FROM AWAY ~ BOOK THREE

by Mackey Jr. , Deke

  A loud hiss. Stale air releases. The little woman jumps back. Covering mouth and nose with one hand. Blocking ancient dust carried on strange currents.

  Her husband laughs. Unbothered by the foreign matter swirling through his flashlight beam. Irritated, she punches him in the side. He grimaces briefly. Chuckles as he folds the door instructions back into the brown book.

  Mrs. Hunter grips the door by its clasps. It moves now. No longer held firmly in its stone frame. Still, it takes all of her strength to lift it out. Lower it to the cave floor.

  Unblocked, the small, angled doorway is a black void. The woman yanks the flashlight from her husband’s teeth. Shines it down into the chamber.

  No earth to be excavated. The small room is rough-hewn stone. An empty cube. Carved somehow into the bedrock itself. Its floor, a short drop from the entrance. Deeper than that of the cave in which they stand. Their door must be more of a skylight when viewed from within. This much she can see, but no more. The flashlight doing its best, but intended for smaller jobs.

  A rattling draws Mrs. Hunter’s attention. Behind her: Mr. Hunter. Kneeling on the steps. Digging through the toolbox. Grinning, he pulls out a battered cellphone. Secures it to the end of an extending selfie-stick. No sooner has he locked it into place, than she grabs it away from him. Stretches it out to full length. Takes over photographic duties.

  More than accustomed to such treatment, he leaves her to it. Jogs up the staircase on another mission as she lowers the phone into the room.

  Holding it as close to center as she can manage, she turns the stick slowly. Repeatedly clicking its trigger. In the room, the flash flares. Strobing as it snaps a panorama of photos. Fully documenting the space.

  Finished, she withdraws the stick. Swipes through the images on the phone. Her eyes widen as she absorbs the details of the space below.

  To the left and right, bas relief sculptures are carved into the walls: Giant, prehistoric fish. Spiny and jagged. Wide-open mouths gaping at one another across the room. A vertical split cuts the far wall into halves. A large, bronze disk straddles the separation. Directly beneath it, two wide steps rise from the floor. Carved into the steps are four more lines of the same pictographic code which led them there.

  She stops on the clearest photo of the secret text. The newest piece of the puzzle. Ready to be translated, as soon as her husband returns from the surface. Assuming he knows to bring the decoder back down with him.

  She looks up the stone steps. Anxious for the man to return. It wouldn’t be smart to move forward without first decoding the message. It could be their next set of instructions. Or a warning of some kind. Foolhardy to charge ahead without knowing what it says.

  He’s on his way. She just needs to sit tight. Wait.

  But patience is not her strong suit.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  The black tree lives up to its adjective: Bark like charcoal. Leaves glossy obsidian with red veins. Thick-trunked. Covered in heavy tumorous gnarls. It would’ve been hard to miss, had it not been masked by younger foliage planted closer to the tarmac.

  Dawn spots it first. “There it is. That’s it, right?”

  She knows it is. Remembers it from her early morning walk home: Standing at the end of the broken road to Adderpool. Planted dead center. Widened over time to block the entrance entirely. She’d thought the path just died there, until continuing past the tree. Emerging to find a modern, well-maintained thoroughfare.

  “This used to be the turn-off.” Allison drives them up onto the shoulder. Noses into the woods. A gap between trees the size of a parking space. “It wasn’t enough for the people of Adderpool to just close off the road. They actually broke it apart. Carted away the concrete. Planted trees so there’d be no sign from the main drag.”

  “The big, weird black one kinda defeats the purpose.” Looking behind them, Dawn can still see it there. Peeking out from behind a mask of greenery.

  “Sometimes nature steps in. Tries to give us a warning.” Max’s tone is surprisingly serious.

  “It’s all on foot from here.” Allison holds down a button. Raises the convertible’s hard-top. “Still got your new flag, Dawn?” She reaches past Mandi. Pops open the glove compartment.

  Dawn pats her backpack. “Ayup.”

  “Good. Here.” Closing the glovebox, she hands Dawn a thick marker. “You’ll need this too.”

