FROM AWAY ~ BOOK FIVE

by Mackey Jr. , Deke

  He wakes to similar darkness. Alone. Head pounding. Confused. No idea where he is or how he’s arrived there. Greeted by a dim red glow. From somewhere above. Through mostly covered windows.

  He braces an arm. Squishing into wet carpet. Pushing against it to roll himself over. Hearing tearing as his clammy clothes pull away from whatever is beneath him. All of his surroundings so... Sticky.

  More knocking. A raspy voice from outside says... Something. In a voice too low to make out. Easily ignored. More crucial right now: Getting his bearings. Trevor thinks back. What’s the last thing he remembers?

  Events return to him in a stream: At the Home to see his mother. Going behind the scenes with the Young Man. Seeing the gillies. Wanda’s near-death. The full-on demises of others, less lucky. Goo disposal. A melting face. Rushing to Sylvie’s aid. Seeing her father, in his hospital bed. Then... What? And how much of that was even real? More than a few of those memories could just as easily have been extensions of his fish tank nightmare. Can they really be trusted?

  With gummy fingers, he probes his aching skull. Beneath matted hair, he finds a giant goose egg he doesn’t recall receiving. He’s been struck. It must’ve knocked him out. And made him bleed. That’s what it is, all over him. On his hands. His clothes. The carpet.

  But it can’t possibly all be his. Can it?

  He gets to his feet. Really taking in his surroundings. Starting to understand that the nightmare he’s woken into might actually be worse than the one he left behind. And even before the trailer door opens - even before the sunlight shines in - Trevor realizes the mistake he’s made: He’s not alone at all. In fact, he’s surrounded by people. They’re stacked around him like cordwood. All of them dead.

  In accepting that, Trevor registers the tiniest of sounds: A little click. Coming from somewhere deep inside his head. A fuse popping. A breaker clacking to ‘off’. A signal from his brain, telling him he has officially exceeded his limit on witnessing horrors for the foreseeable future.

  And so, he’s not really present anymore when he sits back down in the blood. He has instead ceded control to some unconscious support system as he leans back atop the gory throne of piled limbs and torsos.

  And though it may sound exactly like him, the real Trevor has hidden himself somewhere deep within, when the trailer door is wrenched open, and his replacement autopilot begins to laugh.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

  The green Jeep tears down a rarely used backroad. The latest in a succession of surfaces. Decreasing in quality, the farther the vehicle gets from town. Starting from well-maintained asphalt, it had roared out along rural routes of aging macadam, which broke apart into graded gravel, before devolving to just plain dirt.

  Inside, the Hunters bounce. The little woman behind the wheel. Driving them forward. On the edge of mania. Her anxiety only worsening the nearer she gets to her destination. The big man in the passenger seat bracing himself against the rough ride. One hand pressed on the dash. The other pushing into the ceiling. Mouth set in a straight line. Grim.

  Completing the transition from civilization to wilderness, the Jeep suddenly banks to one side. Diving headlong into the bush. Following a trail it had itself blazed not many days earlier. But the path has changed since their last visit. Once more-or-less hidden, the woods are now spread wide. Branches no longer clawing against the sides of the Jeep as it passes. Beneath its tires, the ruts cut more deeply into the soil. Criss-crossing themselves, where the Jeep’s former footprint had been steady and sure.

  Whoever had removed the Hunters’ vehicle from the site... They’d created a much larger space through the trees as they exited. They had to have been driving far more erratically to break away so many more limbs. To crush so much more of the surrounding foliage. Either that or... Something else had passed this way. A vehicle much larger than the Jeep.

  On finding the note beneath their windshield wiper, both husband and wife had come to the same conclusion: If those Mystery Museum jackasses had somehow found the dig, they would certainly take advantage of the opportunity. As they weren’t attempting to hide their discovery, they must be trying to send a message. To make clear their point: Without us, you’re cursed.

  An overwhelming sense of violation follows the Hunters down what used to be a private thoroughfare. As they re-enter territory they’d pioneered, knowing it is no longer theirs alone. Shared publicly far sooner than they’d intended. Trespassed upon by ignorant interlopers. As the Hunters finally reach the clearing - their clearing - they are filled with an all-encompassing dread.

