Our Last Echoes

by Kate Alice Marshall

  It is identical to the door into the bunker: metal, rectangular, windowless. Hardcastle looks back at the others, turning the camera. They watch him expectantly. There is no question that he will open the door, and he does, grunting with the effort.

  The door opens onto the island. Onto the same patch of ground they came into the bunker from. Here, there is no mist. No grass either; only bare rock. Hardcastle points the camera up toward the sky—but there is no sky. Only a reflection of the island and the ocean, hanging above them.

  KAPOOR: I should be terrified, but I’m just . . . empty.

  She looks up. Her expression is slack, but tears track down her cheeks.

  KAPOOR: We aren’t getting out of here.

  CARREAU: Stranger things have happened, Vanya dearest. Stranger things.

  NOVAK: Down there.

  She points. Just offshore, a large wooden vessel is mired against the rocks. Even translated into the medium of film, it is a mind-bending sight—it seems, impossibly, to be eternally breaking apart. An optical illusion, perhaps, for there is no beginning nor end to the way the wooden beams crack against the rocks, splitting open. Black liquid gushes from the crack like a wound—a wound that is forever in the process of being rent open.

  HARDCASTLE: Is that where we need to go?

  KAPOOR: No. I think that is.

  She points along the side of the slope and downward—toward the town. Hardcastle steps to where he can angle the camera to follow her pointing hand.

  Where the town should be there is only an empty field. Except for the church. It has doubled in size, gained spires that twist in nauseating geometry. Terns swarm around its roof in eerie silence, and where its door should be, the camera captures only random visual glitches and flashes of light.

  CARREAU: No sense in wasting time.

  In wordless agreement, the group starts off down the hill. Carreau takes the lead, his gait buoyant, head high, and hands in his pockets.

  The glitching of the camera becomes more frequent as they draw closer. As they step over the threshold, the video remains rolling but turns to jagged, discordant shapes and colors.* The image resolves thirteen seconds later.

  The interior of the church is not a church at all, but a cavern. The walls are gray stone. Columns of rock and stalagmites rise from the floor, preventing a complete view of the space. The vaulted ceiling is covered in a mural not unlike that of the previous echo, though on a larger scale, and wrapped around the outcroppings of rock. A path leads toward the dark interior of the space, and the group follows it.

  KAPOOR: Did you see that?

  NOVAK: What?

  KAPOOR: I thought I saw something moving.

  CARREAU: Come on. It’s just through here.

  KAPOOR: What is?

  They step through a gateway of two craggy columns, and Joy gasps. In the center of the room, suspended in the air, is a massive shard of glass, the size of a human torso. Its edges are jagged, and light refracts brokenly through its clouded surface. It shifts and changes in midair, and sometimes it seems less like a piece of glass, and more like the world itself is the glass and the object in the center of the room is a crack through it.

  From its jagged lower tip weeps black liquid, dripping into a circular pool. Channels flow from the pool outward, threading among the congregation gathered around the shard. For there are people—many people, dozens—arranged in concentric circles. They kneel, heads bowed and backs bent, their hands resting on their laps, holding shallow bowls.

  Hardcastle draws close to the nearest man. He wears the uniform of a US Airman circa the second world war. One of his boots is unlaced, his shirt unbuttoned. Black tears run down his cheeks. Every few seconds, one drops into the shallow bowl. It is already half-full.

  Most of those nearby are dressed similarly. Some seem to have had more time to dress than others; a few wear only their underclothes. One young man, no more than nineteen or twenty, has only one sock on.

  NOVAK: Will, look out!

  Hardcastle jerks back from the man he is examining, yelling as a burst of movement comes toward him—but it’s only a young boy, and he runs past Hardcastle, ignoring him entirely. The boy, who has a dusty blond mop of hair and a gaunt frame, carries an empty bowl clasped to his side. He stops in front of one of the airmen and exchanges the man’s filled bowl for the empty one. He pauses, the bowl balanced carefully on both of his palms, and looks at Hardcastle.

