Ms. Spinx cuts in: “Which brings up the possibility - however slim - that Mr. Hickman was responsible for the ransacking. Such a heavy dose. Not using an aeration booth, but through direct skin application? It suggests a larger problem of which we were unaware. It’s possible he may have even been looking to end it all.”
As Mrs. Rutherford processes this, Mr. Pincolm steps forward. “The matter at hand, however, is: Our stores are gone. And for many of us? Withdrawal has already set in.”
“Faster and more severe than ever before.” Ms. Spinx agrees.
“Without a reliable cure, and - with Dr. Ramsey gone - no hope of one forthcoming,” adds Mrs. Brass.
“Indeed.” Mr. Pincolm continues. “Unless we somehow discover some new source of ichthyoplasm, we’ll soon find ourselves utterly crippled. Defenseless.”
Mrs. Rutherford nods. “Have any of you thought at all about those we lost on the beach today?” The others are chagrined by their own lack of sensitivity. At least, until she concludes her thought: “Because they each had allotments of their own. Go to their quarters. Collect any canisters you find. Add them to a communal pot, alongside any back-up you yourselves may have socked away. Don’t bother arguing - I’m granting full amnesty for all, provided everyone come forward with contributions today... And, for my part, I will do the same.”
She arrives at her own door. Reaches into her purse for her keys. “It’s time we come together again. Combining leftovers from all quarters and divvying them evenly should buy us the time required to figure out a path forward from this mire in which we find ourselves. If not, it should at least prove sufficient until Joan and Bette can provide us with more.”
Something tugs at her mind as she says it. Another scrap of forgotten intelligence. As she struggles to regain it, her fellow Old Men look on. The sorrow and pity plain in their expressions. “Actually, Mrs. Ruther--”
“The failsafe!” She’s got it. “Someone pulled the...” It all comes back to her: The gillies are gone. The stockpile is gone. The Old Men are already operating at reduced capacity due to rationing. Small wonder these three leapt on her the moment she returned. “It surely is a pickle in which we find ourselves, isn’t it?”
No one disagrees.
“Let me give it some thought. See what I can come up with.” She swings open her door. Steps inside. “Go now. Gather everyone together in the conference room. Corral resources. I’ll meet you there as soon as possible.”
~
Trevor holds his breath. Crammed beneath an antique writing table. The first hiding place he could see when the door opened. He’s barely hidden himself when Mrs. Rutherford enters. Not even the faintest idea where Gardner has ended up.
The old woman’s footsteps approach. Her shadow slides toward him. It’s all Trevor can do to keep himself from pulling away. As though its touch might somehow alert her to his presence. Sensible shoes follow. Peek under the desk. Stopping within inches of his hip.
A creak as she leans above him. Bracing herself on the desk. A dial tone purrs loudly. Quickly cuts off as a series of digits speed-dial themselves.
“Mishush Rutherford! And how can I be of sherviche to you today?” The voice strained. Insincere.
“Sheriff Schilling. We’re going to need you to pay a visit to Delia Carter at the Dunroamin Trailer Park.”
“Ishn’t she one of your--”
“Distributors, yes. And generally off-limits, but today we need you to go to her and repossess every fluid ounce of our product she might have on hand. You are to assure her she will be reimbursed in full when next we are able to make the product available for distribution. You will neither haggle nor negotiate, and should she make trouble you are authorized to handle said trouble by whatever means avail themselves to you.”
“Pardon me for ashking, but... Don’t you have shomebody there who hash a pre-exishting relationship with thish woman? Given you’ve been dealing with her until now without any help from me.”
“Our people are currently otherwise engaged.”
“It’sh jusht... Ishn’t there anyone elshe you could shend on thish mission? Shomeone who maybe ishn’t an officher of the law, and therefore wouldn’t be putting themshelvesh in a compromishing shituation by having a confab with the friendly neighborhood trailer park drug dealer? What with you going to the trouble of shecuring thish poshition for me, I thought--”
Mrs. Rutherford’s left foot taps impatiently. Uncomfortably close to Trevor’s hand. When she speaks again, the temperature in the room drops. “Allow me to remind you, Douglas: Every career path is an arc. Its parabola has a definite apex, after which its trajectory becomes distinctly... Downward. Precipitous, one might even say. Your own actions will decide how quickly your summit is reached, so extreme caution is warranted. You’ve assumed the mantle of sheriff at our whim. You will retain the position only so long as whimsy allows.”