  Even so, they are totally unprepared for what awaits them.

  Shocked by the sight, Mrs. Hunter stands on the brake. Possibly the first time she’s touched it since leaving the city limits. The Jeep grinds to a halt. Digging fresh furrows into the soft earth. Before the vehicle has stopped rocking, the pair jump out from their respective sides. Mouths agape.

  Unable to fully comprehend what lays before them.

  ~

  In many ways, the site remains exactly as the Hunters had left it: Building supplies still piled haphazardly. PVC pipe scaffold standing over the hole. The pump remains on its side at the edge, where Mr. Hunter kicked it over in frustration. Its hose still reaches downward. Prepared to continue syphoning at a moment’s notice.

  Really, only two things have changed: Firstly, a pair of deep, wide tire tracks lead directly to the edge of the hole. Confirming the presence of a vehicle far larger and heavier than the Hunter’s Jeep. And secondly, the hole itself - from which the Hunters had endeavored to empty both soil and water - has now been refilled. Only, this time?

  With concrete.

  It’s still wet, of course. Freshly-poured. The sharp tang of ammonia burns in the air. The scent of curing. Not a solid thing yet, but nevertheless far too late to take action against.

  Mr. Hunter walks slowly toward the hardening pool of liquid stone and gravel aggregate. Visualizing the cement truck which must have stood there so recently. Knowing now: The moment they’d rejected the invitation of the Society of Maritime Treasure Hunters, the call had gone out to pour. Rather than be excluded from whatever discoveries lay below, the bastards had taken it upon themselves to end the Hunters’ quest. Permanently.

  Their entrance is now capped. Nothing short of jackhammers and dynamite would be enough to get them back into the tunnels, but the passage itself would never survive such violence without collapsing.

  Mr. Hunter is taken by surprise when his wife bolts toward the hole. Instantly, he rushes after her. Grabbing at the straps of her overalls as she leaps past him. Into the gravelly mire. Barely catching hold of her before she sinks from sight. Pulling her back. Covered to the waist in hot concrete. Sobbing. Beating against his chest, two-fisted. Impotent. Absolutely broken.

  Despite her thrashing, he holds tight. Drags the little woman away from the edge. Across the grass. Toward the treeline. Tears pouring from his own eyes. Overcome by the loss. After all they’d been through. The pain they’d suffered. The sacrifices they’d made. To come so close...

  The disappointment and frustration are nearly overwhelming.

  But mostly? Mr. Hunter is blinded by white-hot fury against those who have perpetrated this injustice against them. Shocked that anyone might believe they could possibly get away with such a reprehensible act. Because they won’t. Vengeance will be swift and unreasonable. Severe and disproportionate. Every tear they’ve caused his wife to spill will be paid for in the blood of those responsible.

  When the Hunters are done with them... Only then will they truly know what it is to be cursed.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

  Wet rocks pass beneath her. Wet rocks choked by black ivy.

  Testing her limbs, Dawn finds she’s been restrained: Wrists bound together with coarse twine. Ankles too, from the feel of it. She lifts her logy head. Straining the sore muscles in her badly bruised neck. Finds herself hanging over her great-grandfather’s hunched back. Bouncing as he steps
from rock to rock. Dodging tripwire vines. Intending to play dead until a particularly jarring bound elicits a groan.

  He slows. Stops. Unburdens himself. Setting her down. Already bone-chilled, the cold of the rock doesn’t affect Dawn, but the misty dew covering every surface soaks quickly through the seat of her pants. Making her squirm.

  She rolls her head from one shoulder to the other. Still feeling every fingerprint her loathsome relation pressed into the flesh of her neck as he stole her consciousness away. “I thought... I thought you were killing me.”

  He shakes his head. “Not up to me whether you live or die. Not my decision to make.”

  “No? Then whose--” She stops as he pulls out a sharp chisel. Bends toward her. Cuts through the twine around her ankles. Freeing her legs.

