The air against it is cool. Soothing. For the first time since she left the hospital, the itching stops.
It’s ugly. It won’t ever heal into something attractive. But she might as well get used to it. She runs the tap. Rinses some of the gore away. Washes it off gently with her remaining hand.
She holds both wrists up to the mirror. Turns them back and forth. Comparing. Flexing her right hand open and closed. Her phantom left does the same in her mind. She can see the empty reality in front of her, but her physical awareness tells her it’s happening.
Then, the folded skin on the end of her left arm bulges. Unwraps.
Wanda goggles at herself.
What she thought was merely stretched flesh with the appearance of a clenched fist... It opens. More than simply skin: Rudimentary fingers spread apart. Wiggle. None more than an inch long. No joints or fingernails. Each connected to the next by flesh webbing.
A hand, almost. Or maybe: A flipper. She opens and closes it next to its mate.
Better than nothing? For the life of her Wanda cannot answer.
But one thing she knows for certain...
Someone is going to.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
“I could never do what you’ve done, Ren. I could never leave my family.” Denis paces. His chains clink. “Never.”
Not a private conversation. He speaks loudly. What’s left of the crowd listens in. He was never hoping to chat, of course. He wanted another chance to preach.
Ren lets him. Leans back against the median. Bored.
“Family is the most important thing, bar none, and if you turn your back on them, I don’t know if you can even call yourself a human being anymore. Let alone a man.”
None of the protesters have left. Sitting cross-legged. Focused on their candles. Possibly paying less attention to Denis than Ren.
Netty stands over the woman on the end. Still holding her hand. Watching Denis on high alert.
“I could have left, too, you know. I had opportunities. On the mainland. Did I want to pursue them? Of course. It would’ve been the easiest thing in the world. But I didn’t. Do you know why?”
Ren can think of more than a few possibilities. Instead: “No.”
“Because! That would’ve been a betrayal. Because my place is here. On the island. It’s my home. I have a stake in what goes on here, but I also have obligations. I would never abandon it.”
“Like I have.”
Denis smiles. “Yes...” It quickly evaporates. “But now you’re back and you somehow think you should be allowed to make decisions on our behalf, and I say-- We all say: No! You gave up that right when you turned your back on us.”
Ren rolls his eyes. Looks back at Netty. She shrugs an apology. Sorry to put him through this, but if it results in a peaceable dispersal, she can live with it.
“I haven’t made any decisions on your behalf. I’m only enforcing one. And I don’t see it as my right. Just the job I was assigned.” Ren happens to agree with the decision. Relishes cramming it down Islander’s throats.
“Awfully convenient.”
“Not for me. I drew short straw.”
“You don’t see a problem with people from away making pronouncements to Islanders on how things are going to be on the island? You don’t think maybe we might be better equipped to assess what’s best for our own welfare?”
“I think smart, well-informed decisions are smart and well-informed no matter who makes them. The same goes for ignorant, backwards ones.” Ren should stop there. Before he makes things worse. But he doesn’t. “But when you live at the bottom of a hole long enough, sometimes you come to fear the sunlight.”
A collective gasp rolls across the gathering. Netty literally slaps her own forehead.
Denis is outraged. “You aren’t seriously comparing...” He stops. Regains his composure. Switches gears.” Did you know: My brother dated your youngest sister for a bit?”
Ren laughs. “I barely remember you. How would I know you even have a brother?”
“Marshall?”
Ren shakes his head. Nope.
Denis is highly irritated. He continues anyway. “Because they were together, I can tell you: She was really screwed up by you leaving.”
Ren’s forehead creases. Where’s this guy taking this?
“She felt it was all her fault, of course. Abandonment issues and all that. She’d really looked up to you. Worshipped you, almost. Guess that comes from such a big difference in ages. She was really little when you left, right?”
“She was eight.”