  HARDCASTLE: We’re not going to hurt you, kid.

  The boy approaches with hesitant steps. He holds the bowl up toward Hardcastle. In his eyes is an invitation. An offer.

  HARDCASTLE: Uh—no thanks?

  The boy nods—and then he sets the bowl to his lips, and drinks. He drinks thirstily, greedily, gulping down the tarry black liquid. It spills out of the sides of his mouth, down his chin, splashes on his chest and the ground at his feet. Hardcastle makes a guttural sound of revulsion and steps back.

  The boy takes the last swallow and lowers the bowl. His skin is red and blistering where the liquid touched it, but he smiles, a contortion of his lips that is almost parody. And then he sprints back toward the rocky outcroppings at the edge of the room, his movements too limber and too controlled to belong to such a young child.

  KAPOOR: There’s more of them.

  Eyes reflect the team’s lights. Dozens of eyes, belonging to rail-thin children who cling to the rocks or crouch against the ground. The oldest is perhaps twelve, though it’s difficult to tell, given their emaciated state and ragged clothing. The youngest might be four or five.

  NOVAK: I know that girl.

  She’s whispering. She holds the Sophias close against her as she stares at one of the children, a girl with long black hair and light brown skin that had begun to turn a sickly sort of gray.

  NOVAK: Mikhail has a painting of her. He showed me once. That’s his daughter.

  KAPOOR: We have bigger problems.

  Her voice is shaking. She points with her flashlight. Around the circle, toward the outer edge, kneels a group of four people, two men and two women, as insensible as all the rest.

  They are Joy Novak, William Hardcastle, Vanya Kapoor, and Martin Carreau.

  PART FOUR

  THIS ROUGH MAGIC

  VIDEO EVIDENCE

  Recorded by Joy Novak

  AUGUST 14, 2003, TIME UNKNOWN

  Sophia—which one is, at this point, unclear—slips from her Novak’s hold and walks toward the kneeling figures. Joy grabs for her but doesn’t seem willing to move closer to her double. Sophia reaches out and presses her hands against the kneeling Joy’s cheeks.

  SOPHIA: Mama? Wake up. Mama, talk.

  She looks back.

  SOPHIA: Why she doesn’t talk?

  HARDCASTLE: They’re doubles. Those are our doubles; they’re not real.

  KAPOOR: Don’t be obtuse, Will. This explains everything quite neatly, doesn’t it? Vanya and William did go down toward the beach. We’re the ones that came back. Carolyn—

  NOVAK: She must have been replaced before we even got to the church. When we were separated in the mist.

  KAPOOR: They tried to bring the real one here, but she got away somehow. And we found her. We killed her.

  Her voice is almost clinical—almost. An edge of disgust seeps through.

  NOVAK: No, you didn’t. I did.

  KAPOOR: You didn’t know.

  HARDCASTLE: I am William Hardcastle. I’m me. I’m not some . . . doppelganger.

  KAPOOR: That’s exactly what you are, Will.

  NOVAK: How could we not know? I feel like Joy Novak. I don’t remember being anyone else.

  Carreau giggles. They look at him sharply. He spreads his hands.

  CARREAU: You should see your faces.

  He laughs—laughs
until he wheezes, bending over at the waist.

  CARREAU: Caro arrow row oh, such a lovely echo we made of her, and then you put a bullet in its brain. But you were just the same!

  HARDCASTLE: Jesus, Martin.

  CARREAU: No, neither, I’m afraid.

  He stops laughing abruptly and stands up straight. His head gives an avian tilt, and he clicks his teeth together three times rapidly.

  CARREAU: We eat their memories, and for a time they seem like truth. But it doesn’t last, doesn’t last. We can’t hold on in the face of the song. And it’s so, so nice to surrender.

  KAPOOR: Then you know what you are.

  CARREAU: Oh, oh. Yes. You’ll know soon too. Now that you’ve done what was needed.

  NOVAK: What was needed?

  Carreau looks at the Sophias, his grin wide and fixed.

