Maybe the video has been reshot? Updated to suit the changing times? If so, she must’ve stuck to the same script, because overall? The footage is exactly as he remembers it. In a moment, she will stand. Cross the boardroom.
Mrs. Rutherford stands. Crosses the boardroom. “Not to worry, though: We’ve supplied you with a secondary air supply. It will come in handy when you effect your escape from this watery tomb. Because more than simply a prison, the Bell to which you’ve been sentenced is a gauntlet. A relay race across the ocean floor. Which brings us to this fine gentleman...”
She stops next to the dive suit. Pats it on the chest. A hollow tonk-tonk rings out.
“Once pressurized, the additional air he carries should be sufficient to allow you to walk across the seabed and find your way to the second bell. There - just in the nick of time - you will find replacement tanks. They’ll be about what you need to get to the third bell, where a final switch-out should be nearly enough to get you the rest of the way to shore. If you attempt to make a beeline for the beach from any of the earlier bells, you will absolutely run out before reaching the island, so... I wouldn’t bother, if I were you.”
Ren tears his eyes from the unaging woman onscreen. Takes in his surroundings. So far as he can tell, in thirty years, nothing has changed here either.
A sitting area. A sleeping area. A workspace with dark computers - neanderthal cousins to those used today. Dead-center in the floor: A large round hatch. Currently: Tightly latched.
At eye-level a narrow window cuts a semi-circle around the bell. Outside? Nothing is visible beyond the limited reach of the running lights. The window impractical for any purpose beyond staving off claustrophobia with the illusion of escapability.
On the table next to him: Four protein bars. Three bottles of water. He grabs one. Unscrews the lid. Glugs it dry.
“Once you’ve made your way back to the island? Your transgressions will be considered forgiven. Immediate reinstatement into the Circle is assured. Assuming - of course - you make it back at all. It won’t be easy. The finite air supply leaves little margin for error. But, to assist with your journey...” She lifts the dive suit’s left forearm. Unhooks a metal flap. Slides it back. “Built into the arm you’ll find a compass and map to each way-station.” Raised metal ridges form a slightly three-dimensional relief of the seabed and the path from bell to bell. A small ball suspended in liquid points north. Above these features a series of pressure gauges. Needles pointing into green pie-slices.
“It is vital you pay strict attention to your gauges. Any sudden ascent - as measured by rapid decrease in depth pressure - will result not only in the onset of severe and likely-fatal decompression sickness, but also?” Mrs. Rutherford pauses. Smiles. “You will cause the detonation of the explosives we’ve had woven into the very fabric of the suit. Because the sentence you’ve been given is: To walk across the ocean floor. It is not: To swim home in the open air. In other words... Should you break for the surface, you will cause the suit to self-destruct.”
Ren rises. Simple stretches confirm: Every-damn-thing is sore. Not enough to stop him, but it won’t help. Knowing what’s involved, he’s accepted this punishment as the consequences of his own actions. He’s ready to face it head-on. And should it go badly? There’s always Plan B, isn’t there?
“The only safe depth change is exceedingly slow. Say... Rising to sea level over the course of a walk from this diving bell to shore. However - should this sentence prove to be too much for you... If you decide you’d prefer a quick and permanent way out - a speedy rise would serve as your prime option. Alternatively? Simply stay where you are. Take a little nap as the air depletes. Drift gently away into the arms of asphyxiation.”
Ren can feel it already. His lungs working harder. Achieving less.
“Assuming you reject both of these more cowardly escape routes, please remember on your journey to remain aware of your surroundings. You have been abandoned outside Wreck Reef. Untold dangers await. This is the course you’ve selected by breaking the Circle: To be removed from our protection. Left to fend for yourself. Alone. That said, redemption is at hand. Successfully return to the island and all is forgiven. Forgotten. Expunged. On behalf of the Old Men and the Watch, I wish you safe travels and the very best of luck. You will most assuredly need it.”
Static.
