FROM AWAY ~ BOOK THREE

by Mackey Jr. , Deke

  ~

  Thump-a-thump-thump: The front door.

  A frowning Dawn steps out of the bathroom. Feet mostly tended to. Wearing compression bandages over the real ones. Should her father notice, she can blame them on old cross-country injuries.

  Surprised the dull knocking hasn’t roused her father, she peers towards the cabin’s front door. Squints. Facing east, the early morning sunlight streams in low. Nearly horizontal. Backlighting the visitor on the porch into an unknowable silhouette.

  It’s too early for this to be anything good.

  Dawn’s first thought: A certain sleepwalker got into mischief she wasn’t aware of before waking up outside Adderpool. Maybe she can head the news off at the pass? Keep her father from finding out about... Whatever it is she’s done?

  Hopeful, Dawn heads over to answer the door. Comes up short when she sees who’s outside: Her father, Ren Lesguettes.

  Sheepish, he holds up his hands. Both tightly mittened in gauze bandages. “It’s really not as bad as it looks.”

  “Oh my god, Dad!” Dawn throws open the door. “What happened? Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine, Dawnie. And I’ll explain everything, I promise. But first... Could you pay my cabbie?” He waves with immobilized appendages. “I can’t really reach my wallet like this.”

  ~

  “You’re saying: You were actually on fire?”

  “Just my... Uh... Just my hands. And only for a few seconds, really. It could’ve been worse.” Ren plops down on the edge of his bed. Slurring slightly. Painkillers at work. “Left’s definitely worse than right. Second degree, they said. Right’s more like a bad sunburn. Only with... Blisters.”

  “Um... Gross, Dad.”

  He looks at his bandaged hands. Repeats: “Could’ve been worse. A lot worse.”

  “But then the Sheriff shot the guy, huh?” Dawn squats down. Undoes her father’s shoes. “Bad. Ass.”

  “Which? Me being on fire? Or--“

  “Pfft. Sheriff Netty, obviously.” She pulls the shoes off. Drops them next to the bed. “There were, what? A dozen people on fire? But only one pistol-packing sharpshooter who saved the day.”

  Grateful, Ren lifts his legs up. Lies back against the pillows. Arms cradled across his chest. “Being on fire is still pretty badass.” He seems almost hurt.

  “Maybe. But Dad, from what you said, you were also, like, the least on-fire guy there.” Dawn rises. Gives her father a consolation pat on the shoulder.

  He smiles sadly. Closes his eyes. “I don’t even know who put me out. No clue. This Dennis joker hadn’t even hit the cement, and all of a sudden? Somebody’s got their coat over my arms. Smothering out the flames. That’s all I remember until the hospital.”

  Dawn frowns. “So... Why’d that guy hate you so much?”

  Ren’s quiet. Long enough that he may have fallen asleep. Then: “I’m not sure, Dawnie.”

  Hm. She’s not sure she believes him. Lets it go for now. Leaves him to rest. Before she can exit the bedroom, he blurts out: “Indoor pools... Such a shame!”

  Dawn laughs. His pain meds are clearly strong enough. “What’s the shame about indoor pools, Dad?”

  “All those medals. All that hard work.” He opens his eyes. Finds her. Smiles before closing them again. “That girl swims like a fish! They all said it, kid. Now you can finally swim where the fishes do.”

  “Ohhh.” For some reason, he’s talking about her swimming in the ocean. “Yeah, eventually, I guess.”

  “No-no-no. Not eventual. You were going to go now. So you go now.”

  “I wasn’t going to--” Dawn shakes her head. “What makes you say that?”

  He gestures towards her bed. Lain out across the duvet: Her black bathing suit. Her oversized sunhat. A pair of flip-flops resting on a beach towel.

  She hadn’t noticed. Doesn’t remember setting these things out. Silently curses the sleepwalker she’s certain was responsible. Because: No. Despite her life-long dream, she hadn’t planned on going anywhere near the ocean anytime soon. Her last encounter with salt-water resulted in losing consciousness and face-planting in the surf. Not an experience she cared to repeat.

  Her father misinterprets her reticence. “It’s okay, Dawnie. I can take care of myself. You just go ahead. The last thing I want is for you to change your plans just to look after me.”

