Scoutmaster Brad looks back to his attacker. The man’s eyes: Not the cold, hard stones he’d expected. Instead: Red-rimmed. Twitching. Teary. Wrought with conflicting emotions.
“Please...” Brad whispers. “Not in front of the boys.”
The man looks into the valley. Sees six sets of eyes looking back.
“Just wanted... To look strong for them.”
The man exhales. Releases the scoutmaster. Goes back to his work. Once again - for all intents and purposes - alone.
Scoutmaster Brad leans against the tree. Gets his breath back. Watches the man up-end the sack into the pond. Shake it out. The already deep-pink water darkens to an almost-red. Not waiting around to see the final result, the man carries the emptied fabric back to his Jeep. Climbs in. Drives off.
Scoutmaster Brad looks around the still-unexplained site. At the lumber. The scaffolding over the pond. The hole itself. He doesn’t need to know what’s going on here. Doesn’t care. Pulling himself together he turns away. Puts it all behind him. Heads back toward his own camp.
As he descends, he debates between two embarrassing options. With little time to make his decision. Opts for the second. Pretending to trip, Scoutmaster Brad lets his legs slip out from beneath him. Slides down the muddy hill in his boxers. Twisting around, to ensure as much mud coverage as possible. Aiming to conceal any signs - or smells - of his little accident before it’s too late.
A shameful fall. One the boys will never let him live down. But far superior to the alternative.
Though if worst comes to worst? If the scent of urine somehow escapes the mask of woodland muck? Scoutmaster Brad is not above blaming Alvin.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“You don’t seem to be in much pain.”
“Yeah, it’s really not that bad, considering.” Wanda lifts her fresh stump. Wiggles fingers she no longer has. Her range of motion restricted by a leather strap secured just above her elbow. Holding her to the rail of her hospital bed. “The other one was way worse... But even then, it was more itchy than painful, really.”
The other one has now somehow regrown itself. Her new hand is anchored to the bed far more tightly. Entirely restrained. Easy to see why: The replacement fingers - each webbed to the next by a thin membrane - are much longer, ending in dangerous black talons. They scratch absently at the mattress as she speaks to her visitor. Cutting deep furrows into the foam.
“Well, that sucks a tit.” Wrapped head-to-toe in gauze. Current status of his skin transplants unknown. Marshall’s eyes peer out through a thin slit. Angry. “Ramsey told me you’d be hurting. Pretty much promised it.”
Wanda frowns down at her visitor. “The guy did unnecessarily amputate half my arm. Safe to assume he did his best.”
“I guess.” Marshall doesn’t shrug. Doesn’t move at all. Strapped into a wheelchair next to her bed. Almost entirely motionless.
Wanda suddenly realizes he isn’t joking around. “Dude, is that what you were hoping? That I’d be suffering?”
“Um... Yeah!”
“Pretty harsh, there, Marshall.”
“What do you expect? I’m suffering.” His head tilts slightly. Even this small movement is a painful exercise. “And you’re why I’m here, so...”
He’d gotten away. Somehow escaped this secret subterranean laboratory. She’d found him. Hiding in her trailer. Desperate for a fix. Almost entirely skinless. Halfway through the final stage of withdrawal from their shared addiction.
“You were literally falling apart! Was I just supposed to watch it happen?”
“Oh, of course! You betrayed me for my own sake! Nothing at all to do with getting in good with the Old Men.” He had a point: Altruism was pretty far down the list of factors motivating her to report his whereabouts to those he’d escaped. Still... He could have a little gratitude.
“Whatever my reasons, you’d be dead if I hadn’t turned you in, and you know it.”
“Yeah, I do. And you know what they say about dead guys? Like, the first thing they say? At least his suffering’s over, right? Well, mine’s not, thanks to you. Now that I’m back here in this... Torture dungeon... It’ll just go on and on, for however long Ramsey decides. And right now, about the only thing I care about is lasting long enough to see it happen to you, too.”
