FROM AWAY ~ BOOK THREE Page 6

  “Goddamnit.” Burl stands at the break in the bushes. Where he’s sure he saw the creature come ashore. Panning his phone above the ground. Recording the overlapping sets of treads criss-crossing one another. Capturing every unusable inch of it.

  “I’ve gotta say it, Sylvie: Your Da was right. We shoulda waited for sun-up.” He shuts off the camera. Fights the urge to toss it into the water. “If there were ever any clues to be found, our guys went and stomped ‘em all to shit.”

  “Yeah, well...” Sylvie works the treeline. Focusing on the leaves. Coming up every bit as empty. The bloody trail she’d followed has been wiped away. Erased by dew and passing jacket sleeves. “Roscoe couldn’t wait.” She looks Burl in the eye. “I made the call. I stand by it.”

  He squints. Not certain he’d have done the same.

  Sylvie clicks off her own phone. “All right, it’s confirmed: There’s nothing to be found here. We’re retracing our steps, so... Let’s go take a look in that hole. At least down there, it was only me laying tracks.”

  Burl steps around her. Heads into the woods. Sylvie follows. Instantly, the sound of the ocean vanishes. Reflected away by the protective trees. The sunny day is forgotten. The sudden twilight chills. Takes her back to the early morning. To chasing someone through the trees. Someone carrying Roscoe like an oversized rag-doll. If not a monster, then what?

  “Where’s your head on all this, Burl?”

  He glances over his shoulder. “What’re you asking?”

  “I’m saying...” She thinks on it. “After all this time. Never a sign of the enemy. Just the older guys telling us, and us taking their word for it these things’re out there at all. Now, here it is: First time we find out they’re real. And it turns out the thing’s a fake.”

  “Where’s my head on that?” Burl clears his throat. Spits into the bushes. “I don’t give the first shit.” The undergrowth crunches beneath their feet.

  “You don’t think it turns our world ass-over-teakettle?”

  “Hell, no.” Burl stops. Looks down at his boss. “The only important thing: They’re out to get us. And they’ve got Roscoe.” Something catches in his throat. He doesn’t let it get any farther. “I couldn’t care less if they’re men or beasts or something in-between.” He bares his teeth. “All you gotta do? Point me at the bastards. Let me take care of business.”

  Burl continues forward. Around a tightly spaced set of trees. Through some bushes. Onto the narrow edge of the hole. Sylvie right on his heels. “This where you came through?”

  He grunts in affirmative.

  She studies the clearing. Only slightly larger than the hole itself. “Over there...” On the far side, the lip has caved in. The earth is dark. Wet. A furrow runs to the bottom. “That’s where I fell in, huh?” Sylvie pivots. Orients herself. “So the costume... It was over in this corner.”

  Burl stares into the hole. “Seemed like so much blood. Hardly any sign of it now. Soaked into the dirt.”

  “Once I was down there, I heard the thing go.” Sylvie replays the moment in her mind. “Couldn’t tell the direction. Just that it was leaving. Might’ve headed back to the water for all I know.” She looks off. Towards the ocean. “We may be able to--”

  “Shh!” Burl spins. Grabbing Sylvie’s arm. Crouching low. Taking her with him.

  The woods are quiet. No sign of movement. Sylvie’s on the verge of speaking when leaves crunch nearby. She shuts up. Waits.

  A full minute passes quietly before the pair relax. Rise to standing. Ready to return to the business at hand.

  A buzzing hum. From Sylvie’s coat pocket. She and Burl both jump.

  She checks her phone: The Old Men. A short debate before she answers: “Yeah.” Listens. “Of course, and I’ll be in to give you all a complete report, when--” She turns away from the hole. Lowers her voice. “No... I can’t right now. This very minute, I’m on the scene. Trying to get a lead on where they might’ve taken--”

  Burl can’t make out the raised voice on the other end. But its tone is clear enough: Dissent will not be tolerated.

  “All right, Mrs. Rutherford. Asap.” Sylvie hangs up. Face glowing red with anger. “The search is suspended.”

  “What?! What about Roscoe?”

