From Away - Series One, Book Six: a Serial Thriller of Arcane and Eldritch Horror: FROM AWAY, #6

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 Five.

In the penultimate installment of this serialized story, the Hunters seek revenge against those who abruptly terminated their search for the island's buried treasure, while Wanda narrowly evades capture after she and Netty discover a blood-soaked Trevor at the scene of the Dunroamin Trailer Park Massacre, unable to recall how he got there.

Recovering from his near-fatal underwater ordeal – while grappling with revelations about the truth of island history which he had assumed to be mere legend – Ren resolves to ensure his daughter's safety by forcing her to return the mainland. Determined to stay and desperate for sanctuary, Dawn seeks out the help of the sisters of St. Neot's, even as they prepare for a move of their own.

Despite her stubborn stand against the Old Men's unjustifiable demands, Sylvie is pressured into leading a foolhardy expedition through treacherous waters in search of a fresh specimen, while the rapidly deteriorating senior citizens attempt to secure a new and unproven cure for what ails them. One which may well prove to be their undoing.

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: Feb 28, 2019
• ISBN: 9780994835994

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

"Blameless!"

From atop the stone platform, Mother Agatha addresses her congregation. Lit by dancing torchlight, with little help from moon or stars, the nuns watch expectantly. Gathered in St. Neot’s central courtyard to bear witness. Every one anticipating a miracle. Looking to their prioress to provide.

Our sister Grace is blameless. What she has suffered... No one deserves. Lain out before her on a flat stone tablet, Sister Grace is nude. Her thin body broken. Flesh mottled purple with bruises. Involuntarily quaking with small spasms.

She has - at every opportunity - put our Sisterhood first. Accepting what is required without hesitation. For our sake, she’s been abused. Beaten. Her neck has been broken, but her will? Despite ruthless interrogation at the hands of our enemy... Her will has not. Reaching down, Mother Agatha places a consoling hand on the woman’s forehead. Smoothes back the flames of her red hair. And so, on this most auspicious of days - as our final act before leaving St. Neot’s - we demonstrate our respect and gratitude by restoring our sister, and making her whole once again.

At the very suggestion, the other nuns respond with enthusiastic applause and shouts of encouragement. On the convent walls, their shadows caper at the whim of flickering torchlight. Every movement grotesquely exaggerated. Caricatured in counterpoint to the holy task at hand.

Sister Grace... Mother Agatha continues. The trauma you’ve undergone on our behalf will neither be forgotten nor forgiven. It is our duty, then, to ensure your pain is alleviated. That your body is restored. That your mind is eased. And also... A shadow crosses Mother Agatha’s countenance. That a truly disproportionate vengeance is wrought upon our enemies for what they have dared inflict on you. Mother Agatha’s last few words are drowned out by cheers and howls as angry nuns explode into bloodthirsty pandemonium.

But first and foremost... The crowd calms as Mother Agatha motions forward a trio of young nuns. Each carrying an earthenware urn at waist height. The nearest offers hers to the elder nun. With great reverence, Mother Agatha receives this gift and holds it out toward her audience

Every woman in attendance has witnessed this rite in the past. In fact, they’ve each experienced it themselves. Even so, what they’ve come to observe remains an impossibility. An abridging of immutable natural law with no rational explanation. As such, the sisters cannot help but view the phenomenon as a confirmation of all they hold to be true. Justifying their belief. Their service and sacrifice. A complete vindication of their faith.

I hold in my hands your restoration, Sister Grace. Do you believe we can once again bring an end to your torment?

Y-yes... Her weak voice carries across the quiet courtyard. I believe it.

Mother Agatha holds the urn aloft. Tips it toward her crippled follower. "Your faith is strong. So, then, shall you be, when--"

STOP!

Before the echo of the demand dies out, all heads have turned to the rear of the courtyard. All eyes have found the cause.

