FROM AWAY ~ BOOK THREE

by Mackey Jr. , Deke

  Trevor sets his suitcase by the front door.

  Not the big one. The one that fits into overhead compartments. In it: Everything he really needs to take with him. On a flight, it wouldn’t even have to be checked. His life, apparently: Carry-on.

  His office has a couch. A kitchenette. He can survive there until he finds a place. Marsha won’t mind.

  Really, though? Sylvie should be the one to leave. His house. His downpayment. His mortgage. Plus, she still has family on the island. People to take her in. Options he lacks. Trevor’s entire family - beyond wife and in-laws - amounts to two people. His mother, convalescing in the Home. No longer able to take care of herself without assistance. And his brother, long-since relocated to the mainland. Someone who: Tried, but just couldn’t rearrange things so it made sense to attend Aaron’s funeral. Someone he’s never been close with, even if he wanted to leave the island. Which he doesn’t.

  The house holds no meaning for Sylvie. Not a sentimental bone in her body. Outside of her crucially-important Circle duties, all she’s ever seemed to need is a place to sleep, shower, and shit. Maybe one other thing, but that faded from importance long ago. Trevor tried to make a home worth returning to; Sylvie tried to spend as little time away from her work as possible.

  But if he’s serious about leaving her this time, he needs to commit. Act accordingly, and leave. Get himself out of the situation. Away from her black moods and quick temper. Go someplace he can clear his head. Assess his next steps.

  Before he goes, he throws an empty backpack over one shoulder. Makes a circuit of the house. His needs covered. Is there anything he wants? Anything that should be removed? In case Sylvie flies into a destructive rage. Takes out her frustration on whatever’s most convenient.

  He considers Aaron’s room. The contents that seemed so important such a short time ago. Things he thought might form his last connections to his son. But the likelihood of Sylvie crossing that threshold were close to nil. The door and everything behind it undoubtedly exist in the same invisible netherworld into which she’d placed the box. Ignored. Forgotten. Safe.

  Looking over the living room shelves, Trevor notices the family photo albums: Four oversized binders. He slides them into the backpack. Filling it in one go. Not willing to risk leaving the memories behind. Sylvie won’t even notice they’re gone.

  All things considered, it’s surprising the Circle opted not to take them during their sweep. Photos full of information. Where the family had been. Who they’d associated with. At least as potentially damaging - surely - as a ten year-old’s diary. A minor miracle they’d escaped Circle censors armed with black markers and scissors. Chopping or blocking anything that might somehow jeopardize their precious secrets.

  Trevor flips through the most recent photos. Taken nearly a decade earlier. Surprised by how many include Sylvie. How often she’s smiling. Could things have really changed so much? It had been so long since anything had been worth documenting. Even Aaron had stopped taking pictures with his phone, once the novelty wore off. Though he had been so excited to get his first real...

  Camera.

  Trevor stops. Thinks.

  Aaron’s camera. Had the Circle somehow missed it?

  ~

  Aaron’s room again.

  His camera had not been in the box. Trevor is certain.

  The Circle had returned everything else. Redacted. Erased. Reformatted. Given the amount of work it had taken to black out Aaron’s journals, it would seem a far simpler task to remove a memory card. Had they found the camera at all, that’s what they would have done. Ergo... It must still be here.

  More importantly: Photos. A possible document of Aaron’s life. One Trevor hadn’t seen. A new connection to his son, now that the alternatives had been taken from him. He tries not to think about what might be waiting on the camera: Things Aaron found important enough to capture. Places he’d been. Events he’d attended. Friends. Possibly even video.

  He stands in the doorway. Gaze drifting across the room. Slightly out of focus. Willing the camera to find him. Seeing shapes. Negative space. Bookshelves. Bed. Chair. Desk. He stops.

  Next to Aaron’s laptop: A tripod. Wires running up one leg. Wires he himself had reattached without questioning what they were connected to. A small black rectangle: Aaron’s camera. Trevor doesn’t move, lest the mirage fade away. But there it is. Pointed down. At the empty desk. A space left for... Whatever it was Aaron had been photographing.

  How the set-up could go unnoticed, Trevor couldn’t guess, except that he had missed it entirely, himself. One would think the open tripod would signal to its presence, but it seemed to have had the opposite effect. The digital camera appeared so small and insignificant compared to an iconic 35mm. It almost looked more like the extension a legitimate camera would attach to than a camera itself.

