Once she’s dealt with Delia - disposed of whatever hoard the dealer has squirreled away - Wanda will consider her mini-crusade complete. Any goo still remaining on the island, she won’t worry over. It can’t amount to much. Certainly not enough to keep the Old Men going for long.
Her mind is sharp. Intentions clear. She’s not even buzzed, despite the bourbon downed at Scooter’s in honor of her fallen comrades. Not only has her unwilling participation in Dr. Ramsey’s experiments cured her addiction, but the resulting increase in her metabolism now seems to burn off any alcohol the moment it enters her system. Whether this is ultimately a blessing or a curse, Wanda doesn’t know. But insofar as it will help her complete her mission? It doesn’t hurt.
Delia’s trailer is dark. It usually is. No signs of life. There rarely are. Generally, sunrise is not when goo addicts are known to be at their most active. Still, Wanda keeps her guard up. Knowing not to expect the job to go smoothly. Steeling herself for the task ahead as she nears the steps. Preparing herself for anything other than easy.
In leaving Delia’s trailer as her final stop, Wanda had accepted she’d be giving up any potential element of surprise. Scooter had known she was coming, it’s all but certain Delia does as well. But this was always going to be the most dangerous leg of her journey, and if Wanda is going to be taken down, better it happen after she’s rid Mossley Island of every other goo reserve first. No matter what happens when she enters the trailer, the Old Men’s days are numbered. In single digits. And she can be satisfied, knowing she’s done everything she could to hasten their end.
Reaching for the door handle, Wanda smiles. Pleasantly warmed by the thought of the senior citizens’ imminent demise. As ready as she’ll ever be to face whatever awaits her inside.
~
Hands are on her instantly.
Grabbing from all angles. Gripping Wanda’s wrists. Her calves. Restraining her talons with quickly wrapped packing tape. Pulling her limbs wide.
All around: Delia’s addict army. Weakened puppets. Carrying out her orders. Hoping to curry favor. Wanda far stronger than any three of them. But there are more than three. Far more. The pile-on of desperate junkies is too much for her to battle off. After an initial resistance, she doesn’t bother fighting. Saves her energy. Awaits her opportunity. Confident it will come.
“In a way, I should probably even thank you...” With Wanda held securely, Delia feels safe moving into view. “In relieving my competition of product, you’ve opened up whole new markets for me.”
“You have a funny way of showing your gratitude.”
“Let’s just say: The stories I’ve heard over the last few hours? They’ve left me feeling somewhat risk-averse.”
Surrounded by her minions, Delia has Wanda contained. Escape routes blocked. No potential weapons on hand. Limbs restrained. Defenseless. “Look, the Old Men... They’re playing you, Delia. They’re on their way out. Whatever they’ve offered you to kill me? Trust me: They’re not gonna be able to provide it.”
“The Old Men don’t want you dead, Wanda. They want you compliant. Pacified. I’ve been directed to ensure you are... Re-addicted. You’re far too useful for them to just throw away. They’ve invested too much time and effort in you for that.”
Re-addiction. The very thought chills her. Beyond disinterest, she now finds herself repulsed by the stuff. She’s all but certain she’s moved beyond its reach, but if the Old Men believe they can return her to her former state of reliance, then maybe she shouldn’t be taking any chances.
She bucks against the hands holding her. A few lose their grip briefly. Not enough of them to grant her freedom.
Delia cackles. “That’s more like it, Wanda! It’s no fun at all if you just lay there.” She looks off to one side. “Girls?”
Two teenagers strut into view. Both still pretty. Vim and vigor still intact. Relatively early in their relationship with the goo. It hasn’t had its way with them yet. Hasn’t stolen their youth. Hasn’t reduced them to husks of their former selves. But heavy lids and hollow cheeks whisper predictions. They’re firmly in its thrall. It won’t be long now before they are indistinguishable from the junkie horde. Wasted.
“Please, prepare our guest, Mandi.” Delia points the brunette toward Wanda. She smiles demurely. Almost no wickedness in it at all. She pokes her fingers through the gaps in Dr. Ramsey’s stolen dress shirt. Rips it open. Buttons pinging off the walls. Wanda’s chest laid bare.