  “You think they give a damn?” She scoffs. “The Old Men need to be ‘brought up to speed.’ They want my report and they want it right now. That’s all they care about.”

  She stares off. Lost in thought. Then, Sylvie holds her hands out. “Lower me down.”

  Burl smiles as he takes them. Leans forward as she steps back. Down the wall. Into the hole. She’s halfway - reaching out a foot for the bottom - when the bushes burst open.

  Something emerges. Black with ten legs.

  Surprised, Burl jerks away. Too close to the lip. The ground too soft. Collapsing under his weight. Toppling him into the hole. Nearly on top of Sylvie. Rolling over one another.

  Fighting the wet earth, they scramble to their feet. Take defensive stances against the threat from above: A row of nuns. Five of them. All in black. Walking along the edge of the hole without so much as glancing down.

  Burl shakes his head. “Oh, for the love of--”

  “Hey, wait!” Sylvie chases them as far as the hole will allow. “Just hold on a second, Sisters...”

  The nuns pause. Gaze down at Sylvie with holier-than-her smiles.

  “Since you’ve been out here, doing your little walkabout... You see anything unusual?”

  The nuns share a wry look before cracking up. Breaking into giggles. Without further communication, they continue on their way.

  All but the last in the line. She waits until the others have gone. Bends down. Whispers into the hole: “More things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy.” Then trots away to rejoin her sisters.

  Burl and Sylvie watch her go. Unenlightened.

  Burl cups his mouth. Shouts after her: “That’s not even from the Bible... Stupid!”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  It’s habit.

  The long breadknife saws. Separates three sandwiches into precise and unsquished quarters. Slides each off the cutting board into its own plastic container. Labeled long ago. Careful block letters in fading permanent marker:

  AARON. MOM. DAD.

  Trevor clamps the lids tight. Steps back. Surveys his handiwork.

  Efficiency. Economy. His lunch-making process honed over years of identical mornings. A perfect ballet around the kitchen’s golden triangle. But this morning is not identical. He has entered a new normal. Positioned now on the far side of a dividing line he couldn’t have known he was crossing.

  Because the last morning he had performed these duties was the last morning he would need to. He hadn’t known to savor his role while he held it. Didn’t think it could be stripped away from his identity. The single most vital piece of who he’d been. Who he no longer is.

  A father.

  So who is he, now?

  Trevor Coates: Bereaved father.

  Modified. Adjectivized. Defined by what he’s lost. What does the title say about his character? How does it suggest he proceed?

  MOM and DAD go in the fridge. AARON stays on the counter.

  Trevor works around it: Scoops up breadcrumbs. Tosses them into the compost bin. Knives and cutting board into dishwasher. Counter gets spritzed. Wiped down. Very nearly the same as any other day.

  Entirely, utterly different.

  Trevor Coates: Bereaved father. Former father. Father of the deceased.

  Who is that?

  For one thing: He’s someone who forgets to put away the mustard.

  He picks up the yellow bottle. Carries it to the refrigerator. Stops. There’s no need to keep this. He hates the stuff. Sylvie never uses it. Nobody ever will. Nobody remaining.

  He shifts to the garbage can. Steps it open.

  All around him, the house is empty. Rooms without people. Without noise or activity. Aaron gone. Sylvie away more often than not. Tr
evor is alone.

  But all around him, the house is full. Rooms filled with Aaron’s misadventures. His life from toddler to teen. Their time together as a family. Not a square foot that hasn’t been imbued with memory. Unerasable.

  Somebody in this house will always like mustard. So Trevor puts it back in the fridge door where it belongs. Removes DAD. Drops that into the garbage instead.

  He slides AARON from the counter. Carries the small container around the island. Past the patio door still bearing the impact spiderweb where his wife slammed their son into the glass. Over to the kitchen table.

  Trevor pulls out a chair. Sits. Unlatches the airtight lid. Removes a cleanly cut sandwich quarter. Bites into it. The mustard burns. It’s supposed to. He’ll probably never get used to it. Which is, of course, the point. Every time the mustard burns, he’ll remember.

  And when he’s finished choking down the sandwich he’s going to take the box upstairs to Aaron’s bedroom. The big cardboard box on the table in front of him. The box he’s still pretending not to notice.