  Trevor’s fingers fumble as he turns the screw holding the precious object to the tripod. Once detached he sits down on the edge of the bed. Cradles it in his hands. Tender. Reverent. Holding his breath, he turns it on. It still has a charge. Half-battery indicated. The most recent photo pops up:

  A page of text. Hand-written, it looks like. Square-bottomed letters. Someone’s careful printing. Written over a ruler. If Trevor’s first thought was that these pages might have come from Aaron’s own journals, that hope vanishes on closer inspection: Teachers had complained about Aaron’s epileptic handwriting since he first picked up a crayon. No way he could have produced the precise lettering in the photograph.

  Trevor doesn’t read the page. Text too tiny on the little LCD screen. He’s intrigued, but more interested in finding pictures of his son. This one labeled 247 of 247. The memory card nearly full. But as Trevor clicks back through the photos, he finds more pages. An entire book, digitized.

  Frustrated, he clicks more and more quickly. 226 of 247. 200. 185. Page after page of handwritten text. Each date-stamped to Aaron’s final day on Earth. A blank filled in, in the story of the events leading up to his death.

  But what was this project on which he’d killed his last afternoon? Why would Aaron have some old handwritten book in the first place? What was the point of digitizing it? Did it really need to fill the entire memory card?

  Finally, at photo 39 of 247, something different stops Trevor’s mad clicking: Marbled endpapers. Then, at 38: The pebbled black cover of the book.

  He takes a breath. Clicks.

  37 of 247. A legitimate photo: The lighthouse balcony at night. Max from behind. Sitting dangerously. His legs hanging over the side.

  36. More from the lighthouse. The shore from above. Rocks lit by moonlight. White foam crashing.

  35. The lantern room. A reflection on the glass. Aaron. Finally. Taking a photo of the sky, apparently. Catching himself by mistake.

  Trevor stops here. It’s unclear. Out of focus. But it’s Aaron. Face half in shadow. Half in light. Aaron.

  Trevor zooms in as far as the camera allows. Farther - into pixellation. On the tiny screen it doesn’t amount to much, but nevertheless, he stares at the jagged edges of his son’s face until his own eyes ache from not blinking.

  Thirty-two photos left. His finger hovers over the back-arrow. Ready to burn through the rest. Fighting the urge. Not wanting to use them all up in one sitting. There may not even be another photo of Aaron in the bunch. After all, this one only exists by accident. An inadvertent photobomb. Still... Until he knows for certain, there might be.

  Beating temptation, he shuts the camera down. Drops it into a pocket. Collects the pertinent cords from behind Aaron’s laptop. Moving quickly. On a mission.

  His first task: Download the photos onto his own computer. Replace the camera on its tripod. In case someone somehow realizes their oversight. Comes looking for the camera. They’ll find it right where it was left. As if Aaron was the last to touch it. Better they not know Trevor is aware of the camera at all.

  Once on his laptop, he can relish those thirty-two remaining pictures at his own pac
e. Doling them out over time. Examining them at full-resolution. Savoring the details.

  After that, he’ll even read through the pages Aaron had felt were important enough to capture for posterity.

  Clearly, the text can’t replace Aaron’s lost journal entries, but it had to offer him some insight into the boy. At the very least, he’ll find out for himself what his son had been so intrigued by on his final day.

  Who knows? Maybe Trevor will find it just as interesting.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Someone should be behind the desk. Instead, the holding area is unwatched. No one there to answer the ringing telephone. No one with an eye on the monitors. No one guarding the cells on the other side of the heavy security door.

  Netty groans as she discovers the post unmanned. Groans a second time as she peers through the mesh-reinforced window. Down the basement hallway accessing the holding cells. At the empty folding chair situated outside Cell B.

  “What the hell?” She tries the door. Locked. At least they got that much right.

  “What is it?” Ren enters behind her.

  “As far as guards go? We’re oh-for-two.” Netty moves behind the desk. Scans the monitors. “Meanwhile, our prisoners...” Four empty cells glare back. Two occupied. “All right, they’re both accounted for.”

