Finally, the thought of Mr. Grist happening by makes the decision for him. Rather than risk returning to empty shelves, he slides down the security bars. Locks the door behind him.
~
“I’m one. Was one from the start. It’s where I belong. Only where I belong.” Gardner mutters quietly to himself. He doesn’t need to pretend to be exhausted. The most active day he’s had in years has left him practically done-in. “I’m owed it. I’m one of ‘em. Was one of the first.” He gazes across the hall. Into the tapestry on the far wall: A maiden. A unicorn. A lion. Surrounded by radiating mandalic patterns. He loses himself. Lets the decorative repetition lull his tired eyes.
“You seem to have strayed from your assigned path, Young Man.”
Gardner jerks sharply toward the voice. His initial surprise quickly twisting. Darkening as he looks up at the grinning man looming over him. “Don’t ye call me that.” He looks away. “I belong here.”
The proclamation strips the fun out of things. Mr. Hickman realizes: The old man’s not lost at all. Undoubtedly senile, and likely dementing. But at the very least, he’d come there on purpose. “You remember me?”
“Carse I do. Fought together, didn’t we? Not like to forget that, am I? Even if the rest of ye do.”
Mr. Hickman crosses his arms. “You turned on us, Young Man. Not the other way around. Nobody was forcing you to do the stuff. We didn’t give a damn if you did. But you couldn’t leave well enough alone, could you? Wasn’t enough that you didn’t partake. You had to take it from the rest of us as well.”
“Those things were the enemy. They killed my boy...” He stares off. Into the past. “Yet ye planned to let ‘em live on. Expected me to take care of ‘em? Not likely. Not when they belonged dead, every accursed one of them.”
Mr. Hickman sighs. “Even now, you still can’t see the long view. Look around, Gardner. If you hadn’t taken the harpoon to Ginger? You’d still be among our number. Living out your days in luxury.”
Gardner turns his attention to his former compatriot. Eyes burning. Clear. No sign of senility in them. “Ye can take yer la-di-dah West Corridor bullshit, Mr. Hickman, and ye can cram it directly up yer arsehole.”
Taken aback by the vitriol, the Old Man draws away from the Young Man. Almost missing the slight floorboard creak. Coming from behind him.
He whirls. Turns into Wanda’s fist. Taking it full on the jaw. The strike spins him. Doesn’t quite bring the man down.
Gardner lurches forward. Swinging back his cane. Telegraphing his attack. Mr. Hickman knocks him aside. Easily snatches away his weapon. Turns it on Wanda as she leaps for him. Slamming it into the side of her head. Hard enough to crack the thing in half.
Wanda hits the floor. Rolls. Comes up dazed. Bleeding from a deep gash: Running from her cheek into her hairline. She blinks the impact away. Comes at Mr. Hickman again. Talons flashing.
Hearing about Dr. Ramsey’s experiments hadn’t quite prepared him to encounter one. He tries to block the blow. Shrieks as Wanda’s claws tear into his forearm. Lashing out, he backhands her. Knuckles landing squarely against her open wound.
She recoils, but so does he. Shrieking again. Dropping to his knees. Clutching his hand. Had he broken it against her head? Shattered the bones as he had Gardner’s cane? No matter, she advances on the Old Man. Sees his pained expression go slack, just before she can deliver a final blow. All on his own, he collapses. Unconscious. His torn-up arm bleeding onto the lush persian rug.
Boggled, Wanda stares down at the man. Nudges him once with her toe.
“Lard Tunderin’, what’s that skull of yers made outta, ducky?” On hands and knees, Gardner collects the remnants of his cane. “Nothin’ less than hickory he brought down on ye. Splintered the goddamn thing.”
“Guess I’m tougher than I look.”
“And that’s some tough, all right.” He holds the halves up. End to ragged end. No saving the walking stick.
“Guys?”
They look down the hall. To the dispensary. Where Trevor pokes his head through the unlocked door. “You really need to see this.”
~
In the dispensary: Rows of shelves. Mostly empty. Slots for hundreds of metal canisters. Fewer than thirty remaining.
