FROM AWAY ~ BOOK THREE Read online

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Spoiler-Alert!

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Previously...

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  What Happens Next?

  How To Help

  About the Author

  FROM AWAY - Series One - Book Three

  Copyright © 2016 D. Campbell MacKinlay

  Pearlcasting Press - a division of Pearlcasting Productions.

  First publication: January 2016

  All rights reserved. A work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is coincidental. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted by any means, electronic or otherwise, without the author’s written consent.

  ISBN 978-0-9948359-6-3 (ebook)

  dekemackeyjr.com

  BOOK ONE - FREE! / BOOK TWO

  OR:

  Sign up to the Mighty Mackey Mailing List,

  to get updates on all upcoming releases:

  For Dr. Lorraine Bliss-Mackey, who

  - to her eternal credit - hasn’t killed me yet.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  This book would not have been remotely possible without the love, unwavering support and constant encouragement of my partner, Dr. Lorraine Bliss-Mackey. Her understanding and the sacrifices she has been willing to make were nothing less than crucial, and the need to live up to her expectations is the engine driving the entire process.

  For putting up with general absenteeism, locked studio doors, shushing, hold-on-a-seconding and my more-or-less constant state of semi-distraction, I thank my long-suffering daughter, Pistachio. When, one day, she reads these books, I hope she thinks they were at least somewhat worth the trouble.

  Eternal gratitude to early readers, Carac Allison, Greg Kovacs, John Luciano, Brian Sharp, and Momma Mackey for their insight, enthusiastic support and hawk-eyed typo-catching.

  Special thanks to king of the sys-admins, Adrian Stiegler, without whom my online presence would be highly improbable.

  PREVIOUSLY...

  In the aftermath of the lighthouse generator explosion, Islanders grieved the loss of AARON COATES-LESGUETTES.

  At her cousin’s funeral, DAWN LESGUETTES met several family members. Her grandfather, MARTIN LESGUETTES, embraced her. Her aunt, SYLVIE COATES-LESGUETTES, did not. Showing Dawn around his lighthouse, Martin learned of her family tree project and presented her with his late wife’s collection: An attic full of island documents.

  Dawn’s father, REN LESGUETTES, missed his nephew’s funeral, waylaid by a protest blocking construction of the bridge to the mainland. Seeking an injunction, Ren approached JUDGE JOCELYN HUBERT, but was followed by DEPUTY DOUG SCHILLING. Believing him a threat to her mother, SHERIFF NETTY HUBERT felt obliged to beat the tar out of her deputy. Court order in hand, Ren and Netty returned to the bridge to break up the demonstration. Handcuffing himself to Ren, the spokesman, DENIS TANNER, cued his fellow protestors to set themselves on fire, before doing the same, himself.

  Despite recently losing her hand, WANDA LESGUETTES tried to attend the funeral, but found fellow addict MARSHALL TANNER hiding in her trailer, suffering from severe withdrawal after escaping a treatment facility. Hoping to avoid falling into worse favor with the OLD MEN, she turned in her friend. Realizing, afterwards that there was something odd about her wounded arm, Wanda removed the bandages and found her stump had started to grow a new hand. One with webbed fingers.

  Recuperating from the blast that killed his best friend, MAX HUBERT couldn’t bring himself to attend the funeral. Instead, he started to read a final email from Aaron and its strange attachment: Scanned pages recounting a sickness which befell the citizens of the town of ADDERPOOL. His reading is interrupted by the arrival of MANDI and ALLISON: Old friends insistent on taking his mind off of Aaron’s death. First: Getting Max high. Then: Taking him to meet DELIA, who introduced him to local drug, GOO. Defenses lowered by a tragedy for which he feels responsible, Max succumbed: Gave goo a try.

  Meanwhile, the HUNTERS - a silent couple from away - spent the day moving around the island digging enormous square holes in the ground. Finally finding what they were looking for, buried in the middle of a forest clearing: A large stone tablet, inscribed with a message, written in ancient runic characters.

  Following her son’s wake, Sylvie abandoned her mourning husband, TREVOR COATES, in order to patrol the waters around Mossley Island with her partners, BURL and ROSCOE. Investigating an underwater sighting, they chased and captured a bizarre sea creature, only to have it break free and attack Roscoe, before carrying him away. Following it back to the island and through the woods, Sylvie fell into one of the Hunters’ holes, where she found the creature had met the same fate, until its body turned out to be an empty costume. With no sign of Roscoe, Sylvie was left trapped.

  Crashing hard after the long day, Dawn is unknowingly visited in her sleep by MR. and MRS. WAX. They whisper in her ear, then vanish. Not so unusual an occurrence for them, but this time, Dawn followed their lead and vanished, as well.

  In Midgate General Hospital - after weeks in a coma - PAULA FIELDS finally stirred. Regained consciousness. And laughed madly.

  AND NOW...