“Okay, but--”
“Your current assignment, Sheriff, is to retrieve our product from our distributor and return it to us with as much haste as you can muster. You will be doing yourself a grave injustice, should you keep us waiting any longer than is absolutely necessary.”
A long silence greets her. She waits it out. At her feet, Trevor holds his breath. Until Schilling finally folds: “Yesh, Ma’am.”
“Good.” A click ends the call.
Papers shuffle overhead. Mrs. Rutherford’s shoes slide back and forth as she arranges things. Trevor prays she doesn’t decide to sit. Sliding her legs beneath the table. Into his tight quarters. Isn’t it time for her business to take her elsewhere?
Finally, she stops. Organizing now complete. Rather than leave, however: A click. A fresh dialtone from the speakerphone.
Unsympathetic to Trevor’s needs, Mrs. Rutherford has more calls to make.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
When the froth dissipates, Ren finds himself ass-over-teakettle in the corner of the newly airless diving bell. Intact. Suit - apparently - fully sealed. Breathing. For now. The gauge on his forearm is not especially reassuring: Needle firmly centered in the yellow. He’s bought himself a little breathing room. So to speak. Nothing like what he needs to complete the long walk to shore, but maybe - just possibly - adequate for Plan B.
Though the bell is dead in the water, its support systems are not quite willing to accept the inevitable. The auxiliary lights flicker. Still fighting the good fight, though it won’t be long before they short out entirely. Bubbles sputter from the bell’s detached compressor hose. Wasting the last of its breathable air. Much of it escaping through the smashed window. Some contributing to an air pocket trapped by the ceiling.
In the midst of the mayhem, Ren had managed to force the hatch shut. Not imagining he might prevent the bell from filling with water. Just hoping to keep out any unwanted intruders.
He moves to the panoramic window. Crossing his fingers that the narrow opening is too tight a fit for a gilly to squeeze through. That the jagged fragments of glass remaining will prove sufficient to dissuade the thing from trying. He peers out. No sign of the underwater vandal. It couldn’t possibly have been prepared for the sudden expulsion of air. Must have been pounded by the unexpected blast. Possibly even sliced up by the glass blowing out? Doubtless, this was too much to ask of an uncaring universe. A nice thought nonetheless.
But the safety of the bell is relative. Only a matter of time before the refuge becomes his tomb. Between limited air and temporarily absent predators, Ren cannot afford to wait any longer. Steeling himself, he moves to the hatch. Grips the release wheel with the dive suit’s awkward pincers. Turns it counter-clockwise. Feeling the bolts draw back.
With one deep breath and a mental apology to Dawn, he raises the hatch...
And lets in the monster waiting just outside.
~
Suddenly, she was shouting: “Don’t you fucking give it to me!”
The boy flinched away. “I’m not!”
“You throw it, I swear to God I�
�ll never forgive you.”
“I won’t! I’m not!”
Libby stared into him. Looking for any sign of deception. Finally, deciding to take him at his word. “Good. Don’t.” She picked up her dice cup. Shook it. “Cheating, I might forgive. But throwing a game? Never.” The dice rolled across the card table. A five. A six. Libby looked over the board. Weighed her options.
Usually, the boy would try to guess her move before she made it. Not that day. Too distracted to fully invest himself. “I’m so sorry, Libby. About all this.”
“Pssh. Don’t be.” She opted to combine the dice. Moved one checker eleven positions. “It’s nothing to do with you.”
His eyes widened as he realized: She didn’t know. Libby wasn’t aware he’d been the one responsible for her being called before the Old Men. No idea it was his fault she was on trial for breaking the Circle.
All at once, relief swept over him. Relief and the deepest shame.
