“Give me that face all ye want, b’y, but when those monsters make it ashore, ye’ll be glad to have ‘em.”
“Yeah, but what about keeping them from getting that far in the first place?”
The old man waves him off. “We deal with upgrades later. After we find a way to test ‘em. Make my eighty-five percent into a hundred.”
Max thinks on this. Unplugging the gloves. Pulling them off. “Okay if I leave Sue with you, for a little while?”
“Sue, huh?” Norman squints down at the hound. Already asleep by the door. “Ye do know he’s a boy-dog, don’tcha?”
Max ignores him. Unsticking the velcro straps. Returning everything to the backpack. “Got an idea. Won’t be long.” He swings the bag toward the Electrician as he heads out the coach house door. “I’m taking this with me.”
“Oh, now I’m not so sure--”
Max holds up a hand. “You want ‘em tested, don’t you? I might just know how.”
~
The mismatched Sudders stand on their front patio. Watching Max head off down their swanky street on foot.
“Norman... Please tell me we didn’t just inherit that boy’s dog.”
Sue is at their side. Straining halfheartedly after Max. Collar securely held in Norman’s fist.
“S’okay, love. Ye won’t even know he’s there.” Norman coughs into his handkerchief. Turns the results away from his wife. Quickly folding it shut over fresh red spatters.
His wife snorts: “You needn’t bother hiding it, Norman. I don’t need any further evidence to know the truth.” She looks down at her husband. “Besides, you promised: As soon as this one last project was complete, I’m allowed to call for an ambulance. You’ve finished now, haven’t you?”
Norman nods. “That I have.” He coughs again. Wet and gurgling. “Just wait ’til the boy’s out of sight. Then, if ye still see a point to it, ye can go right ahead and call.”
He coughs some more. The sound echoes through the neighborhood. Following Max up the street. Not quite reaching him as he rounds the corner and disappears from view.
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
The pickup roars off the road. Onto the shoulder. Skids to stop in the tall marram grass. Barely parked when Sylvie leaps out. Door left hanging open as she scramble-slides down the escarpment. Rushing to the water’s edge.
She scans the ocean. The shoreline. The beach. No Ren in sight. Not yet. But - based on the last underwater camera to catch sight of him - he’ll be visible from here when he finally emerges. Any minute now.
Sylvie forces herself to breathe. Relax. He’s alive. That’s what matters. She had not sent her brother to his death. Ren is alive. And her father is alive. And in each case, she’s getting another chance. To reconnect. To make things right.
Not that she deserves it. She’s squandered her family: Lost her son. Pushed away her husband. Rejected her siblings. She’s had years in which she could have reached out to Ren or Wanda. Might have bridged the gap at any point, if she’d so desired. At this point, if she does end up alone, she knows she’s more than earned it.
Instead? Sylvie has one last opportunity. To put hard feelings aside. To invite her remaining family back into her life. She’s not going to waste it. Not again. Not anymore.
Sylvie walks the waterfront. Finds herself a big rock. Plants her butt on it. Vigilant.
The waves lap the shore. The ocean’s face remains unbroken. Nobody surfaces.
A trio of bickering gulls land nearby. Poking their beaks between the rocks. Looking for snacks. Scaring off their prey by arguing amongst themselves. Sticking close together, nonetheless.
Sylvie pulls out her phone. Taps and swipes. Holds it to her cheek. Listens. After a few moments, she leaves a message:
“Look, Kiddo... I’m a stupid asshole, okay? I am. I’m a stupid asshole, and Ren’s a stupid asshole, and I’m sorry but, you’re a stupid asshole, too. So: As far as I’m concerned? That brings us all to even, and maybe we should all of us finally listen to our stupid asshole Dad and just... Get over all of our stupid asshole bullshit.”
Nearby: Petulant shrieks. Two of the seagulls tug-o-war over a crab while the third looks on with veiled interest.
“If that sounds all right to you, it’s okay by me, too. And I know: It took me long enough, right? But... I’m ready for that, now.” She chokes up a little. Smiles. “I’m ready. Just... Let me know, yeah?”