Trevor stands out of the way. “See? Already, they’re almost out.”
“Perfect.” Wanda smiles. “Let’s help them along, shall we?” She grabs one. Takes hold of it with one fully and one partially-formed hand.
“Hold on, Wanda...” Trevor steps forward. “We don’t even--”
She cracks it open. The pressurized spray blasts against a wall. Hissing black cavities form wherever it hits.
“Woah!” She holds the canister away from herself. Waits for it to empty. For the contents to neutralize. “Heh.” A sheepish smile to her companions. “So, that’s the business end, then... Make sure and point that part away.”
She puts back the empty. Passes full canisters to Gardner and Trevor. Facing different walls, the trio begin to work their way through the stockpile. One-by-one, they crack open the canisters. Spray out the contents. Reach for the next.
“So... Is this it, do you think?” Given how little he now knows he knew about the world as recently as twenty-four hours ago, Trevor is done making assumptions. “Getting rid of this stuff... It will cripple them? Give us the chance to end their hold on the island once and for all?”
“Doubt it could be near easy as that, b’y.” Gardner trades for a fresh canister. “It’s a start, but I’d be right gobsmacked to find Mrs. Rutherford hasn’t planned for it. Probably, she has a back-up supply all her own lain away somewheres.”
“Not to mention: They’ve been distributing this stuff to dealers all over the island.” Wanda empties another tin. “No way of knowing how much may still be floating around.”
“Gah!” Trevor tosses down a used canister in frustration. “The only way this works is if we get rid of everything. Cut them off completely. Only when the Old Men are nothing more than old men, can we really hope to overthrow them.”
One canister remains. Wanda gets to it first. Holds it a long moment. Lost in thought. “Okay, boys... Trevor’s right. We want this mission to work, we need to get to whatever’s left before the Old Men do. And so, I propose: We split up.”
The men are dubious. Less than thrilled by the prospect of continuing without her. Wanda being easily the strongest member of their trio, even minus her recent augmentations.
“Shocking though you may find the revelation, it so happens I know a little something-or-two about Mossley Island’s network of illicit goo-traffickers. So, I’m gonna go out. Bust me a few heads. Round up every last ounce of that deadly black shit I can find and get rid of it. Meanwhile? You two are gonna uncover Mrs. R’s secret stash if she has one and dump that all out, too. How’s that sound?”
Gardner and Trevor share a look. An appraisal. Each uncertain of the other. But both ultimately nod.
“Good.” Wanda passes Gardner the last canister. “The privilege is yours, Young Man.”
He rolls his eyes. “I’m nare to escape that moniker, am I?”
“Nope.” She winks. “But dude? At first I may have been saying it to take the piss out of you, but now? Take it how I mean it: You’re not one of them. That name says you rejected those jokers. And that’s nothing less than a badge of fucking honor, so wear it proud.” She snags her brother-in-law by the sleeve. Tugs him away. “C’mere a sec, Trev. I need you.”
He goes along. Follows her out of the dispensary. “What is it?”
“It’s...” She glances over her shoulder. Then faces forward again. Points toward their fallen foe. “Get this guy’s other leg for me.”
Trevor laughs. “That’s why you need me?”
She shrugs. Grabs the left ankle. Trevor takes right. They each pull. Drag Mr. Hickman back toward his dispensary.
“No...” Wanda starts: “I need to make sure you get something: I fucking loved Aaron. You do know that
, right?”
Trevor chokes at the name. Unprepared for his late son to enter conversation. Uncertain how to respond. “Of-of-of course you--”
“No, just you shut up and listen...” She inhales. “No matter how bad things got - how low I went - I always loved that kid. But one night he... He called me. When the lighthouse lost power. He needed help, but I... I blew him off, basically. I wasn’t there for him. So then, the night he... Night he died? He didn’t even bother calling. If he needed help? He didn’t call to ask for it.” She bites the inside of her cheek. “Because I’d shown him: He couldn’t count on me, anyway. And I’m sorry. I’m so sorry to him. And to Sylvie and to you.”