“Though, really... If we’re being honest?” Libby gathered her dice. “It doesn’t have anything to do with me, either.”
She saw the boy didn’t follow. Sighed. “It’s between Joss and those crusty motherfuckers out there. She’s been making too much noise. Calling too much attention down on them. Trying to force them to do right.”
The boy shook his cup. Rolled. “With her speeches, you mean? About how things are done on the mainland?”
“Yeah, her lectures. Her petitions. The demands for referendum. Her threats to bring suit against them. And you can tell she’s got ‘em scared, too. Because...” Libby gestured to their surroundings: Black curtains on all sides. “Here I am.”
The boy moves his checkers. “Why you, though? Why not go after her?” He knew the real reason. He was the real reason.
“Sometimes I think she wants them to go after her... But they won’t. They know they can’t crack her directly. So, I’m their leverage. And implied in the attack on me? If it isn’t enough to convince her...” Libby’s voice cracks. “They might be willing to go after Netty next.”
The very idea was shocking. They wouldn’t take out their wrath on a teenage girl, would they? Not just as a means to influencing her mother. The Old Men were basically good, weren’t they? Only looking out for the island. Did Libby really think they’d stoop so low?
She lifted her cup. Shook it. “I swear, that’s what I hate the most about this: If I’m honest with Joss... If I tell her... It’s gonna change her. The idea I’m being punished for her actions? It can’t help but kill her passions. Make her more careful. Out of worry over what might happen next.”
“Can’t you fight it, then?”
“Nope.” She laughed. Rolled her dice. “I did it. I broke the Circle. Most likely - when I come back - I’ll do it some more. Because I’m all about being honest in my relationships. So, no. I can’t fight it. I’ve just gotta accept that I earned it, and take what comes to me like a grown-up.”
The boy tried not to cringe. Libby was ‘all about being honest.’ Behaving like an adult. While he lied, and hid behind her misunderstanding of the situation in order to avoid facing up to what he’d done.
“But I’m not gonna forget it, either. And you better believe I’ll hold it against those white-haired sons-of-bitches.” Voice raised. Intended to be heard outside the curtain. “And that’s what you can take away from all this, kid: Sooner or later? A whipped dog will turn. If you question them, challenge them, provoke them... It’ll only be a matter of time before they come after you. So you have to be prepared. Think ahead. Get ready. Don’t be taken by surprise like I was.”
He wanted to correct Libby. To tell her the truth. But he rationalized: For all he knew, the Old Men were taking advantage of the opportunity for exactly the purpose she described. Before the boy could determine which path to follow, a voice intruded from outside the curtain: “It’s time, b’y. Need ya to bring ‘er in.”
The boy turned to protest, but Libby was already on her feet. Raring to go. “Well, kid. Looks like I’m forced to forfeit our game. Guess that means you win again.”
~
The hatch wrenches from Ren’s grip as the creature forces itself through the opening. Fully inside the bell before he can react. Powerful twin tails lashing out. Striking the suit. Slamming Ren into the wall.
Flailing, Ren grabs for purchase. Anything to stop the world from spinning. To turn himself right side up. No weapons on hand. No defense beyond the curved claw tips of the suit’s pincers. They’d cut into the creature once. Maybe they’d be enough to ward it off again.
It turns. Body rippling. Almost boneless. The cramped interior causing its supple form little concern, despite the thing’s twelve foot length. Coiling its tails behind it, the creature springs.
Seeing it coming, Ren readies himself. Swings.
But at the last moment, it darts to one side. Where his previous strike sliced into its chest, this one hits its shoulder. Glances off solid scales. Not even scratching them.
Spiraling around, the thing swats him with its tails again. Sends Ren flying. Crashing into the space he’d opened in the wall. Knocking down more of the removable panels. Denting the compressor.
Air bubbles from the loose hose obscure his vision. Block his view of the gilly as it circles back. He reaches for the valve, intending to shut off the air. Then, instead, he cranks up the PSI. Grabs the hose. Turns it on the creature. Blasting it with bubbles.
