FROM AWAY ~ BOOK FOUR

by Mackey Jr. , Deke

  Step Three: Connect replacement. (Disconnecting original before all new connections have been completed will result in immediate shutdown.)

  At the museum, the inner-workings were well-organized into separate bundles. Not knotted together at all. He’d asked the Electrician: “What about this pulser? If we’ve only got the one spare, does that mean this one’s busted?”

  “No, it works. All too well. It’s the prototype. Built ‘fore we got it all figured out.” He’d looked off. Captured by some melancholy memory. “Ye won’t never want to see this one hooked back up, my hand to God.”

  “What’s wrong with it? Not strong enough?”

  “The flip of that, Max... Too strong. It took out our enemies, but it worked on humans, too.” Max had wanted to know more. That was all Norman would say on the matter. “Ain’t time fer tellin’ tales, b’y. Get ‘er unhooked so ye can wire ‘er up again. I wanna see ye done it five more times ‘fore headin’ out.”

  Glad for the practice now. Unsnarling the twists and tangles. Plugging each wire into the spare as he pulls it free from the nest. Halfway finished when another flash catches his eye. Looking over instantly. Getting a glimpse of a tail before it slips into the steamboat’s fallen smokestack. Certain this time: He’s not alone.

  A sudden terror grips him. His injuries flare. The slice along his forearm throbs. Maybe they should’ve known: After attacking Sylvie directly that morning, the enemy wasn’t about to leave them be. Not with a colleague in their custody.

  At the far end of the wreckage, another movement. Too far off to be the same foe. Gone before he can make anything out. Whoever’s down there with him? They’ve brought friends. All hiding. Keeping their distance. Why? What would be holding them back now?

  Unless... They’re the real thing.

  The orb flickers. Dims. As it loses strength, its range must be decreasing. If there are creatures out there - kept at bay by the pulsers - then it follows that the orb’s failure would embolden them. That they’d come closer, given the opportunity. Testing its reach. Waiting for it to die and leave a hole in the island’s protective ring through which they might enter.

  With Max as the one thing that can stop that from happening. But only if he unfreezes himself and gets back to it.

  Step Four: Divert power to replacement.

  Not there yet. When the new orb is completely hooked up, a switch will be flipped. The old one will shut down. Dead, as all power is rerouted into its replacement. For twenty seconds, there will be a gap in their electric fence. Twenty seconds entirely unprotected. The length of time it will take the new pulser to charge before it can do its thing.

  As Max hooks up the last of the wires, he counts twenty mississippis in his head. It takes forever. A lot can happen in twenty seconds. A lot of distance can be covered by strong swimmers. A lot of damage done by razor-sharp claws. Especially if they’re already waiting for the gate to drop.

  During those twenty seconds, Max will not be beating a hasty retreat, either. Not with three more steps to deal with...

  Step Five: Unhook original.

  Step Six: Attach replacement to column.

  Step Seven: Close and lock panel.

  Only then will the pulser be secure. Whatever happens, Max cannot leave the pulser until these steps have been completed.

  He plugs the last wire into place. Checks the connections. No strays left unplugged. No outlets empty. All done. Nothing keeping him from Step Four. Time to divert the power and start counting.

  He looks to Wreck Reef. To the steamboat. Its black windows gaze back. Anything could be hiding within. Or nothing at all. He’d know momentarily.

  Only one way to find out. Max reaches for the switch.

  ~

  “Norman? This is Tower One.” The voice warped. Partly obscured by static. “Looks like our boy’s not alone out there.”

  “Yeah, I see ‘em.” The Electrician stares at a monitor mounted in the dash: The steamboat below is a cold blue outline with little orange glows spread out inside. “Thermal’s showin’ a dozen hotspots hidin’ in the Reef. Closer than they should be able to stand it. Pulser’s gotta be on death’s doorstep.” He clucks his tongue. Worried.

  “Uh... Actually, Norman, we’re seeing movement from--”

  “Just sittin’ there. Bidin’ their fockin’ time... Ye can bet they’ll feel it when the thing shuts down... Make their move right quick. Twenty seconds... Enough time for--”

  “Norman! Switch to sonar. What we’re seeing... It’s coming from the shore.”