“Right.” Wanda nods. Turns away. “Good luck with that, then.” She doesn’t want to see him anymore, but the gory blood spatter still painting the wall where her roommate’s bed used to be? Not a preferable sight. Out of options. She closes her eyes.
From the corridor beyond the plastic sheeting that serves as a wall: A shrieking trill. Coming closer.
“I think that’s your ride.” Obscured by the semi-opaque material a gangly shape spiderwalks into view. “Thanks for dropping by, Marshall. Maybe next time just send a card?”
“Go on, Simp! Get in there!” Dr. Ramsey is close behind the creature. Looming over her as she splits open the sheeting. Scrambles through the gap. Skeleton-thin with elongated forearms and lower legs. Nearly twice as long as they should be with proportionately extended digits. Hairless, her flesh is patchwork beneath tattered green hospital scrubs. Overlapping shapes of varying skin-tones which never quite healed together properly.
Wanda watches the poor beast. Pity and revulsion competing for dominance. Both losing to anxiety. However Dr. Ramsey mistreats her, Wanda is unable to look at the creature without remembering how easily she’d obliterated Dr. Mendez’s skull.
Backing away from the entrance in a crouch, Simp glances only briefly at Wanda and Marshall. Focused on maintaining her distance from the good doctor as he follows her into the room.
“If you’d only cleaned up your mess as I requested, this wouldn’t be necessary.” He pulls a wheeled mop-bucket behind him. Rolls it to the foot of Wanda’s bed.
Uncertain, Simp looks from him to the bucket. Back to him. She whistles a soft questioning twitter through her teeth.
“That’s right.” The doctor clasps his hands behind himself. “I don’t suppose you’ll be able to get the place very clean without it.”
Dubious, she reaches a very long arm toward the handle. Tentative fingers unfold.
Dr. Ramsey leaps forward. Wrist thrust out toward her. Red light flashing on his watch face, when it comes within a few feet of the patchwork woman. A matching light flashes on her thick black collar. Electricity crackles. Simp recoils in agony. Falls to the floor. Clutching at her throat. Wailing a shrill warble.
“Perhaps next time, you’ll do as you’re told, when I tell you.” Dr. Ramsey keeps his arm extended a long, painful moment. Then, steps back. Rolls the sloshing bucket across the room with one foot. Once out of range, the crackling ceases. Simp relaxes. Rolls to kneeling. With a quiet whimper, she pulls a large sponge from the dingy water. Starts to work at the bloody wall.
“I trust you both had a lovely chat.” The doctor unlocks the wheels of Marshall’s chair.
“A true delight.” Wanda sneers.
“Doctor, she’s not suffering much. You told me--”
“All things in time, Marshall.” The doctor backs the chair in a semi-circle. Aims for the exit. “For now, we must prep for your next procedure.”
Marshall’s voice is small: “Isn’t it too soon? I’m still in a lot of pain, and you said--”
“One of the most satisfying elements of this clandestine practice is the autonomy. Here, I afford myself the opportunity to make decisions without being second-guessed. There’s no board to whom I answer. No insurance company demanding itemized lists and in-depth explanations, dumbed-down for the benefit of their ignorant pencil-pushers. At the hospital? I cannot make a single decision on behalf of any patient without getting the buy-in of every family member who’s deigned to visit that day. Each individual sign-off must be acquired, despite the fact that my knowledge, wisdom, and experience dwarf their own in every conceivable category.” He pushes the chair forward. “Fortunately, neither of you have family members who care in the least wha
t happens to you. You have only me.”
“Hey! Wait, wait, wait!”
Dr. Ramsey looks sharply over his shoulder at Wanda. What little patience he has, he is saving for some other purpose.
“It’s just... Is it a good idea to leave... Her, here?” She nods toward Simp. “With me... Alone? After what she did to--”
“You’re perfectly safe, I assure you.” The doctor addresses his all-purpose scrubwoman: “Simp? Ms. Lesguettes is off-limits. Should you come too close? You’ll not like what occurs.” As punctuation, he taps the face of his watch. Simp shrieks. Spasms. One last zap from the collar making certain she understands before he departs.
