FROM AWAY ~ BOOK FIVE

by Mackey Jr. , Deke

  “I take it they’re beyond your abilities then, Jewels?” Before she can retreat, Wanda has her by the wrists. Guiding her back to her seat. “Been awhile, huh? Since last I visited, the place has gone upscale. Fan-SAY!”

  “I heard you’d...” Jewel tries not to stare at Wanda’s fingers. Fails. “What’s happened to you?”

  “Same old story... Try doing-it-yourself instead of going to the professionals and you deserve what you get, right?” She crams her hands back into the mitts. “What about you? How is it you’ve got stock when so many others have gone dry?”

  Wanda’s hands hidden, Jewel relaxes somewhat. “You know me. Always prepared. Built up a bit of back-stock before the drought struck.” She takes the bottle from her pocket. Flashes it at Wanda as proof. “Of course, the price has gone up. Substantially.”

  “Don’t doubt it. You’re my sixth stop today. The first not looking for a fix of their own.” Wanda pointedly ignores the bottle.

  “Well, by all means, do not direct them here. This stuff attracts too many unsavory types as it is.”

  “None taken.”

  “Frankly? I’ll be glad when I’m rid of it.”

  “Then you’re in luck, Jewels. Because I’ll take it all off your hands. I’m even willing to pay.”

  Skeptical, Jewel crosses her arms. Wanda’s always been a piker. Exclusively small-change. But despite her ragged appearance, her eyes are clear. Her voice steady. She is not the wasted junkie who’s visited in the past, offering desperate IOUs or unseemly services in exchange for goo.

  So Jewel nods. Trusts her intuition.

  “Meet me out back.”

  ~

  Her intuition is wrong.

  Corrupted by enthusiasm for leaving the goo-trade. Discounting the possibility that a reformed, straight-and-narrow Wanda could be every bit as dangerous and underhanded as the strung-out version.

  Jewel meets her on the fire escape. At the rear of the salon. She brings the crate with her. Partitioned into squares. Roughly a third still containing nailpolish bottles.

  “That’s it?”

  “It is. All that remains of my rainy day supply.”

  “Perfect. Because I’m looking to make it rain.” Wanda wrenches the box away. Turns it upside-down. Shakes it out. Over the railing.

  A torrent of bottles drop into the alley below. Smashing, one-by-one. The contents hiss. Gnawing pockmarks into the cement.

  Wanda tosses the box after them. Whirls back to Jewel. Expecting trouble. Finds her leaning against the wall. Unconcerned. “We haven’t even discussed my price yet.”

  “Not sure I’m still interested, Jewels. Your product appears to be... Defective.”

  The salon entrepreneur produces a stiletto. Not brandishing it. Just... Presenting the thing. Casually looking it over. “You know our policy here at All-Thumbs, though, don’t you Wanda? You break it, you bought it.” No threat explicit. All implication.

  Wanda smiles. “You know where to send the bill.”

  Jewel shrugs. “I know where to send the bill collectors.”

  “And I know where to return the pieces.” She sidles past. Clanks down the metal steps. “You wanted out, Jewels. You should cut your losses. You’re getting off easy.”

  Jewel leans over the railing. “You’re not.”

  Wanda sighs. Mutters to herself: “Don’t I know it.”

  ~

  No answer at Sanderson’s door. No sound from inside. No movement obvious, looking backwards through the peephole.

  Jimmying a rear window, Wanda can smell why. Sneaks in to be sure. Pulling her shirt collar up. Covering her nose and mouth. Not long now before the neighbors complain. In a less seedy locale Sanderson would already have been uncovered.

  Dark in the extended-stay motel room. Sunset creeps in around the edges of drawn blackout curtains. Sufficient to light outlines. Not enough to illuminate the pyramid of nailpolish bottles piled on the counter before Wanda runs into it. Knocks it down. Empties tinkle as the construction collapses. If the smell hasn’t moved concerned citizens into action, the sound probably won’t be enough to do so.

  Wanda holds a little bottle up to the window. Verifies: It’s been cleaned out. They all have.

  Underfoot, something crackles. The sound takes Wanda back to her own trailer. Where she’d discovered Marshall in hiding. Losing his skin in sheets. Dried strips of the stuff littering the place. Desiccated. Brittle.