Blinded, it veers away. Slams into the ceiling. Falls. Thrashing.
Seizing the moment, Ren throws down the hose. Pushes off toward the moon pool. Passing through, he grabs hold of the hatch. Drags it closed behind him. Nearly shut, when razor-taloned claws flash into the gap. Taking hold of either side. Trying to pry it open.
Ren hooks his feet through the ladder rungs leading to the seabed. Strains against the creature’s superior strength. Muscles quaking. Slowing, but not stopping the gilly’s inexorable progress.
The moment space permits, the thing’s head thrusts through the opening. Its jaws snap at Ren. A hair’s width short of connecting. For the barest moment, their eyes lock. To his surprise, Ren sees - not just animal instinct, but - a monstrous intelligence within the raging monster.
Last ditch: Ren lets go. Lashes out. Embeds the dive suit’s clawed pincer into one of those intelligent eyes.
The thing’s shriek cuts through the water as it recoils into the bell. Grabbing at its face. Black blood streaming behind it.
Ren seizes the hatch once more. Pulls it shut. Spinning the release wheel until it locks tightly.
Dropping down the ladder to the ocean floor beneath the bell, Ren wastes no time. Starts forward. Away from the bell and the thing he’s trapped inside. Consulting his forearm: The compass. The relief map. Well aware his air supply will not be enough to get him back to the island. Instead? Ren is going off-script. Plotting a new path.
One which will lead him to Plan B.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Her own hacking cough jars her from unconsciousness.
But Netty is not the only one disturbed by her noise and movement. From her worm’s-eye view on the floor, the bathroom is filled with black ivy. In response to each rasping bark, its coils tighten around her. Independent nodes of sharp black leaves rotate in her direction. A crowd of faceless heads turn toward the sound. Spreading apart. Yellow berries readying to fill the air with spores.
Netty clenches her teeth. Forces her lips together. Stifling her coughs as best she can. Lungs and throat aching. Quieting herself. With no sound to guide them, the leaves close once more. The writhing ivy stills.
Its vines are everywhere. Circling over and beneath her. Holding her arms at her sides. One worrisome tendril snaking around her neck. In tiny increments, she shifts. Freezing each time the plant seems to register her movement. Squeezing in response. Gradually, she rolls from her back to her hip. Sliding one arm behind her. Fingertips reaching into her pants pocket. Removing her cellphone.
Craning her neck as far
as she’s able, she still can’t quite see the screen. With no other option, she holds down the home button.
BLOOP! Shockingly loud in the tiled bathroom. The phone saying it’s ready for voice commands. The vine reacts by constricting. Netty can’t afford to wait for it to loosen again. Not without the phone going back to sleep.
“Call Max.” Loud enough for the microphone to pick up. Too loud for the ivy. Aggravated, it tightens around her arms and throat.
After a moment of thought, her handheld AI responds civilly: “I’m sorry. I don’t know a... Max. Would you like to try another contact?”
Pffft! The berries spray spores at Netty’s ass. Where her phone has drawn their attention. She holds her breath. Hoping to avoid inhaling any more than she already has.
And of course her phone doesn’t know a Max. Because that’s not the name her wiseass son set to display when he called. He’d reprogrammed it to recognize him by another name.
“Unknown Caller. Call Unknown Caller.”
Leafy heads turn back in the direction of her voice. Vines cut into her flesh. Not quite choking off her air supply, but certainly narrowing her pipes. The squeeze only getting worse as the phone rings. Definitely strangling her now.
She hears an answering machine pick up. Gasping for air, she misses the message. The beep. The pounding of her own pulse in her head blocking all other sound as she slides toward unconsciousness.
“Come home, Max... I need you.” The ivy punishes every word. It’s all Netty can do to get out anything at all. “Something’s... It’s got me... But don’t... Breathe in its... Don’t... Breathe....”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
It’s a colorful mess. Six new boxes of fresh pastels. Less than a week old. Dumped out. Disordered. Broken. Their stubs scattered along the edge of the wall. Soon, she’ll have used them all up.
FROM AWAY ~ BOOK FIVE Page 14