyes. Tries to make sense of this. A great-granddaughter? But the girl... Wasn’t she--

  “She’s the one, Guy! It’s her, and you meet her. Will meet her, if you haven’t. At some point. That’s why you’re still... After all this time, your greater purpose...” The nun’s smile fades. “Did you not realize she was coming? Hasn’t Mother Agatha told you?”

  She has not. Hasn’t told him he had a granddaughter, let alone a great-granddaughter. Hasn’t given him any news of his child’s life in the outside world since she’d safely escaped. Said it was easier that way. That one day she would be back. That her arrival would begin the next phase. Commencing the great liberation. Until then, she’d said, they’d need to help one another.

  And now - as promised - she had returned. Or so he thought. But he’d recognize his own daughter when he saw her, wouldn’t he? Even after so many years, Madeline hasn’t changed a bit, and he would know. He’s gazed on her photograph every day of every one of those years. Her every feature memorized. And the girl downstairs? That’s her. Right down to the charm he’d personally handcrafted and placed around her lovely neck himself. So very long ago.

  His arm stills. He looks into the fluid blackness. Gazing down at his own reflection. The lines. The spots. The white hair - what little remains. He hadn’t been a young man when she left, but he’s certainly older now. Though the plague had changed him. Retarding his bodily processes. Even those who age slowly... They still age.

  But Madeline hasn’t. Not at all. And away from the island all this time... Away from the source...

  Oh! What a fool he’s been!

  “Um... Hello? Weren’t you going to... Oh! Right!” The last nun laughs at herself. Rattles it off: “I’mfullypreparedtoreceive hermagnificentbounty.” She re-presents her urn.

  He lifts the ladle. Arm steady once more. He fills her container.

  “Morepreciousthan life, I won’t spilladrop!” She curtseys.

  Ceremony finally concluded, he turns away. Hangs the ladle on its hook. Glowering at the cellar door. The girl had lied to him. Pretended. More than her identical twin appearance, she has the charm. This cannot be coincidence. Why? What could it mean? What is it she wants from him?

  He sets the lid atop the barrel. Hammers it back into place.

  “Hey, it’s okay.”

  He jumps. The last nun hasn’t left. Still there. Looking concerned.

  “Sorry, I just thought you’d’ve met her by now. But don’t worry: It won’t be long.” She smiles. “At least I hope not, because...” Her eyes sparkle as she leans in close. Whispering: “Because only after Dawn’s sacrifice can our next glorious era begin!”

  ~

  What is Paula saying? It makes Dawn crazy not to know. She presses her cheek to the crack in the door. As though that might help her hear the words being whispered on the far side of the cabin.

  Then - as Paula turns away from Dawn’s great grandfather - she looks toward the cellar door. Through the crack. Directly into Dawn’s eyes. And she grins.

  Dawn jerks back. Surprised. Nearly losing her balance. Crouched on tiptoes on the topmost step. Grabbing for the wall to keep from toppling down the staircase. Regaining her equilibrium, she finds the crack. Peeks out again.

  But Paula is gone. The cabin door already closed. Barred. Her great-grandfather (Guillaume!) tips the barrel onto its side. Rolls it across the floor.

  Masked by its rumbling, Dawn races to the bottom. Turns around just as the door opens. Strikes a nonchalant pose.

  After locking up, her great-grandfather lugs the cask down the steps. Shoulders bent beneath some invisible additional mass. As though the barrel has become heavier, despite being emptied into the nun’s urns. Reaching the cellar floor, he dumps it to one side. Groans.

  “You trade that stuff for supplies, huh?” Dawn comes closer. “What is it, anyway?”

  He kicks the wooden drum. Gets a hollow echo as its contents slosh around inside. Underlining the emptiness. “Mostly gone.”

  Unsatisfied, she pushes forward. “What do they want it for, the nuns?”

  He closes his eyes. Braces himself on the barrel’s edge.

  “Are you all right?” Dawn presses her luck. “Father?”

  He whirls. Grabs her by the neck. Slams her into a rock wall. The toes of her shoes just touch the ground. Barely keeping her from choking. She pries at his fingers. Scratches at his arms. But he’s far stronger even than he appears. Stronger than on the beach, when she’d more or less bested him. Had he just been playing her?