  And he’s going to open it.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Ren has not gotten nearly enough sleep when he finds himself victimized by the insistent ringing of his cellphone. Before leaving, Dawn had plugged it in to recharge. Set it nearby. On the bedside table. Helpful, to be certain.

  Less helpful: Ren’s burnt and gauze-wrapped hands. Attempting to silence the phone, they bump it away. Across the table top. A second desperate grab knocks it off. Leaves it swinging by its cord.

  Out of bed. Ren crouches down. Woozy. Percocet hangover giving the cabin a little extra spin. Just for laughs. With the inner edges of both awkward mitts, he gets hold of the phone. Lifts it halfway to the mattress. Drops it again. It pops off its cord. Lands on the floor. Mocking him.

  Through the bandages he tries to answer. Taps it. Swipes. The phone refuses to register him. Demanding human contact. Frustrated, he bites at the gauze. Tears away the surgical tape holding the wrap together. Pulls with his teeth until it all unravels.

  Beneath, Ren’s right hand is cooked-lobster-red. Knuckles swollen with shiny yellow blisters. Fingertips hot. Throbbing. But they do the trick. His phone accepts them as human.

  Careful to keep his injury clear of any accidental contact, he leans over. Lays his head against the phone. On the floor.

  “Yeah?” His voice is hoarse. Dehydrated.

  “Ren?” It’s Netty.

  He coughs. Clears his throat. “Yeah. It’s me.”

  “Ren, you need to get back out to Midgate General.”

  He closes his eyes. “They sent me home, Antoinette. Rest. Recuperate. Doctor’s orders.”

  “Yeah, well... I don’t want to get in the way of that, but... It’s Paula. She’s up.”

  “She’s...” Ren needs a moment. Then: “I’ll be right there.” He looks at his hands. “As soon as you send me a cab.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  At the bottom of the ramp: A pair of metal doors. Portholes in each. Blackness beyond. They swing open of their own volition as Dr. Ramsey nears.

  On entry, the space lights up: A long, blank hallway. Cement walls. Painted high-gloss white. Still descending. The grade less steep.

  Behind Wanda, the ramp goes dark. The hydraulic lift exhales. Lowering automatically. The only way out closing itself. No control panel on any wall. No button, switch, or keypad. Everything autonomous. Proximity sensors, maybe.

  “How exactly does one build a secret underground laboratory these days, Dr. Ramsey?”

  “Money.”

  Wanda waits for more. Nothing is forthcoming. “That’s it?”

  “What else could possibly be necessary, Wanda? Properly applied, there is nothing money cannot accomplish.”

  “I guess I wouldn’t know.”

  “Perhaps not, but you’re as much a beneficiary as anyone...” He smiles. “How’s that hand of yours feeling?”

  “Like punching something. And I gotta tell you, I’m feeling like obliging it.”

  If the doctor is worried, he doesn’t let on. “But the sensation. Is it one of belonging? Or does the hand feel separate from you?”

  Ahead: Another set of doors. Dark portholes watching their approach.

  “It feels... Right. Like it’s mine.”

  “Very good, Wanda.” Dr. Ramsey smiles. “Excellent, in fact.”

  The doors open in anticipation of their arrival. Wait for the duo to pass through. Close behind them.

  Shunk. Shunk. The sounds echo in the empty hallway. Deadbolts. Sliding into place. Locking them in.

  ~

  On either side: Thick plastic sheeting teases. Nothing clearly decipherable beyond it. Everything reduced to vague shapes. Forming a corridor through the center of a much larger space. Suspended from a network of metal scaffolding, ten feet overhead.

  “What is all--”

  “Time grows short, I’m afraid.” Dr. Ramsey cuts Wanda off. Stops dead. “I must request you release me now.”

  Wanda holds on. Out of pique as much as anything. She’s trapped herself and knows it.

  “Come now, Wanda The charade of your control has long-since expired. Allow us to proceed in the spirit of openness and honesty.”