Ren clicks STOP on the VCR. Courteously rewinds the tape. As the machine rattles, another set of servos are engaged. Rumbling underfoot. On the hatch, the release wheel spins. Bolts slide back. The door swings open. Revealing the moon pool: A calm circle of black water. Held in abeyance by physics alone. Prepared to invade at the slightest sign of weakness.
Ren moves to the suit. Begins the process of opening it up. Unhooking. Unbuckling. Preparing to climb inside.
All around him, the ocean is cold. Indifferent. Merciless. Waiting for Ren with endless appetite.
CHAPTER SIX
Persistent little buggers.
They’re nearly through the boathouse door. Tiny, powerful teeth crunching into the wood. Locked in on potential victims on the other side. Intent on getting at them.
“This going to be much longer?” Sylvie has taken Max’s place. Back braced against the door. While there’s still a door remaining.
“Keep yer panties dry, love. We’re almost there.” At the worktable, Norman solders leads while Max holds the sphere steady. “This works, ye’re not gonna have a lot of time. It’ll suck the life outta this car battery, and fast. Plus, yer range is limited. Moreso than the usual pulser.” He shrugs. “Wasn’t much left to work with here, and this far from the reef? Only so much the amplifiers can manage. Meanin’ you need to get in close.”
Sylvie snorts. “So what's the bad news?”
“Hrm. There’s also the not-insignificant chance that usin’ it like this’ll overheat the battery, and the whole kit-and-caboodle will end up explodin’ in the boy’s hands.”
Max groans. “Aren't you glad you asked?”
“Won’t be me toting the thing around, Mr. Volunteer.” She shakes her head. “Still not convinced fire isn’t the way to go.” Maybe not, but she’d agreed to it. Cremation remains a viable back-up plan. “It doesn’t need to be fancy. So long as those things are destroyed.”
“Right, then. There’s that done.” Norman pulls back his tools. Coughs into his sleeve. “Give ‘er the juice, b’y. See what catches.”
Max flips a switch. Nothing seems to happen.
Behind Sylvie, the door cracks. She leaps away. Less-than eager to have her butt munched. Broken fragments reach up from the bottom edge. The monsters are almost inside. “Time’s up, guys. If it’s not working, we need to call the tower for--”
“It’ll work.” Max stares into the pulser’s core. His declaration more than halfway a prayer. “Give it twenty seconds. It has to charge.” In the heart of the thing: An almost imperceptible flicker. The faintest glow. “There. It’s happening.”
Slivers and sawdust gather at the base of the quaking door. Another long fracture appears. Sylvie looks around for a weapon. “Not fast enough.”
Not waiting for the charge to complete, Max grabs the ragged edge of the metal mesh sphere enclosing the pulse generator. Hefts it up. Awkward. Heavier than expected. He shifts it into the crook of one arm. Careful not to yank out the tangle of wires trailing back to its power source.
Norman pats his shoulder. Says what they’re all thinking: “Ye can’t go it alone, b’y. It’s too much fer one.”
“I can do it.” He reaches for the car battery. Drags it to the table’s edge with straining fingertips. “Just need to--”
“Ye can’t.” Norman holds the battery down. “Not on yer lonesome.”
Fortunately, Sylvie’s there. “Hand it over, kid.” She reaches for the sphere.
Max almost passes it to her. Stops himself. “I’m the Electrician’s apprentice. This was my idea. So, I’m taking the pulser. But... You can help carry the battery.”
Surprised, Sylvie looks from him to the Electrician. Norman shrugs: “You recommended him.”
“Did, didn’t I?” She takes hold of the battery. Looks over the wires. The connections appearing so fragile. “Better not make me regret it.”
“Keep tight to him, girl.” Norman steps out of the way. Gives the pair room to practice moving as a team. They shuffle toward the door. Find it shaking. Three cracks now open along its base. Wide enough to see the teeth gnashing through the gaps. Only a few feet away and the weakly throbbing pulser is having no effect.
Concerned, Sylvie gives the battery a shake. “Is it even going to--”
Foom! They all feel it: The first pulse. Pounding through the air. Snatching away their collective breaths. Slightly staggered, Norman grabs for the wall. Holds on a moment. Recovering as the pulser sets in to a steady rhythm. Subsequent pulses less severe, though still hard to miss.