Paula? Frozen at the apex of the ceremony, Mother Agatha is torn between anger at the interruption and patience for the unpredictable ways of her most gifted congregant. Grace is in a lot of pain. Can’t this wait until--

No! Paula shakes her head. She has to see it. If she doesn’t, she.... Well, she just has to! Paula starts forward. Pushing through the tightly packed crowd. No one goes out of their way to ease her progress toward the altar. If anything, they block her path. Grumbling over their newest recruit’s boundless impertinence:

"What is wrong with her?"

Doesn’t she get enough attention as it is?

Mother Agatha looks down at Sister Grace. Heart aching for her injured lieutenant. The woman licks dry lips. Speaks in a faint voice somehow audible above the murmurations of the crowd: I can hold on. Please... Hear her out.

Much to the crowd’s consternation, Mother Agatha lowers the urn without delivering its contents.

But she doesn’t know what she’s saying!

She’s delirious from the pain!

Hush! Mother Agatha snaps her fingers. You heard Sister Grace. Make way. At her insistence, the gathering separates to either side, leaving a clear central aisle for Paula to travel. Mother Agatha watches her approach. You know how much trust I place in you, Paula. In your work. But if this isn’t--

"It is. None of this can happen. Not right now. Not without her. She has to be here to see it."

Before she can be questioned further, Paula pulls a thick black crayon from the pocket of her sweater-vest. Closing her eyes, she presses its tip to a flat upright plane on the rock formation jutting into the courtyard. Held there, she wills it to move. Attempting to force the trance state in which her drawings come. Similar efforts have only ever failed in the past, but after a moment, the crayon relents. Almost of its own volition, it slides across the cold surface, leaving a black trail in its wake.

Initially, Paula’s drawing is small. Difficult for spectators to make out beyond the first few rows. Strangely, the image is of the courtyard itself: A stick-figure Mother Agatha holding out an urn with both hands. Below her, a second figure, laying deformed and prone on a stone table. Any doubt to this character’s identity is removed when Paula switches to a red crayon in order to draw the hair.

Breathing hard, Paula stops. Leaning against the rock.

Mother Agatha frowns. But that’s right now, isn’t it?

In answer, Paula’s black crayon jumps into action once more. She frames the image within a large window pane. On the near side of the window, looking down on the courtyard scene, she draws a girl. A girl whose curls require a canary yellow crayon to complete.

That’s... It’s Dawn, isn’t it?

Up there! Without turning, or even opening her eyes, Paula points toward the wall of windows overlooking the courtyard. All of them are empty. Every room dark. She has to be there. To see it happen. It can’t go on otherwise. Not without her here as witness.

As best her aging knees can manage, Mother Agatha crouches down. Are you sure, Paula? Because Sister Grace isn’t... She’s not doing well. If we don’t act now, she may not--

Crack! Most onlookers jump as Paula slaps her palm against the rock. Scattering her crayons. Still pressing down, she draws her fingers in. Clawing the unyielding surface. Bending her fingernails until they split. The tiny brittle cracklings causing more discomfort in the crowd than Paula’s slap could possibly have managed.

Paula, no! Dismayed, Mother Agatha waves at her unseeing oracle, now drawing over her diagram with blood flowing freely from badly damaged nail beds. Somebody, stop her, now!

She. HAS. To be. HERE! Accenting each word, Paula draws wide red circles around the yellow curls. Unaware of the pain. Even as her nearest sisters pull her away from the rock, she continues drawing circles in the air. She HAS to!

I can wait! Grace shrieks. Her voice a rusty hinge. Please! Tell her! Tell Paula I’ll hold out until Dawn comes, if I need to. I’ll do... Whatever it takes!

CHAPTER TWO

With no answer forthcoming, Netty stops knocking. She stands back from the trailer steps. Breathes. Centers herself. Doing her best not to focus on the thin lines of blood leaking out from the crack at the base of the door. Try as she might, she can’t help but hear the disguised voice of the anonymous caller who sent her to Dunroamin Trailer Park: "Look in on Lot 32. Right away... Before they go bad."