  Groaning, she lets him go. Keeping the poker ever at the ready. “You better not think I won’t--”

  “We must make haste.” Dr. Ramsey speedwalks away. Long legs quickly leaving Wanda behind.

  “Hey!” she chases after him.

  “We can only hope your delay has not cost Marshall too dearly.” He breaks to the right. Ducks through a separation in the plastic. The wall almost seems to seal itself behind him. Solid when Wanda arrives.

  Behind the barrier everything is obscured: One blob approaches another blob. Sets down the blob it’s been carrying.

  Stymied, she reaches out. Pushes. Runs her fingers across the smooth surface in search of an opening. A seam. Before finding one, her hand starts shaking. The tremor spreads. Quaking its way across her body. Her entire system demanding a dose. Just like old times. The need settling in.

  Clink.

  Wanda looks up. What was that? Is someone up there? Above: Pipes. Vents. Metal grating. Beyond that: Total darkness.

  Quivering all over, Wanda remains as still as possible. Listens. The sound doesn’t repeat. Just one of those things. She’s definitely losing it.

  “Will you be joining us, Wanda?” The plastic unseals. Two overlapping layers which had been stuck together: Split apart. Dr. Ramsey holds it open for her. Steps out of the way. Gracious.

  He’s had all the time he needed to secure the upper hand. To acquire weapons. Call in reinforcements. Prepare.

  Options nil, Wanda moves blindly forward. As usual. Steps past him into the unknown. Once she’s inside, he lets go of the plastic. The wall reseals itself.

  Clink.

  On the catwalk above, something follows.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Roscoe Platt only really wakes up when the tube is inserted.

  As the rubber hose is forced down his throat, he surges back to life. Coughing. Gagging. His body rebelling. Fighting an invasion he’s powerless to stop.

  He’d begun to stir as his mouth was pried open. Eyelids fluttering as the mechanism slowly spread his jaws into an impossibly wide yawn. Swimming closer to consciousness with each turn of the crank. Alone, it hadn’t been enough to break through the sedation. For that, the indignity of intubation was required.

  Now, he bucks. Struggles. Scrapes his knuckles against rock as he lifts his arms. Reaching upwards to stop the hose. Banging fingers into unyielding metal at neck-height.

  “Be still!”

  A crack on the bridge of the nose stops his squirming. Not that it matters: His head and neck are firmly secured. Nearly motionless, despite the frantic efforts of the rest of him.

  Roscoe’s eyes water. His vision clouds. The world hazy until he blinks the tears away. Only then taking in his surroundings. Trying to make sense of
what he sees.

  His head is at floor level. Poking up into a dark cellar through an iron grate. Not much to see. A cell of some kind. Stonework walls. The mortar rough and crumbling between irregular rocks. A single bare bulb hangs from exposed floor joists overhead.

  “You steady?”

  The young nun kneeling by his head is not praying. Simply waiting for his attention. Watching. He looks her over. Surprisingly young for so deep a voice. A little curl of flame-orange hair peeking out from beneath her wimple.

  Once certain she has his focus, the nun holds up a coiling length of rubber tube. Leading from her hand, down his throat. “It’s going in, either way. May as well make it easy on yourself.”

  He gurgles. Squeals. A far more weak and ineffectual sound than the growl he’d been attempting. The best he can manage around the hose and whatever apparatus holds his mouth open.

  “Yeah? Good.” She continues. Pushes the tube into him. A half-inch at a time. He can feel it sliding through his core. Tries not to think about it.

  Instead, Roscoe reaches out his arms. Feels for the limits of the hole in which he stands: Rock walls close, both ahead and behind. Empty space on either side.

  Groping around, he discovers he’s been stripped. Naked, but for tight leather straps. A harness of some kind. Running up to the grate. Locking him to it. The only thing keeping him upright before he regained consciousness.

  “There. Not so bad, is it?” The nun holds the end of the hose above his head. Wiggles it at him. “Not comfortable, I’m sure. But nothing a big, strong man like you can’t handle.”

  She sits back on her haunches. Reaches into a crate. Removes the next piece.

  Roscoe doesn’t understand when he first sees it. His eyes widen as she screws it on to the hose’s threaded end: A large plastic funnel.