From Away - Series One, Book Five: a Serial Thriller of Arcane and Eldritch Horror: FROM AWAY, #5

By Deke Mackey Jr.

Something lurks in the black waters surrounding Mossley Island. An arcane and eldritch horror. For 50 years, it's waited. Fading into myth. Allowing those who fought off its last invasion to succumb to age. Now, with the island all but unprotected, this ancient evil prepares to mount one last attack.

SPOILER-ALERT! From Away is a continuing story told in serial format. It's strongly recommended you go no further, until you've read Books One through Four.

The fifth riveting installment of this serialized story finds Max and Sylvie on the run from monsters, Wanda being fed to gillies, and Grampy suffering a combination heart attack and stroke.

With the Hunters in custody, Netty discovers who's really pulling their strings, while dealing with the aftermath of the beach massacre and the Old Men's attempts to control the narrative.

Forced to make an unexpected return to Adderpool, Dawn uncovers more about her sordid family history, while far offshore, her father, Ren faces an impossible gauntlet in order to escape imprisonment in the Bell, only to learn that something far worse awaits him in the water.

Featuring creepy nuns with mysterious motives, a sinister cabal of strangely robust senior citizens, and a militia of lighthouse keepers watching the ocean in case unspeakable terrors rise from the depths, this eerie seven-part serial will draw readers in with atmospheric tension and surprising twists, and refuse to let go as it hurtles towards a startling cliffhanger conclusion sure to leave everyone desperate for the next gripping chapter.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Deke Mackey Jr.
• Release date: Mar 6, 2017
• ISBN: 9780994835987

Deke Mackey Jr.

Deke Mackey Jr. has spent most of his life sitting cross-legged in a corner. Rocking in place. Knocking his head against the wall. Quietly telling himself stories. Recently? He's been getting louder. Occasionally, he can be found making trouble at: dekemackeyjr.com

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

After the blackness, he returns.

Blood pumping again. Gasping for air. Chest pierced by the greatest pain he’s ever known. Which is saying something.

She’s there. The girl. What’s her name again? Kneeling next to him. Looking down. Hands braced against his chest. Paused mid-compression.

Grampy? Her name for him. His granddaughter. Some sweet, this girl. She bites her lip. Searches his face. Tears flowing freely. Can you talk to me?

Of course I can, ya stunned arse.

But no words come. Instead: A strangled moan. Drooling, to add to the indignity. What’s happening? He tries to roll to one side. To rise. Nothing works as it should. The left half of him doesn’t respond at all.

Don’t try to get up. It’s okay. Please. She drops her weight on him. Not amounting to much. Enough to hold him in place. Keep him from hurting himself. She’d saved him. This girl from away. Who’d entered their lives when all hope had departed. After Aaron...

He shudders. Remembering: His grandson is gone. And this girl... That’s when she’d arrived. Not a replacement. No consolation prize, just... More. More life when life seemed to have concluded.

She sits back on her haunches. Grabs a phone from the floor. Continues a conversation he hadn’t known was underway. He’s-- he’s awake. But he’s not saying anything. Like, he can’t. His mouth’s moving, but... She examines his face. Yeah, everything’s kind of drooping to one-- She sniffles. Nods. Okay, I’ll try. She leans forward. Grampy? Do you know where we are?

He sees the ceiling come into focus behind her: Wooden rafters. A bare hanging bulb. Surrounding them: Piles. Papers. Boxes. Merryweather’s various collections of ephemera. Of course he knows where they are: The attic. But what are they doing there?

He grimaces. She’d been searching through the past. Looking for something. From so long ago it shouldn’t matter anymore. But it does. What is it? What had she been looking for? He vaguely remembers a newspaper clipping. Not its significance.

More questions from the girl. Her words becoming fuzzy. Anything she wants, he wants her to have. But right now - whatever she’s asking - it’s simply beyond his ability to grant. As far from his grasp as her name.