Sylvie pauses. As though awaiting a response. Or trying to come up with more to say to remain on the line. Then, simply hangs up. Nodding to herself.
The competitive gulls screech indignantly. Losing their hold on the crab. All three snap at it as it scuttles into a narrow crevice. Out of reach. Furious, they turn on one another. Take to the sky. Snipping at their siblings’ tail feathers.
Sylvie watches them go. Squinting as they shrink toward the horizon. Then, she turns her gaze back to the water. Waiting for her brother to arrive.
~
Razor claws rake three red slices. Cutting easily through Ren’s wetsuit. Into the soft meat of his shoulder. Vulnerable now, without the antique diving armor to protect him. But lucky: The thing had been aiming for his neck. Barely missed as he jerked to one side. Already coming around for another go at him.
Ren does nothing to prepare himself against the next onslaught. There’s no point. Weaponless. Defenseless. Utterly outmatched. He has no chance fighting the creature. His only option: Swim for all he’s worth. Cover the last few yards to Wreck Reef. Get himself inside the pulser’s protective shield. Where the sea monster can’t hope to follow.
He tears through the water. A dolphin-kicking, butterfly-stroking manta ray. Swimming as quickly as he ever has. Knowing: It can’t possibly be faster than the creature custom-built for the environment. But it’s all he can do. To get back home. To ensure Dawn still has a father. And if his lead is long enough, it just might--
Lightning strikes! Claws open gashes along the outside of his left leg. Flinching, he swims harder. He won’t let the wounds stop him. Doesn’t. Takes the pain as a much-needed shot of adrenaline.
Unable to risk looking back without losing momentum, Ren zigs. Zags. Angling upwards. Along the side of the first ruined craft. Over the coral forming the outermost edge of the reef. Certain he can feel the creature’s hot breath behind him: Boiling the water rushing over his calves.
Then, he feels it: A trembling vibration in the ocean around him. Increasing as he swims forward. Intensifying as he crests the upper edge of that first wreck. Building to a distinct throb as he glides into a gap between boats.
The pulser. He’s within range. He’s made it. Certain he’s safe, Ren slows. Turns.
Behind him, a fine red mist hangs suspended. A trail of his own blood clouding the water in his wake. Tracing his path in reverse from the wounds in his shoulder and calf. Pointing back toward: The one-eyed gilly.
Beyond the edge of the first wreck, it swims. Looping back and forth in the open water. The sea monster equivalent of pacing. Too close for comfort, but coming no closer. Sensing the pulser. Unwilling to test it. Deprived of its prize - its vengeance - it glares at Ren. Its horrifying gaze never leaving him. That single remaining eye filled with more than enough rage to make up for its lost twin.
Without intending to, Ren gravitates toward it. Wanting a better look at the thing, from his newly secure vantage point. Then, realizing the risk, he stops. Gives it the finger, before turning away. Swimming slowly onward through the wreckage. Conserving what little strength he hasn’t used getting there. Moving toward a dull glow ahead. A light emanating from a mesh sphere. Mounted atop a cement tower: A pulse generator. His savior. Diligently warding off the enemy.
Also? Symbolizing the final landmark on his long undersea journey. A straight (sea-monster-free) shot to the island from there.
~
Sylvie’s back at her truck. Her slim reserve of patience spent. Already changed into her wetsuit. Testing her tanks. Running through a litany of cur
ses in her head. One for each person she deems responsible for her brother’s fate. Her own name figuring frequently.
Goddamn you, Sylvie.
Determined to go after him. Unwilling to simply stand by and let it happen. Even though doing so will invalidate his punishment. Screw the Circle’s rules! She’s not going to leave Ren out there to die alone. Not without trying to help.
Nearly ready now, she glances at the water from atop the escarpment. No longer even hoping to see him breach the surface. Shocked when he does.
There! Rising from the deep: Her brother. Slumped over. Slogging slowly for the shore. Ocean pouring off of him.
Sylvie drops everything. Bolts for the edge. Over it. Sliding down the slope. Stumbling over the rocks. Out into the water. Toward her brother. “Ren!”