  She extends her feet. Stretching sleepy muscles. “Where are we?”

  “On the Maw.”

  This is of no help to Dawn. “The... Maw?”

  He nods. As though further explanation is unnecessary. But Dawn requires more. She looks around. Taking in her unremarkable surroundings. No real identifiers except the rocks. And the ivy. Any attempts to get her bearings frustrated by white fog. Cutting the pair off from... Wherever they’ve been. Blocking the view of wherever they’re headed. To either side, the rocks slope away toward the sound of lapping waves below.

  Ah! Dawn flashes on their arrival in Adderpool. Their journey across the water. Mist leaving them equally blind until they passed the breakwater: A stony peninsula jutting out toward the ocean. Vine-covered rocks exactly like the treacherous terrain currently underfoot.

  “This is where it all began.” The roll of twine emerges from his rags. He unspools a length. Wraps its around her wrist bindings. “Townsfolk felt a rumbling one night. Didn’t last long. Nobody got hurt. Woke us all from our beds, though. Kept us up after... Worrying. Waiting for another shake that never came.

  “Next morning, they found the Maw. Wasn’t here before that. Just grew up out of the island overnight. Nobody could figure the whys or wherefores. Maybe it was just time for it. So it came.” He knots the twine. Tests the knot with two tugs. Then, uses it to drag Dawn to her feet. “Won’t be stopping for you again. So best keep up.”

  He moves off. Sure-footed. Part mountain goat. A part which genetics did not carry along to Dawn. Nearly losing her balance as she’s pulled along behind him.

  “Our house: It’s about as far off from here as you can get and still call it Adderpool. On the outskirts. But word of the Maw traveled fast. We wanted to come see it when we heard, Madeline and I. But my wife was scared. She made us both promise we’d stay away.”

  “Why?” Despite her best efforts, Dawn’s feet slip and slide. Every third step nearly taking her down. Only by paying close attention does she keep from becoming hopelessly entangled in the pervasive black ivy. “What was it that scared her?”

  “Talk. Gossip and rumors. There were those who thought it was a sign. Fomenting the coming of the end-times. They said it was the very mouth of Hell. Opening up to devour us all.”

  “The mouth of Hell? Why would they--” Dawn runs into her great-grandfather. Unprepared when he stops. Surprised to find they’ve reached the peninsula’s end. Here, the rocks rise up. Spread wide to form a gaping black cavern. Like an open mouth. This must be the Maw.

  White smoke billows from within. Rolls heavy across her feet. Icy cold. Substantial. More like snow than fog as it escapes. The ivy underfoot is the thickest she’s encountered. Densely packed with vines as wide around as her own calves. Woven into an unbreakable mesh as it crawled forth from the depths.

  “The smoke came black in those early days.” He stands on the lip. Staring down. Into the past. “We’d’ve guessed the thing was a volcano forming if it hadn’t been so goddamned cold.”

  Dawn edges next to him. Peeks in. Instantly regrets doing so. “Whoa.” Her stomach flips. Her lizard-brain panics. Because, more than a cavern, the Maw is a void. With no sense of an interior existing at all. The weak grey sunlight that filters through the mist simply stops at its border. Afraid to enter. It’s not that there’s nothing in there, so much as the space is filled with nothingness.

  “There’s a beauty in it... In the absence.” The mutated man circles the hole. Allowing slack in Dawn’s leash. Playing it out from the spool. Six feet. Ten. Opposite her, he stops. Twine bisecting the gap. As though planning to measure the Maw’s diameter. “Folks started getting sick soon after. Those first to visit the Maw were first to catch it. Those who lived closest, caught it hardest. Changed fastest.”

  The breath catches in Dawn’s throat. Involuntarily held, as though she can somehow unbreathe it, after the fact. “You’re saying this is the source? Of Adderpool’s bad air? Of the plague?”

  He looks at her without responding.

  “Is that why we’re here? You’re hoping I catch it too? So I become like you?”

  “No, girl.” He shakes his misshapen head. “You’re already like me. It’s in you deep. In your blood.”