  He grabs her wrists with his free hand. Stops her squirming. Moves in close. Examining her face with his wet, clouded eyes. “You’re not Madeline?”

  It’s not a question. “No.” Dawn’s voice little more than a squeak. “I’m her granddaughter... Dawn.”

  His fingers flex. Keeping her pinned. “Is she... Do you know, is she...” He can’t finish.

  “I’m so sorry.” Dawn understands. “But she died. When I was little.”

  His bug-eyes pop out further. “When you were--” Overcome, he releases her. She drops to her knees. Clutching at her throat. Coughing. “I hadn’t meant to... Didn’t want to lie. But you were so certain I was her. I thought if I went along with it, I could figure out a way to tell you that wouldn’t be so... So painful.”

  He nods to himself. Not listening really. Shaken.

  Dawn rises. “Is that what Paula was telling you? The nun out there. When she was whispering?”

  “No. She said you were...” The one, she’d said. She’s the one, Guy. It’s her.

  He looks at the girl. The one Mother Agatha’s been waiting for. Mother Agatha, who let him go on believing his daughter was alive. She must have realized: The truth would have ended him. And then who would do the harvesting on their behalf? Who would bring barrel after barrel to the surface? Better to lie. Let him go on thinking Madeline was out there, somewhere. That she might be back at any time. So long as the nuns got what they needed.

  Even now, knowing better, she’s still a dead ringer for his daughter. But, at three generations, so distant from him as to be barely a relation at all. The resemblance is an insult. A deception. A betrayal.

  “So, should I call you--”

  His hands are around her throat once more. Holding her aloft. Inches from the rafters. Dawn kicks out. Connecting with air. She hammers at his corded arms. The soft white flesh purpling instantly beneath each strike. But it’s not enough. His grip is stone. Blackness swirls. Presses in on the edges of her vision. Just before it overtakes her, she hears his voice: “She’s going to need to find... Another one.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  Yellow berries pop. Hissing in the fire pit as flames devour the black vines.

  Netty stands to one side. Out of the path of the acrid smoke. Downing her third bottle of water. Attempting to clear her throat. Spitting brown globs of mucus into the fire as they loosen. Fearing their noxious taste may never entirely fade.

  From her open bathroom window: Cursing.

  Wanda still inside. Clearing out the remaining ivy with those new hands of hers. Apparently? Regrown by a mad scientist in his secret - and now self-destructed - underground laboratory. A process she claims has also cured her of her nearly life-long addiction to goo. As origin stories go? Nearly impossible to lay any sto
ck in, even if it hadn’t come from such an inveterate liar. Because, time and again, Wanda has proven herself uniquely untrustworthy.

  Even so, Netty can’t help but feel there’s been an honest change. Certainly, something is different about her. In the clarity of her gaze. The conviction of her speech. A stability and forthrightness she’s never before displayed. So, despite well-placed misgivings and fully aware she should not, Netty finds herself - heaven help her - believing Wanda’s tale.

  Lost in thought, she doesn’t register the wind changing direction. Crossing the fire pit. Pushing the smoke toward her. Not until it’s burning her nostrils. Her already-raw throat. Triggering a massive coughing fit.

  Staggering out of the path of the billowing black cloud, Netty retreats to the far end of her yard. Supporting herself on the corner of her sheet-metal shed. Doubling over. Hacking and spitting into the tangle of weeds growing along the fence behind it.

  Worn out, she finishes her water. Feeling a bit better, in spite of the violent attack. Able to swallow unobstructed again.

  “This looks to be the last of the stuff.” Wanda emerges through Netty’s patio doors. Carrying a final bundle of broken vines. “Almost threw out my back trying to pull it all out of your drain. Felt like it was trying to escape through your pipes.” She tosses it onto the fire. It shrieks and writhes in the flames. Then stills. “Pretty sure I got everything now. Everything I’m gonna, anyway.”

  “...good...” Netty grimaces. Voice barely audible.

  “Used up the last of your highly-corrosive and distinctly environmentally-unfriendly drain cleaner, though.”

  Netty waves it off. The very least of her troubles.

  Ducking under the smoke, Wanda joins her. Leans against the shed. “And you have no idea where this thing came from?”