  In Cell E, for repeatedly perforating the char-broiled torso of her son with a nail-file: Peggy Tanner.

  In Cell B, for obstructing the Sheriff from carrying out her duties, nearly leading to Ren’s death: Ella Chaisson.

  As Netty scans the monitors, the telephone continues to ring. Ren points to it. “Want me to get that?”

  She reaches past him. Lifts the receiver: “Sheriff Hubert here. For which soon-to-be-unemployed-standing-on-the-breadline deputy were you looking?” She listens. “No, there’s definitely supposed to be someone here. I personally assigned the task. Twelve of her associates set themselves on fire yesterday. I’d say that makes Ella Chaisson a prime candidate for twenty-four hour suicide watch, wouldn’t you?” She suddenly straightens. Teeth clenched. Face burning red. “I’m sorry, but rescinded on whose authority?”

  Ren averts his eyes. Watches the monitors.

  Netty expends a great deal of effort calming herself down. Containing the rage that’s threatening to explode. “I... Will be right there.” She hangs up. Breathes. Gets herself under control. “They want me upstairs. Something’s happening. Nothing good.”

  “What about...?” Ren gestures towards the cells.

  Netty reaches down next to the desk. Turns a dial. The door unlocks. “See what she’ll give you. Just, uh... Stick to diplomacy.” She taps the monitors. “Big Brother’s watching.”

  “Right.” Ren opens the door. “Good luck upstairs.”

  “Yeah, thanks.” Netty turns away. “Definitely got the feeling I’ll be needing it.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Dr. Mendez’s scream is unsustainable. Her torn and tortured vocal chords are soon rendered incapable of producing more than a ragged shrieking. This too, eventually devolving. Into heartbroken sobs.

  “These can’t... They won’t... I worked so hard, I did. I could’ve, could’ve... But not now. Never, now!” Her tentacle-fingers are constantly writhing. Squirming without Mendez’s volition.

  Wanda suffers through it all. She’d happily plug her ears, if her hands weren’t strapped down. Though, with black razor talons, this may not be an option, regardless. The horrible keening? Very slightly preferable to a pierced eardrum.

  “Surgeon’s hands.... Rock-steady. He said it... I had, I had a surgeon’s touch...”

  Dr. Ramsey doesn’t seem to notice the noise at all. Circling Dr. Mendez’s bed. Examining her tentacles from different angles. Making notes on a clipboard. Muttering: “Though, presumably - if past examples are any indication - the growth period has not yet concluded, the smallest digit is already longer than the average pre-incident finger. Final length impossible to accurately predict, but estimates of eight or nine inches would not seem unrealistic.”

  “Hey! Ramsey! You’re a doctor...” Wanda’s had enough of the wailing. “Can’t you forcefeed her a clonazepam or something?”

  “Hm?” A blank look. Then, understanding. “Oh. Right.”

  Wham! His backhand across Mendez’s face solves the problem. Shuts her right up. Before she can resume her bawling, he asks: “Are they autonomous, Doctor?”

  “Ah-tonna... Whah?” Mendez tries to get her bearings. Reorienting herself to the room. Eyes wiggling crazily around the space. “What’re you... Huh?”

  “Uh...” Wanda squirms when Mendez looks in her direction. “I think maybe someone stayed too long in dreamy-screamy land.”

  “Hello? Maureen? Come back to us, Doctor. Your assistance is required.” Dr. Ramsey pats her on the cheeks. Not quite slaps. Attention grabbers. “The movement. Is it involuntary? Or can you control them?”

  She frowns at him. At her hands. The tentacles calm. Stop their writhing.

  “Good!” Dr. Ramsey is congratulatory. Scribbling notes. “Very good.”

  Mendez is genuinely surprised. “They’re... Mine?”

  “Yes, of course. Now. Let’s see you move...” He reaches his pen through her tentacles. Taps one in particular. “This one.”

  She stares at her own snaky extension. Grimaces. Strains. Finally, it twitches. Unrolls itself.

  Dr. Ramsey claps. “Excellent!”

  Mendez lets out the breath she’s been holding. Laughs. There’s a touch of hysteria to it. Scientific curiosity pulls her back from the edge.

  Dr. Ramsey holds the pen just above her hand. “Now, using the same finger... Grasp this.”