Her face fills his vision, now. Reflecting a distant memory. Originating long before she existed. Back when that face had belonged to someone else, he’s sure of it. The fog hangs heavy in his mind, until a small flash clears it away: Light glinting on a silver charm. Hanging from a chain around the girl’s neck.

And all at once, the image comes to him: A face in a window. In a dying town. Her face. Still so pretty. So human, when everyone around her had changed. Become something... Other. And Michael had asked: Didn’t that mean she must be okay? That the plague had somehow passed her by? Shouldn’t we save her? Remove her from this wicked place?

No, he’d replied. It couldn’t be risked. Not without endangering the whole island.

Just like that: Sentencing her to share the fate of her town. That poor, innocent girl peering out her window. He’d hated himself for it. But not as much as he’d feared what had overtaken Adderpool.

And now, she’s returned. Here she is: Looking down at him in the form of his granddaughter. That same face... Absolutely identical. Skipping over decades to reappear. Wearing the same charm on the same chain.

His aching heart races. As it had when the revelation collapsed him in the first place. Dropping him to that very attic floor. When all at once, he’d realized: He’d lost a battle he hadn’t even known he was fighting. One set in motion a half-century earlier. When he’d believed the war was won. Thinking the enemy defeated, but in reality? They’d just gone into hiding. How many moves ahead had they planned in order to make this happen? How could anyone hope to fight an enemy who thought in terms of generations? What else had they been weaving while they’d appeared to be wiped out?

The girl is shouting now. At him. Into the phone. He doesn’t understand. Hasn’t the strength left to struggle. Maybe it’s for the best. He’d taken his shot. Done what he could. No small amount. He’d beaten back the enemy. Won the island an era of peace. And if that was now over?

The girl dissolves into darkness as he lets his eyes close. Content to never see another sunrise.

Ah! That’s her name: Dawn. His sweet granddaughter. Whose coming had renewed his hope. And quite possibly doomed them all.

CHAPTER TWO

Leaping over fallen comrades, Max drags Sylvie along the beach. Gripping her wrist tightly. Forcing her to run. Away from Roscoe and Burl. Her life-long friends. Their bodies now flopped ingloriously across one another. What remains of them.

On all sides, people drop as the worm creatures attack. Flailing as the things burrow into their bodies. Tear up their insides. Burst free from their ruined corpses in order to speed after their next target: Whoever is closest.

The lucky few who ran first are already out of reach. On the staircase. Racing up the cliff wall. Toward the lighthouse above. Banking on the worms’ inability to follow vertically. But given how quickly the creatures propel themselves with those thin whipping tails? It might not be surprising to see one take flight.

The man they call Fat Antoine is six steps up when he gets hit. Two of the two-foot long monsters tunnel into his backside. Shrieking, all three hundred and fifteen pounds goes down. Grabbing wildly at his rear. The thrashing bulk of him blocking the narrow steps. Cutting off the escape route entirely.

Shit! Max turns away from the staircase. Yanks Sylvie in a new direction. Aiming for the only other option: The boathouse.

Max! Norman stands in the doorway. Beckoning. Get yer starn in gear! They’re nearly upon ye!

Max beelines across the deep sand. Racing toward the weather-beaten building. All but throwing Sylvie ahead of him. Inside, he pivots. Slams the door shut. Throws himself against it for good measure. Jarred by smaller impacts as the worms collide with the other side. Scraping and scratching. Trying their darnedest to get in.

Panting, Max looks to the Electrician. Just how close were they?

Norman points to the floor. Y’can see it fer yerself, b’y.

There - in its last autonomic moments - it bites at the air: The first three inches of one of the creatures. Bisected by the door. Reduced to a ring of gnashing razor teeth on a short stem.

Max looks to Sylvie. These are new, right? Because no one ever said anything about--

They’re new. Sylvie watches the thing writhe. Then, moves away. To the window.

Outside: The sand is littered with bodies. Her friends. Co-workers. Roscoe. Burl. Even a few Old Men. At least eight victims she can make out clearly. It had seemed like more. She clenches her jaw. No time for feelings. Later, she’ll mourn. Hard and deep. For now: Danger remains imminent.