  Before Dawn can ask why, Mandi and Allison hop out. Leave their doors open, so the backseat can follow.

  Dawn looks at the marker. Then, at Max. A question obvious on her face.

  He sighs. “She’s right. You probably will.”

  ~

  NEARING CONTAMINATION ZONE

  GO NO FURTHER

  SERIOUS HEALTH RISKS AHEAD

  A rusted sign. Posted just beyond the black tree. Where they encounter the first remnants of the broken road. Hammered apart into big chunks. Long weeds growing from the spaces between. Creeping into cracks. Continuing the process of demolition.

  By the time Max and Dawn reach the sign, the girls are far ahead. Dawn breaks the silence: “So what’s your version?”

  Max looks over at her. “My version?”

  “Of the story. What happened to Adderpool.”

  “Oh.” He shakes his head. “There is no story.”

  “No?” Dawn can’t believe it. “No fishermen with illicit intra-species affections? No incestuous carny-folk?”

  “Nope. None of the above.”

  “Didn’t you...” She frowns. “I thought you said you’d heard something different. You must know something about what happened here.”

  “Sure. But it doesn’t make for a good campfire tale.”

  Dawn laughs. “Don’t make me beg. It would not be pretty!” She hip-checks him for punctuation. Striking a spot already bruised from being kicked by brown-cloaked peeping toms, which had previously been pierced by shrapnel from the lighthouse explosion. Max has had a hard week.

  But he recovers. “All right, all right! Geez-Louise.” He doesn’t betray the pain caused by her mostly-innocent attack. “Something bad got in the water. Everyone got sick. Really sick. Like Mandi said: Shaking, sweating, chills. The rest of the island was afraid it might be contagious. Quarantined the town. They put up the wall to keep Adderpool in. Anybody tried to get out? Tried to climb over? They shot them. And eventually, everybody inside... They died.”

  “Woah.” An icy finger slides up Dawn’s spine. “That’s... Cold.”

  “Not Mossley Island’s finest hour.” Max watches his feet. “Which is why we don’t talk about it. Why everyone comes up with their own explanations. It was pretty shameful of us.”

  Dawn kicks at an especially round stone. Tracks it as it skitters and bounces away. Aims herself towards it. “You don’t have to say we. Us.”

  “Don’t I?”

  She shakes her head. “Not unless you took part.”

  “My people took part.”

  “Your people aren’t you. You aren’t who you come from. Not only, anyway.” Reunited with the stone, Dawn kicks it again. It doesn’t go much farther. “Look at me. My people are from here, too. But I’m from away. You know what that means?”

  He doesn’t. Shrugs.

  “Nuthin’ at all, Max. Where we’re from? Just dots on a map.”

  Ahead, the big sign: Welcome to ADDERPOOL. Beyond it, Dawn can already see the wall. The girls nearly there.

  Max nudges Dawn with an elbow. “You know who you sound like?”

  Dawn shrugs. No idea.

  Catching up with the stone again, Max kicks it this time. It takes flight. Wings the sign. Ricochets into the bushes. “Exactly like someone from away.”

  They both laugh.

  At the wall now, Mandi and Allison look back. Holding their noses. Shouting something impatient.

  Neither Max nor Dawn can decipher their words. Still, it’s enough to hurry them along.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  “Is the role simply beyond
your abilities to adequately perform, Sylvia?”

  Sylvie squints into the light. Blinded by the projector lens spotlighting her. Unable to see more than the silhouettes of the Old Men seated around the boardroom table. “No, it’s--”

  “We ask only out of concern. For you. Your health. Both physical and... Otherwise. Given your present circumstances.”

  “I... I understand.” Sylvie shifts uncomfortably. The stiff fabric of her blouse sticking to her back. “I know what you’re saying. But Aaron’s death holds no bearing on this situation. One of our men has been abducted - Roscoe Platt - and we need to--”

  “It’s been such a short time since you suffered your tragic loss, and--”

  “Due respect, Mrs Rutherford, but I haven’t asked for--”

  “--And to permit you the period of mourning you need, we are more than happy to allow you to step down, and bring on someone else to captain the Watch.”