He spits out his regulator. Pulls off his mask. Leaving both where they fall. Shrugging off the rest of his gear as he trudges for shore. Well past weakness. Beyond the point of total exhaustion. Scarcely registering his sister’s approach. Only recognizing her when she gets within a few feet.
“S-Sylvie...” He lists to one side. Bumped by each wave. Righting himself before tipping completely. “You’re not here... Just to accuse me of cheating, are you?”
She almost laughs. “No, Ren. I’m not.”
He nods. “That’s good.” And that is everything he has in him. With those words, he’s used it all. Every. Last. Drop.
Strings cut, Ren collapses in the surf.
CHAPTER SIXTY
“Friends... We’re in trouble.”
Mrs. Rutherford stands at the head of the boardroom table. Scanning the melancholy faces in attendance. Pausing on the empty chairs of those conspicuously absent. “After so much time without incident, we’ve all begun to believe ourselves immortal. Invulnerable. Untouchable. I’ll admit it: It’s an error I’ve made myself.”
She shakes her head. Disappointed in her own fallibility.
“Gathered today, we find ourselves sadly short of our full complement. In a war which has yet to truly begin, already we are facing defeat. Without even the opportunity to look our enemy in the eye - unaware of the battles being waged against us - we have suffered... Staggering losses. Many of which could have been avoided, if we had only heeded the warnings so plainly obvious in retrospect. Had we simply acknowledged the dangers imminent and proceeded with an acceptance of our own mortality... These agonizing failures might well have been avoided.”
Mrs. Rutherford’s hands shake. She grips tightly to the back of her chair.
“We’re all aware by now of the vicious beach attack which took Messrs. Sheffield and Nolty from us.” She pauses. Grave. “But to update those of you who have not yet heard: We have also lost both Mrs. Chilton and Mr. Wynneau.”
Murmurs confirm: This information has not yet entered the general consciousness.
“I’m sorry to have to tell you: During transportation of our captive saboteur, they experienced a deadly assault. Neither survived. And our prisoner... Her whereabouts are currently unknown, but the likelihood of her survival we believe to be quite high.”
Mrs. Rutherford allows a few moments of angry mutterings. Then, continues: “Additionally, right here in the West Corridor - while so many of us were attending to the initial interrogation of the aforementioned prisoner - unidentified intruders took advantage of our absence to rampage willy-nilly through our home. They destroyed what was left of our dwindling ichthyoplasm stockpile as well as both remaining gillies: Joan and Bette. The final two of our original seven. What’s more, they hospitalized Mr. Hickman. Killed Mr. Grist in his office. Mr. Rothstein in the parking lot. And - quite possibly - Miss Philips, who has disappeared and remains unaccounted for.”
Gasps meet each bit of news. Tears flow. Rage builds.
“Eight of us, for those not keeping score. Eight Old Men wiped from the roll in an exceedingly short time. Six confirmed dead. Casualties of our own hubris. As I remarked in opening... We’re in trouble. As loathe as I am to admit it... Without a new source of ichthyoplasm? We may well be done.”
“No!” shouts Mr. Bolton. “We’re only just getting started!”
“You can’t expect us to simply give up,” says Ms. Spinx.
“We’ve not yet begun to fight!” Mrs. Donnelly declares.
Their leader raises a quivering hand. “Your passion is appreciated. But with the obliteration of both our supply and our means of production, we can no longer ignore the truth. It should come as no surprise. We’ve all felt it. Even beyond the rationing, Ichthyoplasm has no longer been reliable in providing the beneficial health effects we’ve come to expect. Whether due to a decrease in potency or our own increasing resistance to its charms, I cannot say. Perhaps - in time - the late Dr. Ramsey might have enlightened us... I don’t know. The fact remains: Deprived of it entirely, we face rapid decline. Loss of faculties. Agonizing death. There’s little to be gained in sugar-coating what we all know to be true.”
Mrs. Rutherford’s plain talk leaves the room silent. For months, the Old Men have lived in a state of shared denial. Refusing as a group to face the reality of their situation. Cards on the table, the time for acceptance has finally arrived.