Behind Max, the door rattles. The creatures not giving up on getting in. He keeps his back against it. Legs braced. Looking to his fellow inmates: What do you see out there? More of those things?

No... Sylvie scans the beach. Waves lap the shore. Clouds cross the sky. Nothing else seems to be moving at all. Not that the worms’ pearlescent skin would stand out against the nearly white sands. Wait... The bodies...

Norman joins her. Squints out the window.

All across the beach, the corpses have begun to move. Chests expanding. Contracting. A ragged imitation of life. Almost like breathing at first. Becoming a fluttering vibration. Lard tunderin’. It’s like St. Vitus dance out there.

Max chokes at the thought. They’re not still alive, are they?

Sylvie shakes her head. It’s the worms. Moving inside them.

Norman tries to make sense of it. They took down whatever was movin’. ’Til there wasn’t anythin’ left. Now, the lil’ fockers’re finishin’ what meals they begun.

Sylvie tears herself away from the grisly sight. Is it all of them, you think?

Not quite. Max pats the door. We’ve got at least three party-crashers, here.

Other than those... She puzzles it through. Is this what they do? They don’t just attack and move on. They go back... Eat their fill, first?

Why? What’re ye thinkin’?

I’m thinking: This might be our last chance, before they spread across the island. Suddenly, Sylvie has decided. Fire. She crosses the boathouse. We’ve got flamethrowers in the arsenal, right? She turns on the radio. Lifts the receiver.

Norman catches her hand. Holds it in place. Stay the course, ducky. Those folks out there have families. How’re they gonna feel, havin’ naught left to bury?

Better than they will with those things eating their way through their intestines, I’d bet. She wrenches her hand away. Besides, what’ll be left when those things get done with ‘em? Already, we’re not looking at any open caskets out there, Norman.

The older man wants to argue. Can’t.

We’ve got to cut them off. Here and now. While there’s still a chance. She selects the tower frequency. Boathouse to Tower One. This is Sylvie, over. She turns back to Norman. Besides, we’re going to need a story for the gen-pop, aren’t we? Fire’s as good an explanation as any.

The pulser... Max is looking at the floor. Intense. Norman... Can we get it running?

The electrician looks to the mangled machine sitting open-faced on his worktable. Hard to say fer certain. Prob’ly. But why?

Because... At his feet, what’s left of their decapitated intruder has decomposed into wet jelly. Quickly liquifying. These worm things. It seems like they work like the fish things. He looks up. Smiling grimly. So maybe they’ll die like them, too.

CHAPTER THREE

As yet, neither have spoken.

In identical rooms. Enclosed by featureless brick walls.

He leans forward. Elbows on the metal table.

She leans back. Slumped against the metal chair

Each wears a disinterested expression. Both stare into space.

On their respective tables: Bottled waters - unopened. Power bars - uneaten. Blue ballpoint pens lain across fresh yellow pads - ignored. Despite requests, neither have written down any personal info. Nor their stories.

They simply wait.

~

Netty sips her coffee. Watches.

Closed-circuit feeds. Black and white monitors. One for each interrogation room. Mr. and Mrs. Hunter kept separate.

"Sure take the remaining silent seriously, don’t they?" Deputy Chartrain stands in the doorway.

That they do. Netty sighs. Empties her mug. Keep an eye a sec while I refuel.

Why? You expecting one of ‘em to break into song? Chartrain backs out. Allows Netty to exit before taking her place in the tight observation room. Closer quarters than either room being observed. One window, at least. Facing a narrow alley.

I just don’t want either napping. She heads across the hall. Into the breakroom. Aimed at the coffee machine. Barely needing to raise her voice to continue the conversation. They’re exhausted. And from what I can tell? Sleep deprivation may be all we’ve got to squeeze them with.

Thought you had ‘em dead to rights. Caught digging in a hole just like the ones our victims fell into. Oughtta be enough to book ‘em, I’d think.