The door has stilled. After a moment, milky liquid seeps in along the bottom edge.
“It’s working.” Max smirks in triumph. “Let’s go.”
Norman does the honors: Throws wide the door. Nothing monstrous enters. The immediate threat dissolved into white goop on the threshold. Avoiding the little splats, Max jogs out. Sylvie stays close behind him.
Norman shuts the door after them. Closes his eyes. “Saints preserve ye both.”
~
Eyeless. Earless. Noseless.
Nonetheless, as Max and Sylvie approach the stairs, the worms inside Fat Antoine somehow sense their proximity. Recognize the pair of humans as prey. Burst forth from his torso. Drop ten feet to the beach. Whip themselves along the sand at high speed.
Max holds the pulser ahead of himself. Greets them with an invisible wall. Without slowing, they’re reduced instantly to white paste as they reach the far edge of the pulser’s effective reach.
Emboldened, Max continues to the stairs. Points the pulser toward Fat Antoine from below. Eradicating any stragglers remaining hidden within the big man. Lowering the sphere only when the corpse stops quivering.
But the face staring down at him is not that of Fat Antoine. For a long moment, it’s Aaron. His remaining eye rolls in its socket. Focuses on Max. “Sssisss...ssstarsss...” he says. Max jerks back. Shakes off the memory.
“Goddammit.” Sylvie sucks air through her teeth. “Already this thing’s getting hot.” She alternates hands. Passing the battery back and forth. Trying not to keep either palm in contact long enough to get burned.
Max glances back at her. “Should we abort?”
Sylvie gazes across the beachfront. At the prostrate forms scattered around. Each chest cavity fluttering. None with breath. Each filled with death-wreaking monsters. “No. It’s now-or-never, now.”
Moving forward, the duo criss-cross the beach at a trot. Pausing at every lost co-worker. Proceeding toward the massacre’s epicenter. The worms are obliging. Never changing tack. Always charging directly for them. Liquifying before they get too close.
Twelve victims in all. Including two Old Men. Max and Sylvie have dealt with nine when the pulser begins to flicker.
“Damn.” Max rushes onward. “We have to hurry.”
Sylvie grunts in agreement. Holding the smoking battery far from her body. Supporting its weight with only her fingertips. Cringing from the burns she is definitely receiving now.
Together, they run toward the place the slaughter began. Where Burl held Roscoe down as Dr. Marquand examined him. Where the worms split Roscoe open. Poured from his distended belly in a wave. Claimed his doctor and best friend as their second and third victims.
But even as the worms emerge from these stolen habitats, the pulser flashes. Its battery crackles. Sylvie’s fingers are zapped with white hairs of electricity. Not enough to kill or even incapacitate her.
But more than enough to make her lose her grip.
~
Norman is back at the worktable. Scrounging through the drawers. Kicking himself for not thinking of it sooner. It’s so obvious. So simple and straightforward. Watching Max and Sylvie tote the giant metal sphere around, he couldn’t believe it had never before occurred to him.
He finds an old graph paper notebook. A nearly exhausted ballpoint pen. Just what he needs. Before he loses hold of his concept, he starts sketching it out: The tool which could change everything.
A sudden cough explodes from his chest. Speckles the notebook with red dots. As if he needed a reminder of the urgency. If he’s very lucky, he might still have time in which to see his new concept brought to fruition. For now, he concentrates on getting it out of his head. Onto the paper.
So focused is the Electrician, that he hardly registers the explosion at all. Doesn’t let the distant sound distract him. Barely connects it to the duo he just sent out across the beach carrying the dangerous jury-rigged contraption. Nothing can be allowed to intrude on this work. It’s far too important.
Whatever is happening outside the boathouse... It can wait.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“Line three, Netty.” Millie stands in the doorway. Looking into the observation room. More interested in the monitors than in passing along her message. “It’s Mrs. Rutherford. She wants to talk to the Sheriff.”
Halfway to the phone, Netty’s hand stops. Frowning, she turns to the department’s young dispatcher and receptionist. “Millie... You realize that’s not me anymore, right?”