  “An interim leader,” says Mr. Grist.

  “Solely a stop-gap measure,” says Dr. Bauer.

  “Only until such time as you feel your condition is once again commensurate to the demands of the job.” Mrs Rutherford concludes. “At our discretion, naturally.”

  “That’s just... Not...” Sylvie fumbles. Anxiety tripping her tongue. The sweat beads forming on her forehead prepare to advance on her eyebrows. She wipes them out in a pre-emptive strike. Steadies herself. “Is this why you brought me here? Because... What I came to discuss is the search for--”

  “We see little value in continuing the search. Your man is gone. Your foolhardy pursuit of his abductor was ill-advised and as such has been cancelled.”

  Sylvie’s stunned. Unable to respond at all.

  “You have so recklessly allocated our resources into the field that we will shortly find ourselves with an entirely exhausted crew, rendered incapable of performing their chief and most crucial duty. To whit: Keeping watch.”

  “But... All hands were required. Our man was--”

  “Required?!” Mrs. Rutherford’s silhouette turns. Her profile addresses another of the Old Men. One sitting across the table. “Ms. Spinx? In your learned opinion, what was required?”

  “A small supplemental company of no more than four members to perform a search on first light within a tightly limited perimeter, circling out from last point-of-contact. More than four could only serve to foster confusion and threaten to contaminate the scene.”

  Even to Sylvie, it’s obvious in retrospect. Nonetheless, she argues: “It was a judgement call, and--”

  “Your judgement was faulty!” Mrs. Rutherford slaps the tabletop. “A missing teammate does not require full mobilization. Certainly not when it jeopardizes your primary responsibility: The protection of Mossley Island. And on the very day of what may well be our first attack in decades? Your decisions are not breeding confidence, Sylvia.”

  Heart beating on overdrive, Sylvie closes her eyes. Lets them rest. Tries to center herself. “Second,” she whispers.

  If Mrs. Rutherford hears her, she ignores the correction. “As for your replacement - in all likelihood temporary, of course - your father has said from the start that he--”

  “My father is retired!” Sylvie’s voice bounces off the walls. Louder than intended. Harsher than she’d ever dared speak to the Old Men. They are quiet a moment. Darting uncertain glances at one another.

  “True...” Mrs. Rutherford resumes. “But our acceptance of your elevation into such a vital managerial role was always conditional. We agreed to support you as his chosen replacement, and in return? Your father assured us he would willingly step back in, should such a thing be deemed necessary.”

  Sylvie is stricken. “I... I’m aware of that...” She’s always suspected, anyway. That her father must have struck a deal to secure her the position. “But it isn’t. It isn’t necessary.”

  Mrs. Rutherford leans forward. Into the light of a green-shaded desk lamp. The first face Sylvie’s seen since entering. Not an entirely friendly one.

  “Perhaps you haven’t yet paused to reflect on your tenure as Captain, Sylvia, but your performance - particularly in the last few weeks - has been decidedly less-than stellar.”

  “Unimpressive,” says Mr. Pincolm.

  “The Captain must be held to a higher standard,” says Dr. Bauer.

  “To say the least,” says Mrs. Brass.

  The poor reviews of her leadership cut Sylvie to her core. “I’m sorry... Sorry you all feel that way.”

  “Of course you are. And we all regret that it’s come to this, but surely you can see it’s for the best. Once you step down, we’ll be able to make a fresh move forward. With gratitude of course, for your valiant attempt, but accepting that perhaps it wasn’t meant to be.”

  Sylvie frowns. Something in Mrs. Rutherford’s phrasing sticks in her mind: Step down. She’s said it repeatedly. Pushing Sylvie to resign. But not firing her... Because they can’t. It’s not their call.

  She chuckles to herself. “You almost had me... Talking as though it was up to you. Like the decision has already been made.”

  Mrs. Rutherford shifts back in her chair. Her face tinting with worry as she returns to the shadows. “We have made our decision, Sylvia. And we can no longer support your continued--”

  “Okay. You’re withdrawing your support. And you’re requesting my resignation?”