  “You couldn’t even undo your shoes, Dad.”

  “No, but it’s okay. I’m just going to be... Resting.” Ren’s drifting. Overcome by lack of sleep. Pain meds. The madness of the night before. “I want you to go, Dawn. I do. You’ve always talked about it. Swimming in the ocean... You should really go.”

  And with that, he is truly out. Cold.

  Dawn lifts the bathing suit from the bed. Thinks things over. It’s true: She has always wanted to swim in the ocean. Over a lifetime of swimming competitions in over-chlorinated pools, she’s always dreamed about the deep blue sea. Swimming without sticking to lanes. No rectangular boundaries to contain her. Letting loose, and seeing how far she can go. Even thinking about it now is giving her a chilly thrill of anticipation.

  That last time? Passing out on the beach, right on the heels of her less-than-auspicious barfy-barfy ferry ride? Her reaction may well have been caused by the waves making her dizzy. Probably nothing more than an aftershock following her bad bout of seasickness. No reason to assume it will reoccur.

  Besides, just because the sleepwalker came up with it, that doesn’t automatically make it a terrible idea.

  Dawn gathers the beach gear. Goes to get changed.

  CHAPTER NINE

  No way anybody survived that.

  Max stops on the road in front of Lesguettes Lighthouse. Next to the flat-bed semi parked on the shoulder. Looks closely at its load: Three blackened wrecks held in place atop it by thick canvas straps.

  No way.

  Transfixed. Unable to turn away. Not even sure he can blink if he needs to. Staring at the twisted metal. Warped beyond all reason by a catastrophic accident of some kind.

  No survivors. Nobody could live through whatever caused that. Nobody. A passenger in that truck would’ve been crushed. The driver of that car would’ve been sheared in two. Max can see it. Clearly. Everyone involved: Must be dead.

  His legs shake. Knees literally knocking together.

  A sound. He can hear it, or possibly just remembers hearing it: A soft whisper getting louder. The ocean tide approaching. A staticky white noise, filling his brain. Like...

  An explosion.

  There’s just no way. They’d’ve been torn apart. Split into pieces. Just like...

  Aaron.

  Max isn’t crying. At least, it doesn’t feel like crying. His eyes burn. Tears run down his cheeks. He doesn’t know where they’re coming from or why. Just that he can’t help it. Can’t stop them.

  Max can’t control anything that happens. Can’t anticipate. Can’t stop. Nothing is within his power.

  He blinks. Clenches his eyes shut.

  And he’s back there: In the lighthouse. Before the blast. When it was already too late. Seeing what he saw, and wants never to have to see again.

  He couldn’t help it. Couldn’t stop it. Couldn’t save Aaron.

  Because nobody could possibly have survived that blast, either. Nobody should have. And maybe? Nobody did.

  ~

  Inside Lesguettes Lighthouse: Chaos.

  More members of the Watch milling around than Max has ever seen in one place. Everyone in motion. Busy. And not just his current co-workers. Retired guys. Gray-haired men and women he’d seen around town, but never even known were connected to the Circle. They were probably all at the funeral. He would’ve seen them then, if he’d gone. Maybe then this wouldn’t be so overwhelming.

  The lighthouse cafeteria has been transformed: One wall is covered in maps of the island. Aerial photographs. Strings pinned across. Routes plotted out. The picnic tables usually filling the dining area have been pushed to the periphe
ry. Clearing a space in the center of the room. Here, two men set up rows of folding chairs. Preparing for the meeting. A third erects a projector screen.

  Boxes are carried in. Unpacked into piles: Wetsuits. Body armor. Spearguns. Shotguns. Are those grenades?

  Max does his best to stay out of everyone’s way. Laying low. Avoiding notice. Taking everything in. Catching snippets of conversation. Enough to piece together a narrative:

  Tower Two calls it in: Something in the water. Patrol boat investigates. Sylvie. Burl. Roscoe. All true: There is something out there. They chase it. Catch it, somehow. A creature - so they think. They try to retrieve it. Roscoe gets grabbed. Taken ashore. Sylvie in pursuit through the forest. Finds its skin. Not a creature... A costume. No sign of Roscoe.