  A light shines beneath the bathroom door. Opening it releases a humming cloud of flies. Floating on a choking billow of rot.

  For his part, Sanderson is unaware of his own pungency. Reclining in the tub. Hardly more than a skeleton. Held together by what little muscle hasn’t already melted into the flesh soup surrounding him. Dead for days.

  Most importantly, he’d polished off every last drop of goo in his possession before he went. Leaving nothing for Wanda to dispose of. None for the Old Men to reclaim. If he’d had more, he would have used it up, too.

  Wanda tosses the place anyway. The quick search reveals: The dealer’s bankroll. Hidden behind the loose grate of a wall vent. Accruing an interest of dust and rat turds. She has zero qualms claiming it as her own. A contribution to her cause. More than enough to buy her way out of trouble with Jewel, should that be how she chooses to spend it.

  “Sanderson!” A hiss through the front door. Insistent. “You restock yet? I’m startin’ to molt, here.”

  The voice hurries Wanda out the rear window and on her way. Sanderson just one more small-timer crossed off her dwindling mental list. On to the next.

  ~

  “I’m out, I swear to Christ I am!”

  “Yeah? So how come you aren’t coming apart at the seams, Tog? Your habit’s even older than mine. Your hide oughtta be drooping around your ankles.”

  Wanda has Warthog pinned to the wall of the dingy pawn shop where he plies his trade. One elbow across his throat. Holding the grimy man up. She rears back with her other hand. Fearsome claws flashing. Ready to impale him.

  “Empties! I’ve been scraping the empties!”

  She stares at him. Waiting on elaboration. “Go on.”

  “Started givin’ a discount.” He squirms. “Five percent off the next one, if you brung back the last bottle. Partway to reward the repeat customers, y’know? Get ‘em comin’ back. But also? I saw how they never got it all. Not like me. They was always leavin’ some behind. Just beads along the bottom edge, maybe. Sometimes dried on. Had to get it off in flakes, but once it was added to some wet stuff, it’d come back. Enough empties’d combine to fill a new bottle. Give me a whole other sale off it.”

  Wanda eases off slightly. Wondering how much goo she might’ve wasted without realizing it, back in the day.

  “It’s not full power, though. People thought I was cuttin’ it. Had to stop sellin’ the shit before it hurt my good reputation.” He digs in his back pocket. Pulls out a sample. Not much left inside. What’s there is thin. Grey. “So now it’s all I got left. For maintenance. Few drops each go. Hardly enough to hold off the shakes.” Not doing the greatest job, if his current quivering is any indication. “Gonna run through it pretty soon, as it is. Waitin’ on my suppliers to come through. Before it’s too late.”

  Wanda knows the feeling. Sympathetic to his plight. Still... She doesn’t warn him: There’s no more on the way. “All right. I believe you.” She drops him. Heads for the pawn shop’s main entrance.

  “Wait!” Warthog reaches out. “You’re off it, aren’tcha?”

  Wanda pauses. Recognizes his desperation. Begging for help she can’t give. Dr. Ramsey’s dubious answers lost with the man himself.

  “Yeah, I could tell, straight off.” Warthog snorts a half-laugh. “How’d you do it? What’s the secret?”

  Wanda looks at her mutant hands. Yes, they are hers, now. No longer foreign. No more separate than any other body part. Accepted. Adjusted to.

  “I made a trade.” Bells tinkle as she uses the larger of those hands t
o open the front door. “Make those empties last, Tog.”

  ~

  By the time she reaches Scooter’s pub, Wanda’s braced nearly every other dealer she can think of. Destroyed hundreds of goo bottles. Liberated more poorly-hidden cash. Discovered more skinless bodies - not all of them corpses. Not initially, anyway.

  Never once did she sense that familiar cloying desire. Her former addiction almost certainly eradicated. In spite of everything, she can’t help but feel gratitude to the dearly departed Dr. Ramsey. No regrets over his well-deserved demise, but gratitude nonetheless.

  Webbed digits and crazy fingernails a small price to pay. Without his cure, she’d been well on her way to filling a bathtub of her own. The island goo shortage far more dire than she could possibly have realized.

  Well past last call, Scooter’s is empty. Wanda climbs onto a stool at the end of the bar. Digs in to a bowl of corn nuts. Famished.