Yeah, that was my feeling too. But I dunno... She pours. They came along awful easy. Like it was a minor irritation, but nothing to really worry about.

"Hmph. That is suspicious, but-- Chartrain stops. Hey, we’ve got movement, here."

Who? Netty abandons her coffee. Returns to the monitors.

Both, looks like.

The Hunters have each straightened. Pulled yellow pads close. Taken up pens. The little woman finishes first: A single line of block letters. Too small to read on camera. She pushes the pad away. Tosses down the ballpoint. Lays her head atop her forearms.

Mr. Hunter circles what he’s written. Crosses his arms. Looks into the camera.

You think you could, uh... Netty waves at the screens. They shouldn’t think I’m at their beck and call.

Right. Right. He stands. Does as requested. Though his former boss is no longer in any position to give orders. Wouldn’t want ‘em thinking they’re in charge... However true it might be.

He exits. Appearing on each monitor a few moments later. Collecting the first page from one yellow pad, then the other. Neither guest sparing him the slightest glance.

Returning, he lays the pages side-by-side in front of Netty. Distinguishable only by Mr. Hunter’s circle. The same ten digits written across each page.

Lawyer’s number, you think?

Seems likely. Netty drags a telephone closer.

You know the moment you call, the countdown starts.

Netty taps the bottom of one screen. Fingernail clicking against the embedded timecode spinning ever-forward. Already well underway, unfortunately. Netty dials the number. But we both know: These two aren’t giving up anything else.

Not without rubber hoses anyway.

Even then.

Two rings. A woman answers: Hello?

To whom am I speaking?

A pause, then: Customarily, the caller would be first to identify themselves.

Netty rolls her eyes. This is Deputy Antoinette Hubert calling from the Mossley Island Police Department. I was given this number by--

Ah. The Hunters. I’ll be down shortly, Deputy Hubert.

All right... Something familiar in the woman’s tone. Netty can’t quite place it. I appreciate that, Ms...

"Ha! Never have I been a ‘mizz’ and quite some time since I’ve qualified as a ‘miss’ I’m afraid. But I have to say, I’m surprised you don’t recognize my voice, Deputy."

Netty has heard it recently. Beyond that, memory fails her. Should I?

I suppose not. No reason I should spring immediately to mind. At any rate, I’m fairly certain my ego can survive the slight.

It clicks for Netty, just before the voice identifies itself. She mouths along, even as the woman speaks her own name: It’s Mother Agatha.

Mind racing, Netty is momentarily speechless. How is the old nun connected to the Hunters? Does their hole-digging have something to do with the Broken Girls?

I’ll be there as soon as I can, Deputy. A smile, plain in the woman’s timbre. I’m very much looking forward to speaking to you in person.

CHAPTER FOUR

Ever cruel, time slows. Showing Wanda her own final moments in brutal clarity:

Suspended over the tank. Bound by electrical tape. Straining against it. Pulling her legs up beneath her. Even as she’s lowered toward the surface. Knowing there’s no escaping the monsters leaping at her from below. Each propelled by long, sinewy tails. Needle-sharp teeth flashing. Fractions of one stretched second from biting down on her.

While above, on the platform - safe from the monsters:

Miss Philips grins. Malignant in her victory.

Gardner frets. Certain he’s next to become fish-food.

And Trevor... How her brother-in-law became part of the situation, Wanda cannot guess. He lies bound on the grated floor. Eyes bulging in shock. Entirely out of his element. Never before involved in anything remotely shady to the best of her knowledge. She almost wishes she could console the poor man somehow. It’ll be tough for him to watch her get eaten alive.

Probably not the crew she’d have chosen to see her off. But marginally better than going out alone.

Below: Jaws distend. Fangs flash. Wanda’s skin tenses in anticipation. The puncture-points predetermined: The first will clamp down on her right hip. The other will tear into her left knee. Both will thrash. Claw. Barrel-roll until they rip chunks of her away. Drop back into the water with their prizes. Gouts of her blood following after.