“Ten year difference. Same as Marshall and I. To me, having a sibling so much younger meant I really needed to help look after them. Obviously, it meant something different to you.”
“Sure. Obviously.”
“Anyway, then your mom died too - also because you left - and that just messed Wanda up even more. She pushed everyone away. Fell into a depression. Turned to drugs. Hard stuff. Crazy shit most people don’t even know about. Wish I didn’t. You ever hear of the stuff they call goo?”
“Not that I recall.”
“Of course not... Mostly an island-thing from what I can tell. Super-addictive. Turns people into empty shells of their former selves. Sucks out their drive. Their ambition. The whole bit. You’d know all about it if you gave a shit about your family. They’ve been dealing with it for years. Ever since Wanda got hooked.”
Ren blinks blandly at the man. Inside, he boils. He’s known little to nothing of his family’s fortunes since leaving the island. Not that he didn’t care. He just needed to focus elsewhere. The idea of his little sister being a drug addict... It’s a hard one to cope with.
“Worse than that - to my mind - she introduced it to Marshall. My brother. Totally ruined his life.”
“Excuse me!” Netty is losing her patience. “But just how much longer do you think you’re going to need, here?”
“You said I could speak my piece, Sheriff. This is it.”
“It might just be nice if your piece had anything at all to do with your protest.”
“Back off, and maybe you’ll see... It has everything to do with why I’m here.”
Netty looks at Ren. He just shrugs. Fine. If he can take it, she can leave them to it.
“Where were we?” Denis looks momentarily confused. “Ah. Right: You’d abandoned your sister, so she became a junkie, and got my brother hooked on this horribly destructive drug.” He nods. Caught up. “Now, me... Because I’m not a selfish asshole... Because I stuck around... And because I care about what happens to my loved ones... I’ve done everything humanly possible to help my little brother get himself straight:
“I’ve gone to therapy with him. I’ve taken him into my home. Supported him, financially. Gotten him jobs. Bailed him out of jail. Held more interventions than I can count. I even had him committed once. That’s what you do for family. The least you do. You keep trying. You sacrifice. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do to help him get well again. Nothing. But that is something I’m sure you will never be able to understand.”
“No, you’re right about that.” Ren steps away from the median. “And it’s certainly some impressive self-sacrificing you’ve done there. I can absolutely see how you might come to think you’ve earned the right to pass judgement on the choices I’ve made. So please - just to help me understand - let me ask you one question...
He waits until Denis nods.
“Your brother still an addict?”
“He is. And--”
“So, you staying. Me going. Amounts to pretty much the same thing, then.”
“No, it--”
“I gotta tell you, Danny: You’ve given me a lot to think about.”
“Danny?” Denis cannot believe Ren. “My name. It’s Denis.”
Ren smiles. “Yeah, like I said, Denis: I really don’t remember you.” He shrugs. “But hearing your story has been really helpful. In future, if I ever feel guilty about leaving and wonder if I should have stay
ed on the island, I just need to think about how you had the chance to leave, but you didn’t, and your family ended up every bit as fucked up as mine.”
The crowd is horrified to hear Ren say such a thing. Netty groans as a ripple of condemnation spreads through the throng.
“In fact, I’d say the one and only thing you accomplished by staying is making your own life more miserable.”
Denis fumes. “That is just not true!”
“Because ultimately, our family members determine their own paths. Their successes aren’t ours to crow. Their failures aren’t ours to regret. And feeling guilty about any of that stuff is - much like this conversation - a big, pointless waste of time. But what I still don’t know... What none of us will ever be able to guess... Is what any of your bullshit could possibly have to do with the building of this bridge!”
Denis walks to Ren. Leans in. Speaks quietly: “For me? Absolutely nothing.”
He snaps handcuffs onto Ren. Chains them together. His eyes are crazed. “It has fuck-all to do with the bridge!”
The crowd doesn’t understand. They all look to one another for explanations. What could this accomplish?