“Allison? If you’ll do the honors?” The blonde is handed a nailpolish bottle. She unscrews it as she approaches.
“I wouldn’t waste that on me, if I were you. It might be the last you ever see.”
Allison falters. Glances back to Delia.
The older woman waves her on. “Plenty more where that came from.”
“I’ve been where that came from.” Wanda’s serious voice gives everyone pause. “And believe me when I tell you: There’s not.”
“We’ve come through droughts before. In fact... The last one left me inspired. Gave me the idea that I maybe needed to build up a bit of a stockpile of my own. Just in case.”
“Only this isn’t a drought we’re talking about. It’s the complete end of moisture. I’ve made sure of that.” Wanda can feel Delia’s minions shift with uncertainty. What if she’s right? What if there is no more? Delia, on the other hand, is unmoved.
“Uh-huh...” She comes closer. Just not quite close enough. “Admittedly? You’re looking to be in pretty good shape. Better than when last we crossed paths. Fucked-up mutant hands, notwithstanding, of course. But you’ll have to forgive me if I doubt your ability to make much of a dent in anything the Old Men get up to.”
Wanda groans. Accustomed to being dismissed as a non-threat. No longer feeling she deserves it. Knowing: If the goo reduces her to a new state of dependence, she’ll never again be more than the Old Men’s least reliable servant. Sent out on whatever bullshit errands they decide she’s capable of. Until she gives up. Allows herself to waste away.
The little blonde stands over her. Scraping excess goo from the brush. Practically salivating over it. Wanting the stuff for herself.
“Y’know something, Allison?” Delia slides away. Not taking any chances. “Wanda’s a big girl with a long-term habit. Which means: She’s built up a resistance over the years. This is not a situation where restraint will be rewarded. Let’s go all in.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Allison grins. Rather than use her little brush to paint a tiny square over Wanda’s heart, she upends the bottle. Dumps its contents. The goo sizzles as it scalds the woman’s flesh.
The sound stretches. Its crackle draws out. Less like bacon. More a raging bonfire. Everything slows. Goes cold. Freezing from the point of contact. Shards of ice growing inward from her charred skin. Piercing Wanda’s heart.
Now, she is here and not-here. Part and whole. Enveloped by winter as the bottommost depths of a frozen ocean rush forth to embrace her.
Her eyes roll up white. Her lips draw back. Impossibly wide.
As Wanda smiles.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
The screen door clatters open. Mosquitoes scatter. A folded slip of paper dislodges. Left tucked into the crack. Falling to the porch at her feet. A message.
Ordinarily, Mr. Hunter would already have scooped it up for her. Saved her the trouble of bending. But currently, he’s still by the lane. Leaning into the cab. Waiting for change from the driver.
Groaning, Mrs. Hunter stoops. Grabs the note herself. Aching from the rigors of an exceptionally demanding week. Getting too old for the field. Never one to shy away from hard work, but desperate for a hot shower. Followed by cool sheets. And around thirty-six hours of well-earned sleep, if it’s manageable.
All of which is forgotten instantly as she unfolds the slip of paper. Sees what’s written inside. Black marker scrawled across a page torn roughly from a spiral notebook. A message only the Hunters could possibly hope to decipher. Spelled out in ancient and all-to
o-familiar runic characters.
~
The note is lain out flat on the kitchen counter when her husband enters. Her own journal spread open next to it. Mrs. Hunter doesn’t notice his arrival. Already hard at work. Twisting the iron decoder dial. Scribbling down her translation as she deciphers each symbol. Absorbed.
He crosses the cabin without registering what his wife is up to. Singleminded. Disappearing into the bathroom. Opening the faucet full-blast. Letting the water run hot.
Half-out of his filthy clothes when he emerges, Mr. Hunter sidles up behind his wife at the counter. Reaches his arms beneath hers. Slides his hands under her overalls. Encircling her torso. Cupping her breasts through her grimy shirt. Only to be slapped away for his efforts.