  “There’s really no question: This is the only appropriate course of action.”

  “No. That’s not right.” Sylvie shakes her head. “Your opinion is important, obviously. After all, we need to be able to work together. But it doesn’t really matter, does it?”

  The Old Men are quiet. Angry, clearly. Sylvie’s angry, too. They’d tried to manipulate her. Nearly succeeded. But - for all their power and influence - there are still decisions that are out of their hands.

  “You had me believing it was up to you.” Adrenaline courses through her system. The charge of defiance. “Because so many things are. You control our funding. You’ve got veto on most decisions. But the Watch elects its own Captain. And I’m not stepping down.” She turns. Shaky, but standing tall. “I’m Captain of the Watch. And you’re going to have to learn to live with that. It shouldn’t be too hard. After all... The rest of us somehow manage to put up with all of you.”

  ~

  Sylvie emerges from the Oceanus Conference Hall. Spent. She holds onto the door for support.

  Burl waits in the corridor. One question in his eyes.

  She shakes her head. “They’ve cancelled the search.”

  He lashes out. Punches the wall. Leaves a deep dent. Red knuckle-streaks.

  “Look... It’s not over.” Sylvie grabs hold of his arm with still-trembling fingers.

  “You better believe it isn’t.” He easily shakes her off. Catches the tall oak door before it’s fully closed. Barges in. Uninvited. Unauthorized.

  Sylvie chases him. Not at all pleased to return so soon.

  Most of the Old Men have left their seats around the boardroom table. They stand chatting. Stretching. Checking emails. Preparing for whatever business is scheduled to come next. The projector has been shut off. In the dim light of the desk lamps, Sylvie sees more of the room than in any of her prior visits.

  Their eighteen heads of white hair turn in Burl’s direction. Register his arrival. Unconcerned. It brings him up short - their indifference. He charges forward anyway. “Twenty years!”

  “Burl!” Sylvie hisses. “This isn’t how it works.”

  “How it works? It doesn’t work at all, Sylvie!” He faces the room. Restarts: “Twenty years! That’s what you’ve gotten from Roscoe. From me, too: Twenty years of good and loyal service. Out on the waves every night. Over and over: Circling the island. Patrolling. And what’s it all add up to?”

  The Old Men wait for Burl to answer himself.

  “He gets grabbed up by some... Bastard in a fish costume, and what? You just shrug? Let them have him, to do God only knows what with?”


  Mrs. Rutherford steps forward. “Our concerns, Burlington, must by necessity be larger than the individual members of the Watch, all of whom assumed certain risks upon enlistment.”

  “And what about you, Old Men? What risks are you willing to take? Sitting here... Safe in the Home. Protected. Thanks to all the little people like us, you don’t give a shit about.”

  “That’s unkind and simply untrue. We’re - all of us in the Circle - working in service of the greater good of the island as a whole.”

  “And what if it was one of you they took? I can guess that’d be a right different story, wouldn’t it?”

  Mrs. Rutherford waves off the very idea. “Every incident has its own set of variables, and must be considered separately. In the case of your friend, Roscoe, we simply cannot justify further investigation at this time.”

  Burl approaches the elderly woman. With his enormous girth looming over her, Mrs. Rutherford appears even tinier. “Justify it. Don’t. I’m not finished searching. You have a problem with that? Consider me quit.”

  Her bland gaze betrays no worry. “We decide who leaves the Circle, Burlington. Until you hear me say so, you have not been dismissed.”

  “So stop me.”

  With shocking speed, Mrs. Rutherford spins. Sweeps out with one leg. Her heel slams into Burl’s right calf. Snaps the bone. He drops to the floor instantly. Howling in pain.

  Sylvie gasps. Horrified. She rushes forward to help.

  Mrs. Rutherford stops her. Holding out one index finger. Eyes still on the heap that is Burl. Reaching back to the table. Pressing a button on a built-in panel.

  The other Old Men return to whatever they were doing when Burl entered. Not especially worried over the outcome.