  CHAPTER ONE

  Dawn only wakes up as broken glass slides into the sole of her right foot.

  Suddenly, she’s conscious. Sucking air between her teeth. Grabbing her ankle with both hands. Turning the foot over. Shockingly dirty in the thin moonlight. Embedded with sticks. Stones. Across the center, a bright red slice smiles up at her. A few jagged teeth protruding: Glass shards. Curved. Amber. Pieces of a broken bottle.

  More on the ground. A lot more. Shattered glass of all kinds. Enough to form a thin layer of sharp, multicolored gravel. Sparkling. Reflecting dozens of slivers of moon. And Dawn: Barefoot.

  She grimaces. Pulls the biggest piece from her flesh. It comes out easily. Not nearly so deep as it appeared. Only bleeding a little. The cut itself is ragged. Nasty. But she’s lucky it wasn’t worse, what wi
th her wandering through the middle of...

  Where, exactly?

  Dawn groans. Sleepwalking... Again.

  Somehow, she’s ended up outside. In the black of night. Wearing only a long t-shirt and undies. For the second night in a row. If this was once again becoming a thing, she would definitely need to start wearing more conservative pajamas to bed.

  And possibly sneakers.

  As she shakes off sleep, Dawn fights the sense that she’s been drawn to this location. That she was not brought there by random blind wandering, but rather by heeding a call of some kind. Something she can only perceive with eyes closed and mind left dangerously open. She shakes it off. Discounts the feeling as dream-logic with no business in the waking world.

  Fantasies have their place, but it’s time to get a handle on the reality of her situation.

  Behind her: The area is wooded. Ahead of her: A wall. Ten feet tall. Easily. Extending into the darkness in either direction. Uneven rocks and rubble held together by dried, cracking mortar. Old. Untended. Disintegrating.

  Here, the upper third of the wall has collapsed. Small boulders have fallen to the ground in a semi-circle. Forming an ersatz seating area. A secret meeting spot for no-good teenagers, no doubt. A natural patio too tempting to ignore.

  The origin of all the broken glass: Kids destroying the evidence of their debauchery. Smashing bottles for the pure joy of destruction. Letting the pieces fall where they may. Not like anyone would ever be dumb enough to walk around there without shoes on.

  Legs aching. Feet sore. Cuts throbbing. Dawn shuffles on her heels to the nearest rock. Sits down. Pulls her right ankle onto her left knee. Removes the remaining glass fragments as best she can in the near-dark. Tosses each away. The third gongs. Ringing out against a metal sheet of some kind.

  Dawn peers in the direction of the sound. Sees the cause propped against the wall on which it once hung. A rusted sign:

  CONTAMINATION WARNING

  POTENTIAL BIOHAZARD PRESENT

  TRESPASS AT OWN RISK

  Great. Exactly what you hope to read after cutting your dirty feet open on broken glass in the middle of who-knows-where. The very suggestion of toxic contaminants makes her itch.

  Using the hem of her shirt, Dawn brushes off the wounds as best she can. Worries she may be doing more harm than good. Especially when the blood starts to flow again.

  “Shoot!”

  Quickly, she pulls taut the arm of her t-shirt. Bites at the threads where it connects at the shoulder. Tears a hole. Tugs until she rips the sleeve off completely.

  She shakes it out. Doubles it over. Slides it past her toes: An impromptu bandage. Better than nothing. If she’s not already on the road to some horrible infection, it may help her avoid one and the amputation which would inevitably follow.

  The left foot requires similar treatment, though the situation is far less dire: Smaller shards. Fewer of them. She plucks each one out. Tosses them away. Needing a second bandage, she bites at the seam of her remaining sleeve. Notices, as she does, a gleam from beneath her t-shirt.

  Moonlight sneaking in. Reflecting silver.

  Dawn leaves the sleeve. Pulls down her collar. Finds: The chain. The charm. Given to her by the Waxes the night before. Something that had belonged to her grandmother, they said. She’d left it by her bedside before going to sleep. Apparently, the sleepwalker had decided this little jaunt required accessories.

  Shoes? Unnecessary. Fancy silver necklace? Essential!

  Rolling her eyes at herself, Dawn tears at the stitching. Removes her other sleeve. Pulls it on over her foot. Little dots of blood show through. Nothing worth worrying about.

  Feet dealt with, Dawn stands. Tests them out. They hurt. Just not enough to stop her. If there’s any chance of getting home without her father noticing she’s been gone, she needs to take it.

  But which way is home?

  She’d awoken facing the wall. Had she been walking toward it? Dawn looks back, into the woods. With only a slice of moon to light the world, she sees no sign of any path she might have followed. Just trees. And darkness. A recipe for disaster, even if it is the shortest route back to the cabin.

  To keep from getting disoriented, she decides to maintain contact with a reliable landmark: The wall itself. Following it won’t get her home, but at least she won’t get more lost. Before she circles around and finds herself back at the boulevard of broken glass, some sort of access-road or opening will present itself. It has to.