He backs off. Confused by the rejection. Only now realizing he’d interrupted the little woman in the middle of something. She was not, in fact, just standing there, waiting for him to make a move. He steals closer. Leans over her shoulder for a better look. Sees the translation taking shape. Dots and spirals transposing into words. Directions of some kind. He tilts his head to better follow her progress.
The page... Where’d it come from? He lifts it up for a better look. Gets his knuckles rapped. Fair enough. He pulls up a stool. Plants himself next to her. Eyes jumping back and forth from the original to his wife’s decryption.
Brow furrowing, he stops her. Grabs the pen from her hand. Risking her wrath. He crosses out one of her decoded shapes. Redraws it. Turns the dial to show her a slightly different symbol. Hands back the pen.
She looks over the fix. Nods. Continues on with the work.
Neither of the Hunters notice the steam billowing from their bathroom. Held rapt by their new puzzle. Hot shower forgotten for now.
Cleanliness will have to wait.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
After a few minutes of wiggling, the tumblers turn. The bolt slides. The door unlocks. Swings inward. Mrs. Rutherford’s personal quarters: Access granted.
Gardner hobbles around Trevor as the younger man returns his picks to the lockpick set attached to his keychain. “Nice work, b’y. Not a skill I’d’ve guessed ye had in ye. Maybe ye’ve a dark side after all.”
“Don’t bet on it.” Trevor gets to his feet. Brushes grit from his knees. “Worked for a locksmith when I was in high school. Paying house calls to people who’d locked themselves out of their own homes is how I was first introduced to real estate.” He steps over the threshold. Locks the door behind them. Surveys the suite.
Inside, the West Corridor’s rich colors and textures continue: Burgundy. Chestnut. Gold. Paintings hang on every surface. Sculptures guard every nook. A delicate crystal chandelier hangs above the foyer they’ve entered, where a rounded oak staircase climbs to an unexpected second floor.
“Pfff...” Gardner blows air between his teeth as he takes it all in. “And who says the Old Men have it any better than the rest of us?”
“You have some idea what we should be looking for?”
“Anythin’ seems outta place. Big enough to hide a few o’ those canisters, right?” He shrugs. “Yer own guess’s no worse than mine.”
The men wander through the apartment. Past steps leading down to an outdated sunken living room. Built-in sofas. A cozy gas fireplace. Floor to ceiling windows look out over the misty morning grounds of the Elysian Convalescent Home. Sunrise just peeking over the woods beyond. The view stretching not quite so far as the ocean.
“Get a load of this place, huh? Hard to believe it’s the same building as the one you and my mom are living in.”
“Same building, different worlds.” Gardner pokes through a collection of canes and walking sticks. Jutting out of an umbrella stand which was once an elephant’s foot. “Spoils of war, lad. Didn’t think the Old Men are clingin’ to power for nothin’, did ye?”
“I suppose the concept of public service is hopelessly antiquated.”
“How be we just say: It had wrinkles long before I got mine.” The old man selects a replacement cane for himself. The handle a silver wolf’s head.
Trevor stops at a well-appointed bar. Its mirrored wall of booze multiplies the already generous space. “You regret it? Not staying with them?”
Gardner scoffs. “My age? Regret’s ‘bout all I got left. When ye can’t do much, ye spend the lion’s share of yer time thinkin’ back on when ye could. Ponderin’ on how things might’ve turned out, if ye’d done different.”
Trevor tugs on a bookshelf. No movement. Secure. “And?”
“And... Then, my mind turns to thoughts of my own dear son. How old he’d be now. Who he’d’ve become. What grandkids I should’ve had...” Gardner stands back from a wall. Looks over the paintings hanging there. Thick oil impastos. “And I know my truest regret is this: That we didn’t burn Adderpool to the fockin’ ground the first moment we saw what evil had come to pass. The very instant we knew the plague had taken them. Before their eternally damned souls could snatch my own dear son from me.”
Despite the drastic suggestion of immolating the residents of an entire town, Trevor understands. Who wouldn’t he be willing to hurt if it would undo Aaron’s untimely death? To what depravity would he not sink?
“I’m not finding anything here. Not sure how many rooms this place has. Thinking we should move on?”