She reaches out. Places her hand on the handle. Before she can turn it, an oven mitt drops over her wrist. It’s Wanda. Still at her side. Whispering in Netty’s ear: Just be sure you’re sure.

I’m sure.

You’re not a cop anymore, Netty. You don’t have to be who does this.

Somebody does. And I’m who got the call. This much is plain: She’s not changing her mind.

Gah! You’re so goddamn stubborn. Wanda lifts her disguised hand away. Backs off slightly, allowing Netty room to operate.

The handle turns easily. The door swings open. Blood pours out. Gallons of it. Coming down the steps in gloppy plops. Netty leaps back. Avoiding the spatter. Just as a wave of charnel stench hits her. Ungodly foul. She recoils further. Unprepared for its severity. Before they go bad, the anonymous voice repeats. Maybe the call should’ve come sooner.

Covering her mouth and nose, she peers through the doorway. Good Lord... Just inside: Body parts are piled. Heads and hands. Guts. Everything red. Coated in blood. What... What went on here?

Keeping her distance, Wanda’s expression is one of utter disgust and horror. Her shrug says: How the hell should I know?

~

Wanda does know what went on in the trailer. Staring goggle-eyed through the doorway, she pretends it’s her first glimpse of what’s inside, but in reality, that’s far from true. She was there when it happened, and though her memories of the incident are less than clear, she remembers enough to know the answer to the single most important question posed: Who is responsible for the depraved acts perpetrated within?

Wanda is.

But she cannot say so. Not ever. So instead, she shrugs. This, apparently, is good enough for Netty.

You know what? Netty nods to herself. Agreeing with the results of some internal discussion, now concluded. I was wrong. I can’t handle this. We need to call the cops.

Oh, of course! Now that she and Wanda have discovered the crime scene with nothing but a sketchy anonymous call to explain their presence. Now that they’ve connected themselves to the massacre. By all means: Call the corrupt sheriff who already has a chip on his shoulder against both women and would love the chance to nail something on either.

Seeing Netty’s phone come out, Wanda struggles to craft an argument against the call which doesn’t directly contradict her previous we-should-call-the-police stance. She only manages Look. Maybe we’re not-- when they hear it: A chuckle. Coming from within.

Both women jump as peals of hysteria escape the double-wide trailer. Netty, because she hadn’t suspected there could be anyone alive inside. Wanda, because she had been certain there wasn’t.

Could someone have survived? It didn’t seem likely, but it was certainly possible. Wanda had not been herself. Utterly out of control. Barely aware of the nightmare she was creating. Even now, her memory consists only of fuzzy flashes: Arriving at the trailer to confront Delia. Getting grabbed from behind by assorted junkies and dealers. Being held in place while they forced her old addiction on her. Pouring goo on her bare flesh. Initiating the reaction which led to their own brutal murders.

All right. Good enough. Netty grabs Wanda’s arm. Moves her away from the open trailer door. "Even if I was still a cop, this is the part where I’d be calling for backup. No way am I going into that bullshit unarmed and unprotected."

Sighing, Wanda resigns herself to the facts: The police will soon be involved. She will almost certainly be implicated. Unless... Netty holds out her phone. Having trouble with reception.

Yeah, uh... Service can be spotty out here. You might want to... Head thataway. I can usually find bars around Lot 29. Wanda points Netty away from the trailer. Netty nods. Follows her phone. Behind them, the maniacal laughing continues.

A survivor. A potential witness. Someone who can put Wanda there. Who might identify her as the culprit. She can’t allow that to happen.

Checking once more that Netty remains turned away - focused on her call - Wanda slips back to the trailer. Climbs the bloody steps. Moving toward the laughter.

CHAPTER THREE

"No, no... Please... You don’t have to do this! Dragged by a leash of coarse twine across slick, moss-covered rocks to the very brink of a black chasm, Dawn leans away. Pitting the full weight of her tiny body against the  cord binding her wrists. I know I lied... But I was afraid of what you’d do when you learned the truth. I knew it would only break your heart!"