Trevor absorbs this. Opens his mouth.
She stops him with a look. “If you’re going to say it’s okay? Don’t say it’s okay. It’s not and I know it. And if you’re going to call me a worthless junkie shithead? Well, you can, and I couldn’t blame you, but you don’t need to bother, because I know that too.”
Trevor holds her eyes. Not angry. Not judging. Only sad. He simply nods.
“But here’s the thing, Trev. And I wouldn’t expect anyone to believe me, but: It’s all different now. I’m different. And it’s no thanks to me or anything, because no way could I have fixed what was wrong with me on my own, but whatever the reason... I’m changed. And I promise you this: You can count on me now. No matter what.”
There’s a bump as they pull the Old Man over the threshold. Gardner steps out of the way. Makes room for them to dump him. “He dead?”
Wanda kneels. Feels for a pulse. Finds one. “Nope.” Without compunction, she goes through his pockets. Takes his keys. Pulls off the man’s shoes. Holds one up. Too large, compared to her foot, but better than continuing shoeless.
“Out, out.” She waves the men from the room. Locks it tight behind her. Twists the key. Breaks it off in the lock. “Here’s where we part ways, guys. All the--”
Trevor hugs her. Hard. “I know we can count on you.” He walks off before Wanda can respond. “Come on, Young Man. Let’s find your former leader’s stash.”
Gardner salutes Wanda. Limps after Trevor. Deeper into the Home.
Wanda heads in the other direction. Looking to score. Only now, for entirely new reasons.
~
Neatly re-shelved, the stockpiled canisters have all been broken open. Emptied. The last of the Old Men’s precious stores disposed of. The dispensary walls and floor now pocked and cratered. Hollowed out by the temporarily acidic properties of the wasted ichthyoplasm.
In the middle of this war zone: Mr. Hickman. Locked into his own workplace. Dopey smile on his battered countenance. Not what one might expect from someone knocked out during a fight. More the blissed-out expression of an addict who floated away under the influence of some powerful drug.
Further evidenced by the telltale black charring across the back of his hand. A clear sign - on Mossley Island, at least - of someone who has dosed themselves with goo.
But there is only one substance with which he’s come in contact. One spattered across the back of his hand when he lashed out at Wanda. The connection made when he struck her across the cheek. Where the long gash she had just sustained was still bleeding.
He’d been the only one to hear it when her blood had sizzled against his hand. Shockingly cold at first. Then, burning hot. Sinking into his flesh. Running wild through his nervous system. Taking over. Far stronger than any rationed serving of ichthyoplasm milked from aging gillies held in captivity. Powerful enough to send Mr. Hickman to a happy land, far, far away.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The needle’s in the yellow. No sign of the third bell yet. Panic is at the door. Knocking.
For the most part, Ren’s second long walk has been a calm one. Having completed one leg, it had been easier to visualize crossing the eventual finish line. But the second bell had been in sight long before his air supply had run this low, and still, he’d barely made it to safety before running out.
On top of everything else, the dark water is now getting darker. He’d long-since given up on his sense of time, but it didn’t take much confidence to guess that - out in the surface world - the sun was now setting.
Wherever she is - whatever she’s doing - Dawn is alone. She must be terrified. Don’t think about Dawn. Was she waiting in the cabin for him to arrive? Had she gone out searching for him? Don’t. It won’t help. Would she think he’d been abducted? Or even worse: Assume he’d abandoned her? You have to focus on getting back, if you want to have a hope of making it happen!
Cycling through his brain: Things he hadn’t said. Things he should’ve shared. The time now passed. Even on this trip together, traveling just-the-two-of-them, they’ve each gone their own way. Followed their own paths. Never had there been a greater opportunity for the two of them to bond, but what she’s most interested in - investigating their family history - is anathema to him. Not just something he isn’t intrigued by... Something he actively opposes: Defining oneself based on a bunch of long-dead yahoos, whose only connection is chromosomal. May as well rely on the zodiac for advice.