  CARREAU: You brought them here. They wouldn’t have followed if you didn’t believe.

  Novak moves now, grabbing both Sophias and pulling them away from Carreau.

  NOVAK: What do you want with them?

  CARREAU: We need them to open the gate. We’ve searched so long for the right child. There’s something special about little Sophie and her shadow, don’t you think?

  At the edge of the room, the strange children move among the stones, their eyes gleaming with reflected light.

  NOVAK: Stay away from them.

  CARREAU: Listen, Joy. Listen to the song. Let go of her.

  He jerks his head toward Novak’s kneeling double. The echo-Novak’s throat bobs in a convulsive swallow.

  HARDCASTLE: I’m not surrendering to any song. Come on. Let’s get out of here.

  NOVAK: We can’t leave them.

  She gestures to the kneeling doubles.

  HARDCASTLE: Screw them. I’m not sticking around.

  KAPOOR: There must be a way to wake them up.

  HARDCASTLE: You’re kidding, right? We wake them up and they’re going to panic. Attack us. They won’t let us exist.

  NOVAK: We aren’t real.

  HARDCASTLE: Speak for yourself.

  He looks down at the camera, grunts, and drops it. It hits the ground and rolls, the image going momentarily blank, but the drop doesn’t seem to have done too much damage.

  KAPOOR: Will, get back here!

  NOVAK: Let him go. We need to— Martin, how do we wake them up?

  CARREAU: He’s right, you know. They’d kill you. And I wouldn’t want that, Joy. Oh, how he longs for you, how he loves you. You know, don’t you? And you ignore it.

  NOVAK: That’s not true.

  CARREAU: You string him along. You take what you need from him. From everyone. You take and you twist and you watch them dance and it makes you feel so good, so very good, that they love you so, but you love no one but yourself.

  NOVAK: Stop it. Martin—whatever you are, you’re a copy of him, and there’s too much good in that man to be gone completely. Not if you were a good enough copy to fool us. Tell us how to wake them up, Martin.

  CARREAU: I—

  His hands clench, release, clench, release, a rhythm like the beating of birds’ wings.

  CARREAU: We’re still connected. But it’s like a dream. Like a memory. I—

  He jerks his head to the side.

  CARREAU: Here, let me show you.

  He steps toward the kneeling Carreau. He reaches for his waistband. Novak notices the knife a moment too late—a folding utility knife, just a common-sense bit of gear Carreau has probably used a dozen times in front of her, too small and practical to be remembered as anything but a tool.

  NOVAK: No!

  She’s too far away. She knows it; she makes no attempt to stop Carreau, instead turning the girls toward her, pressing their faces against her legs so they can’t see as Carreau grabs his double by the hair, pulling his head back, and slashes with the knife.

  Blood spatters into the shallow bowl. The real Carreau topples, limbs twitching as he bleeds out without ever regaining true consciousness. The echo steps toward the next person in line—Vanya Kapoor.

  CARREAU: This will simplify things.

  He reaches for Dr. Kapoor. Her echo shouts.

  KAPOOR [echo]:* Vanya Ellora Kapoor, wake the fuck up.

  The real Kapoor’s head whips up. She sees the knife and, too fast to be anything but raw instinct, throws herself up and forward, inside Martin’s reach. Her elbow connects with his stomach and sends him sprawling onto the ground.

  Her echo steps forward into view. She holds one arm out, blood dripping from the cut along the side of her arm. Her other hand grips a shard of one of the shallow bowls, broken to create a sharp edge.

  KAPOOR [echo]: Pinch me, I’m dreaming.

  KAPOOR: What the hell is—

  NOVAK: Joy Serenity Novak, you aren’t dreaming. This is real. Sophie is in danger. Wake up.

  She strides forward and slaps her double across the face. Novak—the real Novak—half topples backward, but catches herself, blinking rapidly and gaping at her echo.

  KAPOOR [echo]: Look out!