A foamy spray hits first. Thrown off by their flight. Speckling her skin. Icy cold. Wherever it lands, her flesh freezes. Frostbite burning across Wanda instantly. Sucking her into a timeless void.

~

System-shock. Wanda plunges into frigid blackness. All sense of self subsumed. Becoming fractional. Predicated on the existence of a far larger whole.

A wave of awareness radiates. Echoes return. Confirming the presence of a matrix of selves. None separate. Truly connected. She is a single node in a vast network, but no less significant for it. Depended upon, as much as she is dependent.

As she reaches out, the entirety of selves reach back. Questioning throbs press against her flesh. Who is she? Is she other? Or part of the whole? Their whole?

I’m you!

Her proclamation reverberates. Reflects. Bouncing from one entity to another. Amplified by silent voices, replying: I’m you! I am you! You’re us! We are. We are. We are.

She is recognized. Accepted. Embraced.

Entire.

~

Jaws clamp tight. Close prematurely. Biting into air.

The creatures yank away from Wanda. Leaving her untouched. Unharmed. Instead, they fall back into the tank. Unsated.

Without fully understanding, she knows why: Somehow, they recognized her. Saw her as one of their own. They would no more choose to tear into her than they would one another. She looks up to the platform.

The confusion on Miss Philips’s face is thoroughly satisfying. The old woman utterly galled that her would-be victim remains intact. She addresses Gardner without shifting her eyes from the water. Have you ever--

Never. He is equally flummoxed. Gillies don’t turn down meals.

I guess I should’ve warned you... Wanda shouts. Strictly speaking, I’m not halal.

Miss Philips ignores her. Steps behind the control panel. Seizes the levers. Lowers Wanda toward the water.

Oh, come on! Wanda squirms as she swings. Beneath her, the gillies circle. Agitated. But ultimately: Refusing to take the bait.

Don’t you see? They don’t want her! Trevor rolls to one side. Maybe they’re not hungry.

Miss Philips shakes her head. They’re always hungry.

Might could have a scent on ‘er... Gardner limps back from the refrigerators. Hands Miss Philips a fresh package of fish waste. More o’ this might do to cover it over.

Yes! Miss Philips tears open the plastic. Reaches over the rail. Pours out blood and fish bits. Mostly into the water.

Make sure ye’re gettin’ it on ‘er.

You’ll leave me to it, if you know what’s best for you, Young Man. She moves to the gap in the railing. Where she’d first swung Wanda’s bound form away from the platform. Holding tight, she leans out. Dumps the stuff. Bullseye: Wanda is splattered with gore. If that doesn’t excite the creatures, she can’t guess what will.

As she shakes out the last drops, however, Gardner leaps forward. Raps the old woman’s white knuckles with the handle of his cane. Shoves himself into her spine with all his might.

Miss Philips screams as she falls through the gap. Flailing madly. Miraculously, she manages to grab hold of Wanda’s hips. Catching herself inches from the surface. Sending them both swinging wildly at the end of the cable.

Hey! Wanda bucks. Tries to slip her. Find your own hook to hang from!

The spectacle is all too tantalizing.

Without compunction, the first creature springs toward this dangling treat. Tries for the old woman’s torso. Misjudges its timing. Barely catches hold of her right calf. Jaws snapping shut. Crunching through tibia and fibula. It falls back into the tank with only Miss Philips’s foot and shreds of her ankle as its prize.

She howls in pain and terror. Tightens her grip on Wanda. Holding fast as the second monster latches onto her ribcage. Its tails thrashing. Body twisting. Claws raking across her abdomen. Cutting deep. Spilling the old woman’s guts from her belly. Unravelling her.

The wiggling loops of intestine make for an intriguing lure. The first gilly leaps forth again. Biting into the innards. Snipping through them easily.

Gibbering, Miss Philips looks up at Wanda. Needing her sympathy. Some small measure of solace. Finding neither. Only ice coming from the woman she’d so frequently mistreated.

Give it up, Phil. You’re done for.