  Cursing himself, Norman jams stubby fingers at the monitor. Finds the sonar view. Gasps. “Lard Thunderin’ Jayzus...”

  There it is. As promised. Hurtling through the water. Toward the pulse generator.

  Toward Max.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  “Ya didn’t kill yer Ma, b’y.”

  Ren’s father drops into the empty driver’s seat. Martin. The father he hasn’t seen in decades. Speaking as though resuming a conversation already underway. One Ren couldn’t remember beginning. The old man pulls his bad leg into the SUV. Slams the door before continuing.

  “I know it, ‘cause she told me flat. She knew I’d be thinkin’ it. Didn’t want to cause nothin’ more between us than already there was.” For his part, Martin doesn’t look at his son. Only forward. Through the windshield. Down the country road. “Broke her heart, yer leavin’ an’ make no mistake. But it made her happy too, knowin’ ya was followin’ after yer own mind, even with all what was expected of ya... By the Watch... And by me. But ya need to know: The sickness had come by then. She hadn’t told nare a soul, but the end was loomin’ before ya left, and yer leavin’ did nought to hasten it along.”

  Ren’s eyes burn. Tears well. He’d had no idea how desperately he needed his father’s forgiveness. Blocked up by anger and resentment. Now, his barriers drop.

  “Others still hold it agin’ ya. Older folks. Sylvie, too, though I’m workin’ to get it through her thick skull what yer ma said. But I don’t. And I didn’t. And already too many days are gone without it bein’ said.” He reaches over. Pats a shaky hand against Ren’s knee. “You just know ya’re welcome here. Yer home will always be that. Fer both Dawn and yerself if ever ya have need or want of it.”

  Martin pauses. There may be more that warrants saying. Apparently, he thinks better of it. Flings open the car door and hurls himself out.

  Overcome, Ren watches in the rearview as the old man heads off down the road. Impossibly older than when last they crossed paths. Badly in need of a cane. Throwing himself forward with his good leg. Shuffling an inch or two with the bad. Lurch-limping back from whence he’d so improbably came.

  Had Dawn engineered this, somehow? Called her Grampy from the convent? Told him where to find their car? Does it matter? Ren backhands wet eyes. Climbs out of the SUV. Calls after his father: “Don’t know what you said to Dawn, but that kid thinks you’re pretty amazing.”

  Martin stops. Turns back. Finally looks at his son.”Yeah? Well... Seems she’s got a share of that her ownself. Least we know she comes by it honest.”

  Ren laughs. Closes the car door. “Your welcoming her in like you did... It meant more than you could know.”

  “Ren. Bringin’ that girl to the island now... When we only just lost our Aaron? Nothin’ more or less to call it than a blessed miracle, and I don’t mind sayin’ so.”

  “Yeah, I... I was so sorry to hear about Aaron. Can’t even imagine what Sylvie must be going through. I wanted to be there. To give her my condolences, but... I was called away.” He looks at his bandaged hands. Sighs. “Doubt she’d take kindly anything coming from me, anyway.”

  Martin waves it off. “In time, b’y. What’s between ya will pass as all things do. ’Til then, just know that in that girl’s heart of hearts, she knows ya care and hurt for her.”

  “I hope so. After all - no matter what - she’ll always be my little sister.”

  Without warning, Sylvie comes
from behind him. Leaps onto Ren’s back. Arms wrapping around his head and neck. Locking him into an unbreakable sleeper hold. “And you’ll always be a big fucking pussy, big brother.”

  He drops to his knees under Sylvie’s weight. Slaps at her knotted arms. Claws. Gains no purchase. Face purpling as she squeezes. Eyes rolling back as the world flares to white.

  The last thing he sees: His father. Limping forward. Watching, as his own daughter chokes his son into unconsciousness. Doing nothing to stop it. Not surprised in the least.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Cuticle brushes. Baking soda. Vinegar.

  Five nuns on hands and knees. Scrubbing bathroom tile. One in each corner. The fifth inside a stall.

  “Guys, this is Dawn! Who I was telling you about? Ren’s daughter? From away?”

  The nuns look up from their work. Appraise the girl.