  “Didn’t think you were coming back for her this time.” Scooter plunks Wanda’s keys down on the bar. “Not that your hunk of junk would’ve settled your tab, but I was almost done setting up the Craigslist ad.”

  She pockets the keys. Peels some bills from a straining money clip. “That cover it?”

  More than a little surprised, Scooter counts the cash. “And then some.” He foregoes the register. Slides the wad directly into a slot in the floor. “Looks like Lindy’s gettin’ a Christmas after all.”

  After emptying the nearest, Wanda reaches down the bar for the next snack bowl. Salt burns her lips as she munches. “You wouldn’t happen to have any of that--”

  “This is everything.” Scooter pulls a crate from beneath the counter. Thumps it down next to Wanda’s dinner. “Y’oughtta be more careful, Wanda. Quieter, at least. Word’s gettin’ around.”

  She peers into empty cardboard partitions. Two bottles remaining in the bottom-most corner. She takes them. Pushes back the box along with some more bills from her stack. Satisfied she can trust the old barman not to hold out on her.

  “You’re not making yourself any friends tonight, that’s for sure.”

  “Never been known to waste much energy on that endeavor.” She smacks her lips. Hunger replaced by thirst. “Can I get a water?”

  Scooter shoots her a skeptical-bartender look.

  “No commentary needed, Scoot. Just the water.” Wanda knows: She’ll need her full faculties for her next and final stop. Can’t afford to go in impaired in any way. She corrects herself: In any additional way.

  He plunks down a small plastic bottle. She cracks it. Guzzles. Free-throws the empty. Straight into his recycling bin without touching the rim.

  “Serious now, girl...” He leans across the bar. Hushed. “My suppliers? They won’t be happy, hearing what you’ve been up to. Hope you know your business.”

  “Got it, Scoot.” She hops down from the stool. If not quite replenished, at the very least: No longer running on fumes alone. “All but done now, anyway.”

  “Good.” He sprays the bar. Wipes it down. “It’s a dirty business, and you’d be smart to stay out of it. God knows I’ve lost enough regulars for one day.”

  Wanda frowns. “What’s that mean? Who’ve you lost?”

  He searches her face. Can she honestly not know? “The beach, Wanda... The protestors?”

  She shakes her head. Totally unaware of the one thing anyone passing through his doors has wanted to talk about since it happened. Theories, rumors, and flat-out lies flying as patrons processed the news. Only ending when he cleared them all out.

  Scooter sighs. Motions her back to the stool. Grabbing a bottle of Beam. A glass for her. One for himself. Pouring two fingers into each.

  Worried, Wanda rejoins him. Doesn’t touch her drink. Just waits.

  For a long moment, Scooter is lost in thought. Face tortured. Planning. Then, he throws back the bourbon. Clears his throat. Tells her the sanitized-for-the-public version now entered into public record. Slowly becoming the ’truth’.

  A bomb had been planted by bridge-protesting terrorists. Roscoe and Burl risked their lives trying to defuse it. Twelve heroic Islanders were lost to shrapnel when they failed. A loathsome and cowardly act. Wouldn’t’ve happened if the Feds didn’t force the Bridge on them.

  When the tale is complete, Wanda drinks.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  “Those who ran right away? They saved themselves. Got up the stairs. Out of range of the things. Anybody who hesitated, or stopped to watch the carnage? They were next to hit the sand.”

  “So it’s possible? To outrun those... Creatures?”

  “Pfft. No way. The worms are like lightning bolts. Once they’d torn through somebody, they just went after whoever was next-closest, and like the man says: The Devil took the hindmost.”

  Silent, Mr. Grist listens in on the radio conversation. Taking down his usual shorthand notes in a logbook. Anything he guesses might be important. Fidgeting. Shirtsleeves rolled up. Rubbing absently at his forearm with his free hand. Pale skin beginning to glow red under the constant pressure.

  “So... Nobody else survived? Only the first few to get up the staircase?”

  “Them, and then Sylvie and Max, too. They were late to run, but lucky. Made it to the boathouse somehow. Slammed the door behind ‘em.”