“Naw... It’s here.” Gardner steps up to the wall. Grabs a painting by its gilded frame. Lifts it down. Behind it: The glass front of a small refrigeration unit. White LEDs light up the interior as the picture is removed. Illuminating the contents: Four gleaming aluminum canisters.
“How did you--”
“It’s the only print on a wall of originals.” He leans the artwork agains the wall. Appraises the mini-fridge. Secured with a numeric keypad. “Wouldn’t guess yer locksmithery extends to--”
“Nope.”
“Looks like we resort to the old-fashioned way, then.” He brandishes his new cane. “Not such a bad option, after--”
“Shh!” Trevor freezes. Head cocked. Looking off toward the entrance. Listening.
From outside Mrs. Rutherford’s quarters: Voices.
Someone is coming.
~
“We’ve all done our very best to conserve, of course,” says Mr. Pincolm.
“But we’ve all felt the difference,” says Mrs. Brass.
“The smaller allotments - I’m sorry, but it’s true - they’ve simply been insufficient to the task of maintaining our health and vigor,” says Mr. Spinx.
They won’t stop talking. Won’t leave her side. Haven’t given Mrs. Rutherford a break since she arrived. Already waiting when Ishmael dropped her off at the door. Following along as she entered. Moving through the Home with her. Into the elevator. Off on her floor. Now chasing her down the hallway.
“And what little we have been getting?” Mrs. Brass gripes. “Is far less potent than ever before.”
Mr. Pincolm agrees: “At a time like this? With the island once again under attack? Never have we so urgently needed to be running at optimal levels.”
“Instead - and I don’t know about you, but a majority seem to concur - we can feel ourselves weakening,” says Ms. Spinx. “The deprivation hasn’t simply been leading to withdrawal, as it has in the past... There’s something more going on, and we--”
“Enough!” Mrs. Rutherford holds up a hand for silence. Almost immediately, her arm begins to quake. She quickly lowers it. Too late, of course: The tremor escaping the notice of exactly no one. They won’t call her on it. Not openly. Not yet.
Grateful, she continues: “It won’t do to panic. You must all remain calm. I’ll call down to the dispensary. Inform Mr. Hickman he’s to release everyone’s next allotment early. Once we’re all back to full working order, we’ll set about devising a new plan. Heads clear and minds nimble.”
The trio of hangers-on exchange concerned glances.
“Have you... Forgotten, Mrs. Rutherford?” Mrs. Brass touches her arm. “We told you this... Downstair
s... When you first entered.”
Confused, Mrs. Rutherford looks to each of them in turn. Is this meant as some kind of joke? Are they playing games with her? None show any sign of laughing.
Mr. Pincolm addresses the issue more directly: “Just to... Jog your memory: The dispensary’s been raided. Mr. Hickman was discovered inside. Knocked out. Everything is... The remaining canisters... They’ve all been emptied. It’s all gone.”
She blinks. Slightly in shock.
“We did tell you.”
Mrs. Rutherford has no recollection of the briefing. First the shaking. Stumbling over her speech on camera. Now this?
Ms. Spinx leans closer to her leader. “Are you having trouble remembering things?”
The impact of the reduced ichthyoplasm allotment is inescapable. Still, Mrs. Rutherford refuses to be seen as diminished. Lashing out, instead: “Well, I certainly can’t see how I might’ve missed that. It’s not as though I’m already devoting my full faculties to two thousand other frantic emergencies currently in motion, is it?”
The others flinch away from her volume.
“And yet, the moment I climb out of the car, you each see an opportunity to pile on with more? All at once. Without allowing me the most minimal measure of time to absorb any of it.” The accusation isn’t incorrect, distraction though it might be. “So you’ll have to forgive me if I’m not quite able to keep track of every single tidbit thrown at me in the midst of a flurry of new information.”
No one makes eye contact. Not necessarily believing her. Thoroughly cowed, nonetheless. Lowering her volume, Mrs. Rutherford starts down the hallway once more. “Is Mr. Hickman okay?”
Mrs. Brass catches up. “He remains unconscious. He appears to have dosed himself, though the effects should have diminished by now.”
FROM AWAY ~ BOOK FIVE Page 13