  “Hello.” Dawn waves. The nuns nod back. Return to work.

  “Vows of silence, Dawnie.” She mimes locking her lips. Tosses an imaginary key. It hasn’t even pretend-landed before her mouth pops open again: “Mother Agatha asked me to show my friend the sights, so I brought her by to see you guys.”

  The women don’t respond. Neither pleased nor pissed. They just keep scrubbing.

  “This is what you were doing?” Dawn has a hard time envisioning it: The strong, independent woman she’d always looked up to... On all fours. Scraping at the grout. Paula presents her hands as evidence. Red and raw. A newcomer’s version of the cracked and gnarled claws sported by the nuns working the floor. Seeing Paula’s new future laid out so plainly is disconcerting. “So... This is it for you now? You’ve signed up?”

  “On the dotted line!” Seeing Dawn’s lukewarm reaction, Paula gets serious. “You don’t think it was wise.”

  “I don’t know, Paula... I guess I always thought you’d accomplish something... Bigger.”

  “More like the bridge to the mainland, huh? Big and important. Helping all these people go back and forth. Boosting the economy. Bringing diversity to the island. Making it a better place.”

  Dawn nods. “Sure.”

  Paula grins. Elaborates: “But think about it... You and your mom and your dad? You’re like my favorite people ever, and for all the time I spent and all the effort and trouble, none of the work I did on the bridge says anything about how much I love you.” She stops. Proudly. As though her point is proven.

  “And cleaning the bathroom does?”

  “Of course it does!” It’s so obvious. Paula can’t believe Dawn is not getting this. “Cleaning the bathroom isn’t cleaning the bathroom, Dawnie. It’s dragon-slaying. It’s protecting your loved ones. Keeping them healthy. Making sure they never have to encounter anything that might make them sick. Every moment in here on my knees, I’m killing things that want to hurt my sisters. With every scrub, I’m fighting off millions of tiny monsters, all trying to get them.”

  That’s one way of looking at it. Dawn watches the nuns. Slaving away with Mona Lisa smiles.

  “It might seem small... Insignificant in the grand scheme. But that’s where people really live: On the small scale. But the most important impact we can have is on the lives of those we’re closest to. That’s our guiding principle. Why we do anything. It’s all just to express our love for one another.”

  Somewhere in there, something clicks. Dawn grasps why Paula’s there. She’s simplified her life. Traded-in trying to make a big, abstract difference in the world for a dozen small concrete ones. Comparing her new hyper-positive outlook to the constantly stressed and anxious space her father inhabits makes Paula’s choice clear. Dawn hugs her again. “I’m happy for you, Paula. I really am.”

  Paula closes her eyes. Returns the embrace. “I knew you’d understand, Dawnie. You’re so awesome.” She pulls back. Looks Dawn in the eye. “Think your dad might? Eventually?”

  “Don’t bank on it.” Suddenly, she screws up her nose. “Ugh! What is that?”

  Given their location, the terrible smell isn’t shocking. Except it’s coming from outside the bathroom.

  “Oh that?” Paula inhales deeply. Smiles. “That’s the smell of more love.” She leads Dawn into the hall where the scent is much stronger. Dawn doesn’t have the heart to tell her how much this particular love smells like death.

  ~

  Whatever it is in the ladle held beneath her nose, Dawn does not want to try it. The smell alone is making her eyes water. It’s all she can do to keep from gagging. If forced to take a sip of the nauseating goulash, she’s reasonably certain she will paint the pristine convent kitchen with vomit.

  But all eyes are on her. Eight cooks, chefs and assorted kitchen folk all waiting to see what she thinks of their masterpiece. Plus Paula. With no other option presenting itself, Dawn opens her mouth. Tries it.

  All at once, Dawn is floored by a sudden sense of nostalgia. As though stumbling across Grandma’s secret homemade recipe served in a restaurant somewhere. Which makes no earthly sense, as she’s quite certain she’s never tasted anything like it before. Sour and tangy. Definitely involving seafood. Bizarrely textured: Something in there so rubbery as to be unchewable - requiring grinding and gnashing to get through - and a sandy grit to it. As though none of the ingredients had been washed properly.