  Mr. Grist’s office is cramped. Windowless. On the third floor of the Home. Located in convenient proximity to Mrs. Rutherford’s quarters. Convenient for her, naturally. He faces a tower of monitors. Readouts and data of all kinds. Not unlike the setup in any one of the lighthouse crow’s nests, except: None of this equipment is more than a year old. The highest tech available to the public. Only the best for the Old Men.

  “The boathouse? That was lucky.”

  “Yeah, but they were badass, too.”

  “Wha-at? Sylvie I can see, but Max--”

  “Who’d you think it was, took out those awful things?”

  According to one screen, the exchange is between Towers Three and Four. The grapevine at work. Information spreading throughout the Circle’s network. Filtering from folks who were there to folks who weren’t. And all secretly captured by Mr. Grist for the edification of the Old Men.

  A telephone rings. Call-display: Mrs. Chilton. Still in transit. He answers. “G-G-Grist, here.” He turns to a new page in the logbook. In quivery script he notes the time. The caller. “No, no. You’re still okay. She hasn’t arrived yet. Won’t be long now, though.” He scratches at the back of his neck. Really digging in. “I sincerely doubt Mrs. Rutherford intended to tarry. She was in motion the moment the press conference concluded.”

  Mid-scratch, he flinches. Yanks hand from neck. Looks at his fingers. Bloodless shreds of dry skin built up under each nail. “How, um... You having any more symptoms, Mrs. Chilton?” He rubs his fingertips against a pant-leg. Leaves white streaks across the dark material. “Mm-hm. I was more-or-less back on track for a while. Ms. Spinx was kind enough to share her leavings with me. It helped initially. But now... I’m wondering have I made things worse? Accelerated the process somehow? The need’s back already and I swear in all my life I’ve never been so itchy.”

  Without realizing, his hand has once again snuck behind his neck. “I’m doing my best, believe me. But not scratching? It’s nearly impossible.” His fingertips find the gouges so recently left behind. Probe torn edges. Peel drying flesh away from the raw pink beneath.

  “Agh! Jeez...” Registering what he’s once again doing to himself, Mr. Grist brings his hand in front of his face. Still clutching a four-inch strip of papery skin he’s torn free. Shocked, he drops it on the desktop. A little tag of skin remains stuck to his hand. He grabs at it. Pulls away a perfect replica of his own palm: Loveline, lifeline and all. “Good God, it’s happening... I’m coming apart, I... I need to get to the infirmary!”

  He drops the phone. Doesn’t bother hanging it up.

  “Mr. Grist!” The tiny voice doesn’t reach him. “Dr. Marquand’s not in the infirmary! She was on the beac
h! Mr. Grist!”

  His chair goes over as he lurches to his feet. Focused on this newest ragged piece he’s detached from himself. Horrified, he stumbles away. Though the doorway. Into the corridor.

  ~

  After a few moments of caution, Trevor rises. Leans toward the door. Making sure Mr. Grist is truly gone before stepping out of hiding. Gingerly, he hangs up the phone. The voice of Ms. Spinx chittering to the end. Click.

  “Okay, what the hell did that guy just do to himself?”

  “That’s what withdrawal looks like.” Gardner attempts to stand. Cringes. Aching back and knees punishing him for daring to kneel behind the desk. “From the Ick. Seen it before but never bad as that...” With no cane for support, he grips tightly to any available outcropping. Unable to get to his feet until Trevor takes him by the elbow. Rights the chair Mr. Grist had knocked over. Helps the older man into it.

  The pair had just arrived at Mrs. Rutherford’s quarters - on the upper floor of the West Corridor - when they heard someone approaching. Hoping to avoid detection, they’d ducked into the nearest unlocked room: The office of Mrs. Rutherford’s personal assistant, Mr. Grist.

  Naturally, the approaching someone had been Mr. Grist himself. Returning to work following a bathroom break. His destination? The very room in which they’d hidden.

  “Gimme one minute.” Gardner rubs at one knee. “I’ll be just as right as rain.”

  Trevor doesn’t hear him. Staring at the bank of monitors. One in particular: Replaying low-res cell phone footage. Zoomed in from far away. Looking down on a beach. People crowded around a man. Down on the sand. Held by another. While, nearby...

  “Sylvie.” Grainy and pixelated, but definitely her. “That’s my... My wife.”