“Haven’t been able to raise Doug--” Millie cuts herself off. Blushing. “Sheriff Schilling, I mean.”
“So, maybe tell her that, huh? The single benefit to my demotion is I don’t have to deal with the Old Men anymore. Besides, I’m kind of in the middle of--”
“In case you haven’t noticed...” Millie points toward the bullpen. Phones ringing incessantly. A cacophony of voices fighting to be heard. “It’s chaos out there!”
Netty had noticed, in fact. Pointedly ignored it. In favor of dealing with her own issues. But now, it had come knocking. “Why? What’s going on?”
“Nobody knows for sure. Just that something’s happened. Out on the beach. Under Lesguettes Lighthouse.”
Where Max is.
Ice climbs Netty’s spine. Her heart shudders. She’d delivered her son to the lighthouse herself that morning. She fumbles her phone from her pocket. Finds a text notification waiting on the the main screen: “I’m okay, Mom. Don’t worry.”
Relief. “Oh, thank God.”
“Netty?” Millie’s still there. Expecting something more. “The phone?”
Netty blinks. Then: “Line three?”
“Line three.” Millie leaves her to it.
Pulling herself together, Netty presses the third button. Takes a breath. “Mrs. Rutherford? It’s Deputy Hubert. What’s going on out there?”
~
Strolling back into the busy bullpen, Millie throws up a hand. Cuts off any questions before they can be asked. “Nothing yet. Netty’s just talking to her now.” She slides between the cubicles. Dodging deputies. Returning to her home base: The reception desk.
Seating herself, she surveys the anxious civilians waiting to speak to her. Surprised to find Mother Agatha among them. Whoever arrived first, they all yield to the woman of the cloth. Step out of her path. Usher her forward. She accepts their deference with practiced grace.
“Bless you. Bless you all.”
Millie half-rises from her seat. Practically curtseying. “Reverend Mother... What can I do for you?”
“My question precisely: What service might I provide to the police department? I’ve been called in to speak to Deputy Hubert.”
“Oh! Uh... She didn’t say any-- She’s actually just on the phone right now.” Millie is mortified. Flustered by the prospect of keeping the nun waiting. Doesn’t Netty realize? That’s the same as wasting God’s time! “But if you’ll just take a seat, I’ll make sure she gets to you as soon as she’s able.”
“It’s no rush, dear. Anyone can see how hectic things are for you today.” She pats Millie’s hand
. “I hope nothing terrible has happened.”
Millie goggles. As though witness to some minor miracle. “Something has!” She quiets herself. Calms. “But I shouldn’t... I can’t really talk about--”
“It’s official business. Say no more.” Mother Agatha is so understanding. “I’ll just be over here whenever you’re ready for me.” She glides away.
In the small waiting area, seats are vacated as she approaches. She lowers herself into the first she comes to, nodding beatifically to the donor.
Content to wait in silent contemplation. Her patience: Eternal.
~
“All right. Here’s the word from on high... You, uh... Might want to take this down.” Netty hates herself. As she has each time she’s played public relations officer for the Old Men. Obfuscating the facts. Disseminating to the world their preferred version of events.
Truly, she’d thought her demotion had eliminated that dubious assignment from her task-list. No such luck. But of course, Schilling isn’t up to handling the Sheriff’s duties on his own. It should really come as no shock that she’s expected to pick up his slack.
“Ready?” The phones continue to ring. Beyond that, the bullpen is silent. Netty proceeds: “Earlier today - at the base of Finnegan’s Bluff, overlooked by Lesguettes Lighthouse - a device was discovered on Martine’s Beach.”
She consults a slip of paper. Dictation from Mrs. Rutherford. Knowing from experience how picky the old woman can be about wording. “Upon examination by Shore Watch, the apparatus was accidentally triggered, setting off an explosive charge. There were casualties. We’re still waiting on an exact tally, but... A number of onlookers were either caught directly in the blast, or struck by flying shrapnel. These injuries, by and large... Appear to have been fatal.”
FROM AWAY ~ BOOK FIVE Page 3