  First the lighthouse is attacked, and now this? What was going on? Max had never believed the stories. Not really. And maybe the creature/costume raises some entirely new questions... But in the light of Roscoe’s abduction, it was hard to deny that an enemy action of some kind was underway.

  “Finally deigned to join us, didja, b’y?” The voice booms across the dining hall. Martin has found him. “S’about focking time.” The old man limps through the crowd. Max’s dead best friend’s grandfather.

  Martin inspects Max top-to-bottom as he approaches. Judging the kid who survived the explosion that took his grandson. Clearly doesn’t like what he sees. “Lard help ya, cocky, but ya look like ya been hauled through the knothole.” Before Max knows what’s happening, Martin grasps his hand. Pulls him into a back-slapping embrace. “But it’s damn good to see ya up-and-about, I’ll tell ya.”

  Dumbstruck, Max isn’t sure what to do. Lets it happen. Lets the old man hug him, if that’s what he wants. And when that’s done, he lets Martin thrust his hand into the air. Not quite understanding as the old man addresses the room with a thunderous bellow: “Shift yer eyes, b’ys!”

  Every conversation stops. Every head turns. All attention hones in on Max.

  “An’ help me welcome back to the fold one of our own. Returned to us from the very gates of Hades: Max Hubert!”

  Max is shocked by a round of hearty applause. Cheers. Back-pats from those standing near enough to give them. Don’t they realize how he’s failed them all? That he’s the stoner? The slacker? That the good one’s gone because of him?

  “After catchin’ Max up, the Devil weighed the scrawny bastard. Found he was under the legal limit. Had no choice but to throw him back until he’d grown some!” This earns a good laugh from the crowd. All Max can think of is how much smaller Aaron was.

  Handshakes on all sides. Grim smiles. Well-wishes. People tell him how glad they are to see him. What a tough sonuvabitch he must be. How much the Circle needs young blood like his. Max is overcome. He’d always been low man on the totem pole. Condescended to. Talked down at. Barely tolerated. Truthfully, he’d never earned more than that. Giving his least. Letting Aaron catch his slack. Spending his time on the clock getting high.

  Now, more than just accepted, they were treating him like a hero. And all he had to do to earn it was watch his eviscerated best friend get blown to smithereens.

  “All right, that’s enough fiddle-fartin’ around. Get yerselves back to the work at hand. Sylvie’s expectin’ a lead on who took our b’y, and anyplace they mighta took ‘im. So, hupsha, hupsha!”

  Those gathered clear away. Return to their assigned tasks. Still chittering happily about Max’s return. Morale heightened by the one gain in the midst of so much loss.

  Martin gives Max a shove. “Scull it along, there, Max. Ya got work needs doin’, too.” He follows Max out of the cafeteria. Through a doorway. Up a staircase. “Got somethin’ up here we’re gonna need ya to take a gander at.”

  ~

  Max’s heart stops when he sees it.

  The running gash along his arm lights up. Hot. He rubs his fingertips over the sutures. Replaying the moment he received the wound. “That’s it. That’s... The thing I saw. The one that did it.”

  “Sure, now?”

  Max nods. “One hundred percent.”

  The photograph on Sylvie’s phone is blurry. Her flash left a rash of reflective hot spots along the shiny rubber hide. But the creature laying in the hole - Max has to remind himself it’s just a costume - is unmistakably the one that cut him. The one who tore Aaron to pieces. At the very least, it’s from the same family.

  “It looked exactly like that.” He scrubs to the next photo: Closer on the thing’s head. Its empty black eye. “That’s what killed Aaron. I saw it dive off the cliff into the ocean.” Four photos in total. Slightly different angles. All that remains of the only evidence they’ve ever possessed. “And there was a guy inside?”

  “Yeah. This was just a suit.”

  Max shakes his head. “But, how could anybody--” He flashes on Aaron. What was left when the creature was done with him. “I mean... If it wasn’t a monster... How could a person... Do... What it did?”

  Sylvie takes back her phone, without looking at him. Glares at the screen before shutting it off. “I’ll be sure to ask. While I’m doing worse to him.” She crosses the crow’s nest. Away from both Max and her father. Photo confirmed, Max’s usefulness has once again expired.