Doctor and patient gone, Wanda glances back at Simp. Finds the twisted woman glaring up at her.
“Hey, don’t look at me! I didn’t do it.”
Simp whistles something low and dangerous. Squeezes the blood-filled sponge out into the bucket. Returns to her task.
Somehow, Wanda doesn’t feel any safer.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“Here to visit your mother, Mr. Coates?”
Trevor looks up from the Reader’s Digest. Still on the page he opened it to. Merely a prop intended to dissuade chit-chat from lonely senior citizens passing by the visitors’ lounge. Allowing him to stare off into space without interruption. Doing something, always more respected than doing nothing. A social pact apparently unrecognized by Glee Malcolm: The altogether-too-young-for-the-job administrator of the Elysian Convalescent Home.
“Oh, uh... Yeah. Just waiting for the kitchen guys to finish collecting breakfast trays. Mom always thought it was rude for people to call or visit before breakfast was finished.”
“That works out well for me. I was hoping I might have a word.” She gestures to the next chair. “May I?”
“Of course.” Trevor straightens. Sets down the magazine. Always weirded out by her demeanor: A prim propriety that wouldn’t seem out of place in any of the elderly residents, but which turns the twenty-something into an alien. “Your house. I’m just visiting.”
She sits on the very edge of the chair. As though trying not to dent the cushion. “It’s been brought to my attention that your mother has been doing some... Late-night gallivanting.”
“She has?” News to Trevor. “My mom?”
Glee nods. “Mrs. Coates vanished from her room after lights-out. Gave us all a bit of a scare, I can tell you.”
“That’s... Not like her. But I’m not sure it was cause for alarm, either.”
“No?”
Trevor leans forward. “I get that you have people here with... Diminished capacity. People who need to be looked after twenty-four-seven, but my mother isn’t at that point. She needs assistance. Not babysitting. And certainly not jailers.” He looks at the young woman. Far too young to possibly grasp the varied needs of those in her care, whatever schooling she may have undergone. “As far as I’m concerned, whatever gallivanting she chooses to do... It’s none of our affair.”
Glee squints. Smiles. It’s obvious: Nothing is getting through. “But I’m sure you can understand, Mr. Coates: It’s simply not acceptable for residents to just wander off on their own, in the middle of--”
“Now hold on, Ms. Malcolm... My mother’s not a child who let go of a parent’s hand in a busy mall. She’s an adult with all of her faculties intact. Frankly, if she wants to go for a walk by herself, regardless of the time, she--”
“She was discovered in the West Corridor. Confused.”
Trevor’s heart sinks. “Oh.”
“As you know, the West Corridor is strictly--”
“I get it. It’s off-limits.” Could his mother be losing her grip? Was this the first sign? “Have there been any other incidents?”
“Not to the best of my knowledge, but I must impress upon you, just how much the Old Men value their privacy.”
“I think we’re all well aware, Ms. Malcolm. But if my mom’s been--”
“If we cannot count on Mrs. Coates to keep herself within authorized areas, we’ll have no alternative but to sedate her each night at bedtime to ensure this behavior is not repeated.”
Sedation! “You can’t--”
“If you’ll re-read the terms of your mother’s agreement, I’m certain you’ll discover we can. What’s more, this is the only warning we’re required to deliver. A single recurrence... We’ll take whatever action we feel most suitable.”
Trevor searches for an appropriate response. One which might convince this petty bureaucrat that his mother is of no less value than the Old Men. That her well-being is at least as important as the privacy of their convalescent playhouse. He comes up empty.
“Trevor?” His mother has entered. Dressed. Made-up. Wig firmly in place. Ready for his visit. “I thought I heard your voice out here.”
“My apologies, Mrs. Coates.” The young administrator stands. “Your son is just too darn polite. Couldn’t bring himself to interrupt my jawing.” She squeezes Trevor’s wrist. Gives him a meaningful look. “But I won’t monopolize him any longer.”
As Glee Malcolm walks off, Trevor’s mother points a bony elbow in his direction. “Shall we tour the grounds?”