“But rest assured... I will not allow the Old Men to fade quietly into the dusk of history. I will not simply lay back and surrender to the devious sneak attacks of this hidden enemy. Nor will I cede our rightful place at the helm of Mossley government without putting up a righteous fight. Neither the gillies, nor their human co-conspirators will be permitted to take our island from us!”
A smattering of applause spreads around the boardroom table. Gaining force and volume as every Old Man in attendance joins in.
Mrs. Rutherford beams at the response. “Mark my words, ladies... Gentlemen: Before I allow that to happen, I will personally sink the whole accursed rock into the ocean, taking every last mewling citizen along with it.”
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
“So I said to myself: ‘Goddamnit, Wanda. You’re done with this shit. Never will you set foot in there again.’” Wanda grips the wheel of her hunk-of-junk Chevy Malibu. Parked in Dunroamin Trailer Park. Ignition off. Facing Lot 32. “I mean... I don’t know for sure that it’s permanent. I don’t. Could be I’m over it once and for all, and I never feel another inkling of interest in goo. On the other hand, the dude was a literal mad scientist, so who knows what he’s done to me? Maybe I’m still a full-on addict and I just need something to set it off again. Why take that risk, though? After spending so long under the control of that shit? I can’t afford to come anywhere near it again. Not if I can help it. You get that, right?”
Netty nods in the passenger seat. Whispers: “I get it.”
“Yeah?”
If Wanda’s words aren’t actually sincere, she’s spent the last week in intensive training to become a better liar. Netty believes her. Squeezes her hand. “I’m okay checking it out on my own. You stay here. If anything goes down, first and foremost: You call it in.”
“Will do.” Wanda’s relief is unmistakeable. “Break a leg.”
“Yeah. Preferably someone else’s.” Netty slides out. Closes the door quietly. Straightens her uniform: Tucked in. Buttoned up. No badge or weapon, but beyond that? Presenting as Mossley Island PD. Fully prepared to allow anyone who wants to jump to the conclusion to believe she’s still on the force. All business, she crosses the dirt road. Centering herself. Ready for anything.
Anything but a false report. However sketchy the anonymous phone call had been, all hope it might be nothing more than a prank had gone out the window as they first drove past Delia’s trailer. When Wanda spotted the red leaking out from beneath the door. A barcode of drips pointing down from the crack to the topmost step.
Nearing the trailer, Netty gets a closer look. Evaporating the slim chance the drips might prove to be paint or some other innocuous substance. If she wasn’t already certain it was blood, the blackflies dotting the sticky surface attest to it.
She cl
ears her throat. Tests her recovering voice: “Betty Botter bought some butter.” Quiet. Low. She swallows again. “Betty Botter--”
Behind her, the car door squeaks. Slams. Gravel crunches. She doesn’t need to look to know it’s Wanda. Mind changed. Catching up at a trot. Grasping Netty by the elbow. “The dog, Netty. It’s gone.” She points to the empty doghouse. The unemployed chain staked to the ground. “I’ve never not seen him here. Usually? He’s out and snapping by the time somebody gets this close. Maybe we should--”
“Wanda.” Netty raises a hand. Authoritative. “I’m good. I promise. You can go back to the car.”
Wanda searches Netty’s face. “No... I’m with you.”
The pair approach Delia’s trailer. Netty taking lead. First up the steps. Carefully avoiding the pooling blood. Rapping sharply on the door.
~
Three sharp knocks jolt Trevor awake. Save him from the worst nightmare he can remember having since childhood:
His mother, terrified. Looking out from inside a giant fishtank. The Home’s administrator stopping him from feeding her. Taking away the tin of flaky fish food before he could sprinkle it over the surface of the water. Trying to force him to take a baggie of bloody fish parts instead.
When he refused, she pulled down on a large lever. A metal ball swung out of the wall above the aquarium. Before he could move to stop her, she zapped the tank with blue electricity. His mother fried. Floated to the surface. Leaking a black fluid until the water in the tank had become completely opaque. Impenetrable.
Despite wanting to turn away, Trevor leaned in close. Afraid to see the results, but compelled to look. But as he gazed into the blackness it enveloped him. Suddenly he was in the tank. Burned by the black fluid. Changing. Into something monstrous.
FROM AWAY ~ BOOK FIVE Page 26