  Martin rests a hand on Max’s shoulder. “We shoulda listened to ya, lad. Thought you must’ve been talkin’ through the shock of it, but we shoulda took more serious what ya said.”

  Sylvie slams her fist down on the desktop. “And what difference would that have made, Dad?”

  Max flinches back from her wrath, but Martin rises to it. Stands straighter. Chest expanding. “We’d’ve known we were under attack, wouldn’t we? Or do ya really not think that mighta been helpful?”

  “Oh, sure! At least as helpful as you telling me you-told-me-so!”

  “I did tell you so, Sylvia Jane.”

  “You told me fish-creatures from the deep were going to invade! Said you could smell it! This was a guy in a costume. A human. From dry land. No amount of preparation was going to save us from a self-destructing rubber suit!”

  “That’s not the--”

  “You’re retired, Dad! It’s not up to you anymore. If you’ve got a problem with the way I’m running things, maybe you should go out to the Home and ask the Old Men for your job back.”

  Martin looks stricken by the suggestion. “Ya know that’s not what I want, Sylvie.”

  If she does, she doesn’t say so. Except for the squeaky turning of the lantern, the crow’s nest goes quiet.

  Max isn’t sure he’s ever been quite so uncomfortable. Sitting in on a family squabble is awkward enough when it’s your own family in question. In case father and daughter have forgotten he’s there, he steps forward. “So... What should I be doing now? How can I help?”

  Irritated he hasn’t left already, Sylvie waves Max away. “You? You go home.”

  “But--”

  “I promised your mother. No active duty. Not until Doc Ramsey gives the all-clear.”

  Max wants to argue. Feels his limited energies slipping away. His injuries complaining in slightly different tones. He really does need his rest. A red rectangle on his belly suggests he might need something else. He does his best to ignore it.

  Martin grips his shoulder. Moves him towards the staircase. “S’probably for the best, lad. Get yer strength up. Come on back full-force when yer able.”

  Max nods. Heads down the steps.

  Before he’s entirely out of earshot, the altercation begins anew. Martin does his best to speak softly, but the acoustics of rounded lighthouse interiors carry his voice easily down to Max’s level: “Unless yer hopin’ to see that poor boy blowed up again and this time for good, ya need to be plottin’ up a plan of some kind, ducky. They’re comin’ for us, that much is sure. Whether by land or by sea, there’s one thing ya better believe: This ain’t over.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Peggy Tanner’s face remains dotted. Speckled with her firstborn son’s blood. “It
wouldn’t have been right to let him go on like that. I couldn’t allow it. He knew. It was what he wanted. What had to happen. He was ready.” She stares at the elevator doors. Through them. Hands cuffed behind her back.

  “How do you know?” Netty grips Mrs. Tanner’s arm. Keeps her close. “Did he talk to you?”

  The woman slowly shakes her head. “Before, he did. Before the bridge. I understand it now. It was all just part of it. Part of the deal.”

  Netty tilts her head. “What was, Mrs. Tanner?”

  “They’d take Marshall. Make him better. Cure him forever.”

  “And who was it that made him the offer?”

  The woman slumps. Leans against the Sheriff. Drained of energy. “He wouldn’t tell me.”

  “But they promised to cure Marshall of his addiction...” Netty pushes for more. “And in return... What was Denis supposed to do?”

  “He was supposed to die. They all were.”

  Bing. The doors shush open. Main floor. A straight shot to the hospital’s front entrance. Rather than exit, Mrs. Tanner looks up at Netty. “I told him no. I wasn’t going to let him. I would never agree to trade my healthy son for the sick one. But he said I couldn’t stop him. Slipped me something. And when I woke up...”

  She fades away.

  Netty catches the doors as they close. Gives the woman a tug to get her moving. Ushers her into the corridor.

  “So... If dying was part of the deal...” Netty pushes the elements up against one another. “Is that why you--”

  “Denis had to hold up his end. Otherwise, they said they’d stop treating Marshall. Dump him on the street to die. I didn’t want to do it. I had to. I couldn’t risk losing both of them, Sheriff. I can’t.”

  “What about the other protesters... Did everyone have an agreement of their own?”