  Dawn flips a mental coin. Opts to limp leftward. Carefully picking her way around more broken bottles, until she leaves the little beer-garden behind.

  Before long, she comes across more signs. Posted at regular intervals. Most still bolted to the rocks, if not by much. None particularly reassuring.

  DANGER

  BAD AIR BEYOND BARRIER

  AVOID INHALATION

  “Bad air?”

  Despite having no idea what that might mean, Dawn finds herself intermittently holding her breath. At least until lightheadedness convinces her bad air is probably still superior to no air.

  Now that she’s thinking about it, there is a scent on the breeze she hadn’t been conscious of before. She catches only the slightest whiff. Even that, only sporadically.

  Dampness. Compost. Not the worst smell Dawn’s ever encountered. Nothing especially toxic about it. Natural. It could just as easily be coming from the forest as from beyond the barrier.

  The signs are clearly making her paranoid.

  CONTAMINATED AIR/WATER

  AVOID EXPOSURE

  FROM THIS POINT SOUTH

  South? Dawn looks to the sky. Hoping for a cosmic label pointing out the North Star. No such luck. She continues on. Directionless.

  WARNING

  EXTREME HEALTH HAZARD PRESENT

  DO NOT BREACH SECURITY WALL

  Not just a health hazard. An EXTREME health hazard.

  Maybe taking her chances in the wilderness would be the wiser choice after all. Preferable at least to continued exposure to whatever terrifying air and water-borne poisons had warranted building a giant barrier and posting such frightening signage.

  Even so, Dawn cannot bring herself to risk heading into the woods. Convinced the wall’s crumbling state must mean enough time has passed for hazardous materials to dissipate to acceptable levels. Otherwise, the wall would still be maintained, right? Its abandonment suggests the threats warned against must have passed.

  Soon enough, the trees thin. The woods open. Allowing the passage of a badly neglected road. Broken apart from below by the persistent push of weeds. Bulging and split in places by industrious maple trees. Before the wall’s erection, it had led straight through. Now what’s left of it sneaks beneath the skirts of the enclosure. Presumably continuing on the other side.

  It’s exactly what Dawn’s been looking for: An escape route. Hopefully linking with another, more up-to-date thoroughfare somewhere along its travels. Leading her home, rather than disintegrating into the woods.

  But before she follows the road away, curiosity insists she investigate the rocks piled against the wall ahead: A makeshift staircase. Leading six feet up to a gap, where time and nature have conspired against the wall’s integrity. Leaving it vulnerable.

  Dawn climbs up. Peers through. Anxious to see what the wall is defending. Or defending against. Not an experimental government lab. Or a military facility. Or an abandoned factory. Instead, the wall is apparently protecting the rest of Mossley Island from: A once-quaint seaside town nestled in a deep valley below.

  Long-dead. No lights in windows. No streetlamps lit along the sidewalks. No signs of life at all. A sooty black residue on the buildings still standing marks the periphery reached by a raging fire. One which reduced neighboring blocks to blackened skeletons. Left half of the village razed to the ground. Allowing Dawn a mostly unobstructed view of the main street.

  Starting at the ocean, it runs from the docks, through a formerly charming town-square, and righ
t out of town. It climbs out of the valley in drunken loops. Passing a miniature forest of postcard-sized flags planted along its shoulder. Hundreds of them waving half-heartedly in the sea-breeze. Thinning out before the road comes to a dilapidated covered bridge. Crosses over a dry creek bed. And ends at the wall.

  Dawn’s throbbing left foot breaks through her fascination. Begging her to leave. She consents. Returns to the beat-up tarmac. Heads away from the wall. Hopefully, towards civilization.

  Despite her complaining injury, Dawn’s mind remains in the town. She’ll have to ask Grampy about it when next they meet. If anyone could tell her its story, it would be him.

  Before long she approaches the rear of a large ramshackle sign. She turns to read its face as she passes. Makes a mental note. Now, she’ll be able to inquire about the town by name.

  Welcome to

  ADDERPOOL

  Enjoy your stay.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Sylvie and Burl are covered in blood.

  Whose blood, they do not know.

  Possibly Roscoe’s. Maybe that of his abductor. Most likely a mixture of the two. But by the time they’ve carried the rubbery black costume out of the forest and heaved it into the back of the pickup, they find the blood has gotten everywhere.

  The costume lands in the truck bed with a loud clunk. The hand-held jet ski hidden inside the supposed creature’s head acting as a skull beneath its thick latex skin. Really, they should be treating it more gently. It’s evidence. It may hold the key to discovering who took Roscoe.

  It’s already all Sylvie can do to keep from smashing the thing to bits. The way Burl glares at it, he can only be feeling the same. He looks like she feels. Broken. In shock. But there’s no time for that now. They need to shake it off. For Roscoe.