  Carreau’s echo springs to his feet and charges at the newly awakened woman, brandishing the knife. The echo Novak throws herself in the way. Between the light and the poor angle, the fight is a confusion of shadows. Kapoor’s echo darts across the room. She bends down beside a soldier, one of those fully dressed, and straightens up, holding a pistol.

  She levels it. Waits. Carreau throws Novak’s echo off, looms over her. Kapoor squeezes the trigger.

  The bullet passes through Carreau’s left eye and exits out the back of his skull. The damage is contained, orderly. A brief puff of blood. He collapses.

  Novak’s echo lies on the ground, blood soaking her sweater. The real Novak steps toward her.

  NOVAK [echo]: No, take care of—take care of the girls.

  KAPOOR [echo]: You’re going to be all right.

  Joy, looking stunned and a bit sick, turns to the two Sophias. She gathers them up in her arms and whispers to them, pressing her lips against their hair. Vanya’s echo looks up from where she kneels beside Joy’s echo.

  KAPOOR [echo]: What do you know?

  KAPOOR: Bits and pieces. I saw—sometimes I thought I was you. Awake. And sometimes I was here.

  KAPOOR [echo]: But you know the gist of it.

  KAPOOR: I think I can put it together.

  NOVAK: We need to get out of here.

  KAPOOR [echo]: You do. We aren’t going anywhere.

  NOVAK: It’s not safe here. We all have to—

  KAPOOR [echo]: I don’t know if you heard what Martin—the fake Martin—said. But what happened to him and to Carolyn is going to happen to us too. I don’t know if that means in minutes or years or what, but I’m not taking that chance. My son needs his mother to come home. And I’m not the one he’s waiting for.

  KAPOOR: What about . . .

  She looks over at the Sophias, both in Novak’s arms.

  NOVAK: They’re kids.

  NOVAK [echo]: She’s different. Even Martin said so. She’s not like the rest of us. You have to take her with you. Take care of her. I—I’m starting to understand the singing. You need to get them away from me. But I think—when I listen to the song, I know things. And I think I can open a way back out of the mist for you. Just get to the boat. I’ll hold on as long as I can, if you just promise to get them home.

  NOVAK: I promise. Of course I promise.

  KAPOOR: What about William?

  KAPOOR [echo]: Try slapping him. I mean, something positive ought to come out of this.

  Kapoor snorts. She crouches down and looks into William Hardcastle’s slack face.

  And then she leans forward, and whispers in his ear. He shivers. The bowl slips from his fingers, clatte
ring to the floor. Kapoor stands up and holds out her hand.

  HARDCASTLE: What . . . ?

  KAPOOR: Questions later. How do we do this, echo girl?

  She looks at Novak’s echo, who still has one hand against the oozing wound in her belly.

  NOVAK [echo]: Just get me . . . bring me to the pool.

  Kapoor and her echo are the ones that help her, Hardcastle still too disoriented to help, Novak holding the crying, confused girls. They bring the echo to the edge of the black pool beneath the glass shard, and she steps in. She staggers free of them. With each step she sinks lower in the liquid. When her fingertips brush the surface, it begins to crawl up her arms. It flows in rivulets along her clavicle, up her throat. It slips between her lips. It trickles over her eyelids, and her eyes fill with that shadowless void.

  SOPHIA: Mama . . .

  NOVAK [echo]: I love you, little bird. Now go.

  25

  MRS. POPOVA AND Mikhail weren’t quite looking at each other, as if it was shameful to have spoken all of this aloud. I wondered if they ever really talked about it on the island—or if they pretended their lives were some kind of normal, only sometimes giving a knowing look toward the rocky bluffs across the water.

  Outside, a voice howled in rage or pain. Inhuman and unearthly, and horribly familiar. I jumped up, startled, but Mrs. Popova put her hand on my arm. “It’s the Warden,” she said. Mikhail’s double. That was who Dr. Kapoor had been afraid of running into—not Mikhail after all. “The mist is here, but it’s all right. He never comes inside.”

  Footsteps crunched in the gravel along the drive. A new sound came, a kind of guttural huhhh-uh-huh, like someone trying to clear a crushed throat.