  “Then why?”

  “Told you: It’s not up to me..” He plays with the twine. Reeling it in. Wrapping it around one hand. “Mother Agatha thinks you’re the one. Wants you to be. But it’s not for her to decide, either. It’s all up to the island.”

  “It’s up to the island? To decide, what? If I live or die...” Dawn still doesn’t understand. “And whether or not I’m... The one?”

  “If you are? Not to worry. It’ll spit you right back out.” He yanks on the twine. Jerks Dawn toward the hole.

  Shrieking, she falls back. Trying to brace her feet. Grabbing at the slippery vegetation. Finding no purchase. Slipping right up to the edge before her heels snag on the ivy.

  “And if you’re not?” Holding fast, he reaches out over the Maw. Gets another solid grip on the twine linking him to his great-granddaughter. No slack remaining. “Then... I guess it won’t.”

  One last time, he pulls.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

  The pages in the binder are thick. Laminated. Easy-wipe for easy clean-up. Even so, most remain vaguely sticky from the fingers of previous users. Twenty-four squares to the page. In each: A simple graphic image. Intended to convey simple, unambiguous messages.

  SUN

  MOON

  CLOUD

  WATER

  MAN

  WOMAN

  BOY

  GIRL

  An introductory paragraph suggests combining symbols. To allow for deeper meanings. Enabling more complex communications.

  SUN + CLOCK = DAYTIME

  Dr. Clemmons had presented Martin with the binder shortly after explaining the challenges faced by aphasics. Until his brain’s language center can be successfully rewired, these twenty slick pages are his primary means of expressing his needs. His only option for making himself understood.

  Even so, she had called the book a temporary compensatory strategy. Meaning: Don’t come to rely on it, there’s only one and we’ll be needing it back.

  He starts from the beginning again. Testing himself. Memorizing. Page positions. Image order. Four hundred and eighty pictures in total. He needs to know the binder frontwards and back. So as to be able to find whatever he needs as quickly as possible. Intending to make the most of the limited vocabulary it provides.

  “Ah! You came out of it. Good.” Mother Agatha doesn’t wait for an invitation. She crosses to Martin’s bedside. Concern painted loosely across her features. “You had us all worried for a while there.”

  Martin’s chest aches at the sight of her. Each heartbeat a hammer against his ribcage. Face flushing red. The half he still controls clenches tight. Nothing but rage for his visitor.

  She sees it. Realizes what must be behind the fury. “Finally piecing things together, huh?” Her eyes twinkle. “How much do you know?”

  Martin fumes.

  “You’ve guessed at my involvement, obviously. Who else could have orchestrated the whole blessed enterprise? I would hope -
on some level - that you might manage the tiniest modicum of respect for someone who could devise... And guide... And successfully execute such an impossibly elaborate plan over the course of a half-century. And all the while, hiding under your very nose.” She squints at him. “Lose your tongue for bait, Martin?”

  He flips through the binder. Turns it to face her. Points to an open mouth. Then, the international symbol for ‘no’.

  “I see...” She looks from the binder to the old man’s face. “Well, let’s face it, Martin: Speaking was never your forte anyway. What matters most at this point is: You’re aware. You can still observe and understand what’s happening. If you’d come so close to the end, only to miss out on the grand finale... How unfair would that have been?” She moves to the end of his bed. “After all my patience and effort... If you weren’t around to see it come to fruition? You, the only human being who could possibly appreciate the magnitude of my accomplishment? What a crying shame that would’ve been.”

  The old nun stands tall. Giving in - for one private moment - to pride.

  “Who else even remembers Michael at this point? Not a day passes when I don’t think of my brother, of course. And I’d hope his murderer spares the occasional thought for him as well.” She pats Martin on his limp left ankle. “But beyond the two of us, who else knew of his secret paramour? Of her thrilling escape from the island? Nobody. And no other living soul could ever hope to recognize the design behind a seemingly accidental encounter, many years later: When the beautiful young product of their love - conceived on the island but born in exile on the mainland - somehow coincidentally crossed paths with the scion of another venerable island family.”