Netty takes a step forward. The woman holds tightly to her arm. Pulls her back as - in a synchronized movement - the other protesters all reach into their jackets. Produce canisters of lighter fluid. Douse themselves. Grab their candles. Ignite.
The spectators duck back as the demonstration goes up in flames.
Ren struggles to get away. Pulls back as far from Denis as the chains will allow. Up the bridge. Away from the screaming, flaming protesters. Smiling an unhinged smile, Denis pulls out his own can of lighter fluid. “I’d do anything for my brother!” He bites the spout open. Sprays himself with butane. “Anything!”
He squirts what’s left onto Ren as well. The liquid burns Ren’s skin. His hands. His throat and chin.
Denis tosses the empty canister. Produces a lighter. “This is for Marshall! It was always for Marshall!”
Netty’s too far away to help Ren. Yanking against the woman’s grasp. Finally, kicking at her until she releases. But the moment the woman lets go, she reaches into her own jacket for her own canister. Netty is on her before she can pull anything out. Knocking the candle away. Wrestling with the woman.
“No! No! They’ll kill her if I don’t!” The woman shrieks.
But she’s weak. Diminished. Netty gets the lighter fluid away from her easily. Throws it over the side. Holds the woman down. “Who will? They’ll kill who?”
“Nobody!” The woman laughs maniacally. “Not anymore! I did it! I stopped you! She’s safe!”
Oh, no... Netty looks up the bridge. Just as Denis flicks his lighter. Bursts into flame. Leaps towards Ren.
She’s too late.
~
The Eastern Star Ferry has stopped running for the day. Its waterfront parking lot mostly empty, after-hours. There - haphazardly parked across three spots - a black sedan idles. Unnoticed. At a safe distance.
From here, the flames are plainly visible on the truncated beginning of the Cumberland Channel Bridge project.
In the backseat, Mrs. Rutherford smiles. Satisfied. Turns away from the window.
“Back to the Home, please, Ishmael.”
Her driver nods. Shifts gears.
The car drives smoothly away.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
Nearing shore. Catching up with the red dot. On its tail.
Sylvie mans the floodlight. Aiming at the shoreline. Scanning back and forth. Ready to catch the thing, wherever it might emerge.
Burl slows up. Eyes on vertical sonar: A 3D image of the ocean floor. Uncomfortably close to the keel. Entering the shallows.
Sylvie feels it. Whirls. “What are you doing?!”
“We’ll run aground!”
“So beach it. That’s Roscoe out there!” She grabs for the throttle.
Burl throws up a big forearm. Knocks her back. Holds her off. “And what if he’s hurt, Sylvie? How do we get him to help if we’re foundered? On foot?”
Sylvie pushes away. Frustrated. He’s right. “Fine. Get as close as you can.”
“This might be it.”
The dot is getting away from them now. Nearly to shore.
Sylvie’s not waiting. She steps up onto the gunwale, as the boat slows, turns. She dives. As shallow a dive as she can manage. Practically skipping across the surface. Where she emerges, her head and shoulders are exposed. Feet touching bottom. Nearly there. She slogs forward.
“Sylvie!” Burl trains the boat’s floodlight on the treeline.
Sylvie catches sight of the black shape as it tosses Roscoe’s body from the water. Climbs out after him. Its split tails working perfectly fine as legs.
Sylvie pulls forward her speargun. Fires.
The bolt strikes home. A miracle. Into its back. Directly beneath the dorsal fin.
The thing staggers. Rights itself. Disappears into the foliage.
Damnit!
~
Blood marks a clear trail into the woods.
Sylvie follows. In a crouch. Diving headlamp held out ahead of her in one hand. Speargun resting on her forearm. Doing her best not to wonder: Whose blood is it? The creature’s? Or Roscoe’s?
The drops are smaller now. Harder to spot. Fewer and farther between. She slows. Cursing herself. Certain she’s lost him. Roscoe. Gone. On her watch. Under her command. Entirely her fault.