The old woman’s eyes flutter. Her face goes slack. Clutch loosening, she slides off Wanda’s hips. Splashes gracelessly into the tank. An instant frenzy turns the water red. Impenetrable. Thankfully.

Above, Gardner forces himself to watch every moment. The least he can do: Pay witness to her end. Given he caused it.

Trevor’s eyes are shut to the horror. Having observed far too much of the gory spectacle before realizing he could turn away. Now watching it replay inside his lids. Inescapable.

As the water stills, Wanda tilts her head back. Looks up to the platform. To her apparent allies. Hey, uh... Somebody want to maybe reel me back in?

CHAPTER FIVE

Sixteen years old. His first week on the Watch. The boy sat rigid at the monitors. Unblinking. Determined to make a good showing.

A clank on the stairs behind him. Someone climbing into the crow’s nest. But the boy wouldn’t look. Refusing to allow himself to be sidetracked. Intent on the job at hand. Despite temptation, he didn’t even peek over his shoulder as the woman returned.

Back from her break, Libby took off her jacket. Shook it out. Okay, kid. You wanna hit the head, stretch your legs or whatever... Now’s the time.

I’m good. Hard at work. Staring at the screens. Nothing was getting past him.

Libby hung her jacket over the back of her chair. Smirking. Twenty years his senior. Ten spent in this very lighthouse. When he’d joined her earlier that week, the boy had become her sixth partner.

Grunting, she dropped into her seat. So, hey...

The boy maintained his concentration. Focused on the monitors. What?

She rolled her chair closer. Bumped his. Hey.

Still, the boy wouldn’t look over. What is it? He knew what she wanted. For two days, she’d been singing the praises of backgammon. Trying to convince him to play. She’d had a running tournament with her previous partner. Hoped to continue the tradition. But even if he’d known the rules, he wasn’t there for fun and games. Libby’s former associate may not have cared about protecting the island, but he was there to do a job, and intended to take it seriously.

She leaned in. Mouth inches from his ear. Hey.

What?! Irritated. Why did she insist on distracting him?

Kid. I need you to look at me.

Under duress, he gave her the most fleeting glance he could manage. Time enough to reacquaint himself with only the broadest strokes describing the woman he planned to sit next to every shift for the foreseeable future. Plain. Sturdy. Didn’t bother with makeup, but neither was she dirty or unkempt. Her eyes were clear. Steady. Deeply intelligent. Initially, he’d expected to learn a lot from her. So far, that was turning out to be a flawed inference. What do you want, Libby?

You know... You’re really not leaving me much of a choice. She sat back. Put her pinky finger in her mouth. Sucked on it.

Just tell me what you--

Mid-sentence, Libby jammed her saliva-soaked finger into the boy’s ear.

Gah! He leapt to his feet. Scrubbing madly at the side of his head. Gross!

I know! She laughed. Peeked at her finger briefly before wiping it against her pantleg. You, my friend, should probably invest in some cotton swabs.

Finally torn away from the monitors, the boy turned his frustration fully on the woman: What the hell is wrong with you? Why are you sabotaging me? Aren’t we supposed to be partners?

Ah! Partners! That’s the question, isn’t it? She crossed her arms. "So you tell me: Why do you think they always have two of us installed up here?"

He stared at her in disgust. Wasn’t it obvious? For a second set of eyes. Just in case one guy misses--

EHHH! She buzzes. Wrong-o!

No, it’s--

Why would your dad assign you to me, kid? What would you guess he’d hope would come of such a pairing?

Maybe he’s sick of you slacking off? Playing backgammon instead of doing your job?

This stopped her. Slapped the smile from her face. When she spoke again, her voice was quiet. Her words, measured. Surely you know your father better than that. If he was unhappy with someone’s job performance, there’d be no pussyfooting around. They’d be right and truly shit-canned with little-to-no warning.

The boy blinked. This did indeed ring more true than his own answer.

So, possibly? Libby continued. Maybe the actual reason might be: He expected you to benefit from my many years of experience.

The boy rubbed absently at his violated ear. Yeah, okay.

"Yeah.