  As expected: It does not taste good. But that doesn’t matter, because it fills a void Dawn hadn’t realized was empty. Speaking to some primitive part of her for whom this must have been a staple. Though she doesn’t consciously recognize the dish, her body does on a base level and responds accordingly. It’s awful, but the instant she swallows, she wants more. Pulling the ladle closer for another sip. Gulping it down. Emptying what was offered to her.

  Seeing her reaction, the assembled nuns beam. Tittering, they return to their work. Chopping. Shredding. Grating. Working with ingredients she can’t identify. Animal, vegetable, and mineral. All completely foreign and unknown.

  “Thank goodness.” Paula whispers in her ear. “Pretty sure Sister Mary-Pete would’ve killed herself if you didn’t like it.”

  Dawn whispers back: “Not sure like is the right word.”

  “Oh yeah.” Paula concurs. “Nobody likes it. Not like you’d like gummy bears or something. But even so, everyone loves it.”

  “Holy cow: Love.” Dawn blinks, realizing. “That goulash tasted like love.”

  Paula bumps her with her hip. “Now you’re getting it, Dawnie.”

  The cooks carry the ingredients they’ve prepared over to two enormous cauldrons hoisted over flames in a huge fireplace. They take turns dumping their contributions into the bubbling broth.

  “They’re making so much... Just how many people live here, anyway?”

  “You might not believe it, but sometimes that isn’t even enough. These ladies come to the table hunnn... Gry!”

  Dawn scoffs. “Yeah, lots of calories getting burnt up around here, huh?”

  Paula squints at her. Smirks. “Oh, I see... You don’t think the sisters are active enough to justify big meals?”

  “No, no... I’m sure all that thoughtful contemplation can really work up an appetite.”

  “Well I hope you’ve brought yours, kid.” Paula tugs Dawn away from the kitchen. “Because you may be about to eat those words.”

  ~

  WHAM!

  Six women bring long wooden staves down across the backs of six others. All are nude, but for velcro wrist and ankle-weights. Standing up to their navels in clear, cold water.

  “Step! Step! Turn! Present!” Their coach barks from the lip of the naturally occurring basin in which they stand. Her voice echoes around the open cavern. Ringing off the dripping stalactites overhead. With precisely timed moves, the women follow her commands. Trading roles. The former attackers now presenting their own bruised backs for the same treatment from the partners they’ve just struck.

  “Strike!” Wham! “Strike!” Wham! “Strike!” Wham! “Submerge!”

  Almost without time to inhale, the women
drop into the water. As the rippling surface calms, Dawn can see they’ve all hooked their staves into the handles of large kettle balls resting on the bottom.

  Initially shocked by their immodesty, Dawn’s first impulse had been to look away. To cover her eyes. But Paula’s non-reaction and the nuns’ utter lack of embarrassment somehow left Dawn ashamed of herself. Painfully aware of her own unnecessary clothing. After mere moments in their naked presence, every thought against the perceived impropriety became a question about her own beliefs. None of which prepared her for the nuns to begin attacking one another with big sticks.

  The coach turns away from the pool. Asks Paula: “Make two yet, Paula?”

  “Not yet.” Paula sighs. “Can’t get past a minute, thirty-two.”

  “Keep at it. It don’t come easy, but it comes eventual.” She checks her watch. Then, the water. A few bubbles surface. Beyond that, everything is still. Cross-legged on the bottom, the women might just be meditating, but for the threat of drowning. “That’s three.”

  Dawn’s getting antsy. “How long are they staying under?”

  The coach looks her over. Addresses Paula. “This her?”

  Paula grins. “This is Dawn.”

  The coach nods. “It’s a beginner session, Dawn. So no more than five minutes.”

  Dawn goggles at the thought. Then wonders: How long had she stayed under on her swim the day before? She’ll need to remember to time herself in the bathtub when she gets back to the cabin.

  Bubbles. A nun bursts out of the water. Gasping. One of the youngest in the group. Furious with herself for giving up. Punching the water in frustration.

  Her coach leans over the pool. “Four-twenty-three, Sister Hailey. No small feat. Next time, four and a half for sure.”