“Sure thing, Ma.” He stands. Hooks her arm. “As long as we stick to the well-beaten path.
CHAPTER NINE
A solid minute of coughing finally dislodges the tickle from the back of Max’s throat. Another twenty seconds of hawking brings the vile obstruction forward. Onto his tongue. No more significant than a popcorn hull. No less irritating. He spits it into a handful of toilet paper. Sees yellow before covering it up.
Gross.
Only now does he answer his mother: “Mom! I’m okay! Stop banging.”
The hammering ends. “I’m not asking if you’re okay, Max. I’m telling you to open the goddamned door!”
He groans. Drops the wad into the trash. Unlocks the door.
His mother enters the bathroom. Looks him over. Assessing. Once she’s assured her son isn’t dying, Netty’s concerned-mom eyes shift subtly to those of suspicious cop. “You’re sure you’re all right.”
“It was just a cough.”
“You were quiet all night. You don’t think it’s--”
“I’m fine. It’s just early-morning throat-clearing.”
“No doctor, then. No hospital.”
“No! Of course not. Geez.” Max presses a pea of toothpaste onto his brush. Eager to get rid of the bitter-almond taste in his mouth. The remnants of the yellow glob. “If there’s reason to panic, I’ll let you know. I promise.”
He starts to brush. His mother watching closely. Making him self-conscious about his dental routine. He runs through the whole thing twice before finally spitting. Rinsing. Spitting again.
Netty nods. “Good. You’re fine. Get dressed. I’m dropping you at work.”
What? Work was not part of his plan for the day. “Mom, I’m... You don’t need to worry or anything, but... I’m still recovering. I think it’d be best if I took one more day to relax.”
“Uh-huh. No. After Adderpool, I’m not sure your lungs can handle the sort of relaxation you’re intending.”
Max flushes red. She’s not supposed to mention the illicit habit they both know about but never speak of. “I-I never--”
“Sure, you never. But after your little adventure, I think you’ll benefit from some more constructively organized time out in the world, instead of dealer’s choice in our dank basement.” She reaches out. Brushes his hair back from his eyes. “But this is a good thing. After all the running around you did yesterday? I’d say your recuperation is pretty much complete. So unless you want to call Dr. Ramsey for his opinion... You don’t need to stay home.” She crosses her arms. Waits.
“Fine.”
“Yes it is. Here.” Netty holds out a beat-up cellphone. Ancient. No bells or whistles. “Just until yours turns up.” She sets it next to the sink. “And I’ll be checking in. Which means: You’ll be answering.”
Max sighs.
After she leaves, he breathes into his palm. Cringes at the smell the cool-mint toothpaste hasn’t managed to eradicate.
He should’ve just trusted her.
~
In the waste can. Buried in two-ply: The glob of yellow sputum. Held within: A black fragment. The scratchy irritant so recently abrading Max’s throat.
As the mucus cools and dries around it, the spore cracks open. Allowing a tiny black shoot to sprout.
CHAPTER TEN
“This is my punishment, then? Chauffeuring?” Dawn pilots the SUV along the coastline. A little faster than is strictly necessary.
“Can’t you just consider it a favor?” In the passenger seat, Ren lifts his still-bandaged hands from his lap. “The way you drive, it’s really more of a punishment for me.”
“Hilarious.” She taps the brakes. Jolts her father forward against his seatbelt.
“Watch it, there.”
Dawn’s sing-song “Sor-ry” is less than sincere.
Since picking her up outside Adderpool the night before, her father hasn’t given her more than a few seconds of alone-time. With barely a moment to herself to process the events of the previous day, she had not welcomed his sudden announcement over breakfast that she’d be joining him for an impromptu cross-island road trip.
“I just don’t see why we suddenly need to spend the day together. It’s not like I disobeyed you or anything. I had no idea what Adderpool even was before those idiot girls took us there. God knows I’m not in any hurry to go back.” In her mind, Dawn’s photographic doppelgänger calls her a liar. Beckoning her to return as soon as possible.
FROM AWAY ~ BOOK FOUR Page 4