Tears come now. Now, of all times. She chokes them back, but they come anyway. For Roscoe. For Aaron. For Trevor. For herself.
No. She bites her lip. Hard. Her work is not done. She can break down later. She promises herself. Just... Not yet. With a final deep sniffle she beats back the sorrow... With rage. Simple. Productive. Motivating. Rage. That scaly monster is still out there. Needing killing. There’ll be time for weepy bullshit later.
Another red droplet moves her forward. Two more turn her north.
They can’t be from Roscoe, she decides. The monitors were unclear, but... His wounds were mere scratches, weren’t they? Superficial. Obviously, this must be coming from the creature. From the wound she gave it. One slowly and painfully draining its life. As it runs out of blood, there’s less to leave a trail. That’s what’s happening. She almost convinces herself.
Then, she falls into a hole.
Eight feet long. Eight feet wide. Eight feet deep.
Sylvie lands hard at the bottom. Scrambles to her feet. Shines her lamp around.
There, in the corner, she finds the beast’s black body. Unmoving. It’s limbs appear withered. Almost deflated. Maybe decomposition is already claiming it. Not taking any chances, she levels her speargun at the thing. Advances to a foot away. Shoots a bolt into its massive head.
It tears easily through the skin. Leaves a wide hole. Thunks solidly into something that whirrs. Crackles. Throws off sparks.
No... No.
Sylvie struggles to make sense of this.
She pokes it with the end of the speargun. The skin is rubbery. Like a wetsuit. On a frame. Hollow beneath. It’s a costume. The creature is just a costume. A fake.
Sylvie puts her finger through the bolt hole. Pulls the skin to one side. Revealing: An instrument console. Handles. Inside the thing’s head is some sort of personal hand-held jet ski. How it moved so quickly through the water.
She looks closely. Touches fingertips to the suit. They come away sticky. Red.
The creature is fake, but its blood isn’t. That means there’s still a wounded human being to be found. Which brings Sylvie to the most important question - one she hadn’t considered since landing down there: Where is Roscoe?
Above, the foliage rustles.
Something moves away from the hole. Deeper into the woods. Out of Sylvie’s reach.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Dawn sleeps. Deeply. Alone in the cabin.
Across the room, her father’s bed is unslept-in.
On the bedside table: Her tablet recharges. Atop
it: A thin chain with a silver charm catches the small shred of moonlight sneaking through the window.
The bathroom door is cracked. Inside, Dawn’s travel night-light is plugged in. She tells herself it’s so her father can find his way when he returns without knocking something over. In truth, she can’t sleep comfortably without it. The place still too unfamiliar to trust in the dark.
The cabin is still. Silent. Empty. The lights turned off. The door locked up for the night.
Outside, the porch light is lit. Awaiting her father’s return.
~
Dawn sleeps. Deeply. Alone in the cabin.
Across the room, her father’s bed is unslept-in.
On the bedside table: Her tablet recharges. Atop it: A thin chain with a silver charm catches the small shred of moonlight sneaking through the window.
The bathroom door is cracked. Inside, Dawn’s travel night-light is plugged in.
The cabin is still. Silent. Empty. The lights turned off.
Outside, the porch light is dark.
~
Dawn sleeps. Deeply. Alone in the bedroom.
Across the room, her father’s bed is unslept-in.
On the bedside table: Her tablet recharges. Atop it: A thin chain with a silver charm catches the small shred of moonlight sneaking through the window.
The bathroom door is open. Dawn’s travel night-light unplugged.
The cabin is still. Silent. Dark.
~
Dawn sleeps.
Across the room, her father’s bed is unslept-in.
On the bedside table: Her tablet recharges. Atop it: A thin chain with a silver charm catches the small shred of moonlight sneaking through the window.
They watch her from the door. Motionless.
FROM AWAY ~ BOOK TWO Page 15