  Slowly, the tendril extends. Wraps itself around the pen. When she has it, Dr. Ramsey lets go. Allows her to take over. “You’re doing far better than I would ever have dared to hope, Dr. Mendez.”

  She concentrates. “I think I can even...” She passes the pen from one tentacle to the next. Turning it around.

  “Cool!” Wanda’s impressed. Maybe even a bit... Envious? Her own strange fingers could almost pass for human. Only somewhat repellent. Not outlandish to the degree that they achieve a sort of awesomeness all their own. Not like those tentacles.

  “It may be too early, and I don’t want you to overextend yourself, but...” Dr. Ramsey holds his clipboard towards Mendez. Positions it beneath the pen. Understanding his intention. She orients the nib towards the page. Draws a shaky line.

  Dr. Ramsey smiles. “Excellent. Now, please add the following: Capable. Of. Extremely. Fine. Motor. Skills.”

  Wanda cranes her neck. Strains to see: Four thin tendrils work together to steady the pen. The first two words are entirely legible. The third less-so as Mendez’s grip begins to fail. The dexterity required difficult to maintain.

  “You can stop there, Doctor.” He starts to withdraw the clipboard.

  “No!” Mendez grabs onto it with her other squid-hand. “I can finish!”

  “There’s nothing to be gained by forcing things.” He tugs a little harder. “Already, it’s safe to consider the procedure a rousing success. Wouldn’t want to... Overdo it.” He yanks the clipboard away. Winning the tug-o-war.

  Mendez pouts. Practices rolling her new digits in order.

  Wanda looks on in fascination. Had Dr. Ramsey known? Had he planned on tentacles? Or had they manifested on their own? Without his input? Despite the trouble they will cause Mendez, Wanda feels shortchanged. Absolutely envious.

  “D-Doctor!” All at once, Mendez’s tentacles straighten. Point in every direction. Fully extending. Then, dropping limply into her lap. Spent. “I can’t. I can’t m-move them!”

  Ramsey drops the clipboard. Gathers up one of her hands. The tendrils hang loosely. So much overcooked spaghetti. He squeezes. Massages them. “Can you feel anything?”

  “I... I think so...” The terror in Mendez’s voice is gone. Replaced by something else. “Can you?!”

  The tentacles spring to life. C
lose around both Ramsey’s hands at once. Lock them together. She pulls him forward. Over the bedrail. Onto the bed.

  “Holy shit!” Wanda shrinks back as far as her straps will allow as Dr. Ramsey’s legs kick out.

  “Doct-- GLURK!”

  Her other hand grabs for him. Tentacles wrapping around his neck. Squeezing tight. “You did this to me! You took them. And you gave me these!”

  Stray tendrils flop and grip. Slide up his nose. Snake towards his bulging eyes. Attack from all angles as he gasps for air. Turning purple.

  “What did you do to me?!” Mendez shrieks. “What have you done?”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  The door is two feet square. Leaning back at a forty-five degree angle. Oak, with ornate iron clasps locking it into the rock itself at waist-height. Wood unrotted. Metal unrusted. Seemingly undiminished by its time buried beneath the earth.

  Exhausted, Mrs. Hunter stops digging. The cave hasn’t been entirely emptied, but what would be the point in going further? The door must be what they’ve been digging towards all along.

  She leans on her shovel. Watches her husband. Waits. Almost patiently.

  Between his teeth, a small flashlight. Trained on the pages of a battered brown book. Larger than their notebooks. Hardcover. Serious. Filled with the same sorts of diagrams, notations and maps. He stops on a folded yellow document. Brittle. Torn and repaired with tape which has since lost its tack. He carefully opens it to full size. Reveals a drawing: The door in the wall. Instructions on how to open it. Arrows show the directions in which to turn its clasps. Numbers indicate the order.

  He displays the page to his wife. She squints. Scans through the steps. When she gets to the bottom, she nods. Latches fingers into her husband’s waistband. Moves him next to the door. Posing the book at an easily viewable angle, she tilts the flashlight in his teeth to better light the schematics.

  Starting with Step One, she slides the clasps. Rotates their barrels. Turning hidden gears and unseen cranks. Shifting them one-by-one into new positions. Revealing other, smaller clasps and dials. Dealing with each in turn until finally: The door unlocks.