But whatever his feelings on genealogy, it would have been time spent with his daughter. If he could’ve stowed his own prejudices, it could have been an ideal excuse to learn more about her. Who she is, right now. Instead, he’d spent his time on the island running around, arguing with the elderly, having his hands set on fire, and investigating an assault against a victim who doesn’t seem to care in the least that she’s been assaulted. All that versus daddy-daughter time? It shouldn’t even have been a choice, really.
Thinking about his child, Ren hasn’t been paying attention. Simply trudging ahead. Without checking bearings. Without course-correcting. Now, on his way up a rocky rise, it registers: He has no idea where he is. Even so, as he crests the summit, the lights of the third bell come into view. Burning bright. Closer than he could’ve guessed.
Despite his best efforts: All is not lost.
Much as before, the sight of his goal throws Ren into higher gear. Though greater effort means more air being used more quickly, he’s unable to slow himself. Rushing headlong across the ocean floor. Not seeing the chasm until one foot is past its edge. About to step over. Into blackness.
With the sudden realization, Ren scrambles backwards. Fighting gravity. The awkward mass of the suit. His own momentum.
One weighted boot breaks through the lip as the other struggles to find purchase. Ren throws himself back. Dropping to hands and knees. Grabbing at the rocky shale beneath him. Rolling away from the drop. Barely saving himself from his own careless haste.
On his back, he waits. For his breathing to calm. For his heartbeat to slow. Above - in the beam of his helmet light - the occasional fish passes. None overly concerned. Not about him. The Bell. Dawn. The Bridge. Or anything else.
Ren gets to his feet. Surveys the situation: Third bell in sight. Appearing to be within reach. But for the small complication of an enormous underwater canyon carving into the ocean floor between them. Stretching out of sight in either direction. No indication in the near-total darkness which route might lead more quickly around it. Assuming either ever comes to any sort of end at all.
Ren doesn’t need to check his gauges to know: He has so little air remaining, a wrong guess will mean a death sentence.
Leaving one alternative option: The direct route.
The suit is heavy. But Ren is relatively fit. A capable swimmer. The weighted boots are detachable. Covering the suit’s built-in feet. If he ditches them he might just be light enough to make it across. Avoiding a possibly fruitless detour. The walk, from that point forward would become harder without the boots. Requiring more effort. Spending more precious air to cover the same amount of ground without floating toward the surface. But at least he’d have the chance to cover that ground at all.
Ultimately, no amount of reasoning helps make up Ren’s mind. With the next waystation in sight, he just can’t bring himself to walk
away from it, in either direction. Won’t risk losing sight of it forever. Instead, he’ll leave the boots. Take his chances without them. Better to make it to third and get tagged out running for home.
Decided, he bends over. Reaches for the buckles. He’s just pulling at the first calf-strap when the creature slams into him. Knocks him off his feet. Sends him spinning through the water. Over the edge.
Into the abyss.
~
Jocelyn leaned against the kitchen counter. Absently swirling her wineglass. “Libby tells me you’ve gotten quite good. Maybe after, we should bring out our board? I’ve been known to play from time to time.”
“Oh, um...” The boy had been invited for dinner. He wasn’t prepared for a backgammon competition. “I guess we could.”
“Don’t fall for it.” Libby spoke through the screen door. From out on the patio. Tending to the barbecue. “You may kick my ass on a regular basis, but you are not ready to take on Joss. Trust me on this one.”
“Mom’s a shark, all right.” A girl had entered. A year younger than the boy. At a distance, they’d known one another all their lives. Same schools, different classes. This was their first real-world interaction. “And on the off-chance you manage to win? She’s a notoriously sore loser, too.”
Jocelyn turns up her nose. “I cannot be faulted for taking things seriously.”
The girl’s laugh was windchimes. She dragged her chair out from the dining room table. Sat. “Save it for the courtroom, Counsellor.”
Unconsciously, the boy adjusted himself. Head a little higher. Back a little straighter. Resisting the urge to finger-comb his hair out of his eyes. Doing his best not to stare.
FROM AWAY ~ BOOK FIVE Page 7