Dawn’s sobs are quickly eaten by the icy mist surrounding the rocky peninsula. If her voice reaches the tiny slit ears of the mutated man on the far side of the hole, he gives no indication. Instead, he continues to reel in the twine. Gripping it tightly with stubby webbed fingers. Pulling Dawn toward her doom. His own immense weight more than a match for hers.

Stirred by the cold sea winds, his black rags flutter. Stringy white hair whips above slack features which appear to have slid away from their naturally assigned positions. His milky eyes meet Dawn’s across the gap. Offering no mercy. Only wrath.

She’d allowed him to believe she was his prodigal daughter, returned to him after fifty years. She’d taken advantage of the assumption to press for secrets. Stealing his stories under the guise of her own grandmother, the precious lost child she so closely resembles.

Whatever happens now, Dawn knows: She’s brought it on herself.

Tilting away from the lip, she wedges her heels against a root of thick black ivy. Crawling forth from the hole itself, it is the last solid thing between her and the void. Where the twine bites into her wrists, the flesh rubs raw. Blood runs down over her fingers. The red cost of her resistance.

I know I’m not her! Madeline’s gone and... I could never replace her. But you don’t have to be alone. We’re still family.

His dull eyes flash. The first sign he’s heard her words at all. Not my daughter, his wet voice gargles. Not my granddaughter. What are you to me? Nothing. Groaning with the effort, the mutated man’s final pull is mighty. Enough to stand Dawn upright. Enough to tip her forward.

No. No! NO! No longer seeking forgiveness, Dawn demands obeisance in a deep, raw tone she could never have guessed might be produced by her own vocal chords: You will STOP!

Shockingly... He does. His relentless pull ceases.

Barely maintaining her balance, Dawn teeters on the edge. In her captor’s face, she finds confusion. Frustration. His lips flapping in empty protest against his own inaction. Clearly, he had no intention to follow her command. Doesn’t understand why has. Why he can’t break free.

Body aching from continuous strain, Dawn can maintain her precarious pose no longer. In speaking, she dares to risk breaking the spell. Let me-- is all she manages.

FOOM! A white flash blinds her. A ripple of pressurized air pounds by like a solid thing. She can feel its searing heat passing, not quite close enough to burn.

Less fortunate, her mutant great-grandfather looks down at himself. Blinking in disbelief as a large, off-center circle of his torso liquifies and pours out of place. Splattering the rocks at his feet. Leaving white rib-ends and halved organs clearly visible in the moment before his upper half collapses onto the lower. Knees buckling, he drops in a wet heap at the edge of the Maw.

Dawn?

The muffled voice draws her focus beyond her great-grandfather’s gory remains. To a far smaller figure. Features slightly warped behind a full-face scuba mask. One fist extended. Wearing a glove with a black box mounted behind the knuckles.

Max?!

~

His outthrust fist quakes. The LED blinks red. Pulser recharging. Readying for another blast. Max lowers his arm. One shot had been more than enough. Instantly subtracting a significant portion of the mutated man threatening Dawn. The one with whom she’d willingly departed, despite Max’s anxious protestations.

He’d come on the hunch she was wrong. Assuming the creature’s intentions were less than kind. Bearing unproven firepower which would only work on one of them. An experimental portable pulser system requiring a test subject. One whose treatment of Dawn would decide his fate.

It was pure luck Max found them. While wandering through Adderpool, without any clue how to track her down. Happening to spot the creature headed for the waterfront, with Dawn thrown limply over one shoulder. Unconcerned, in the toxic atmosphere of the long-empty village, that he might be followed.

Max pursued discreetly. Pulsers held at his sides. For all he knew, the monster had been carrying Dawn to safety after some unknown factor rendered her unconscious. Without more information, Max couldn’t fire on the man. Not without being sure.

He was trailing far behind when they reached the rocky peninsula. Losing track completely while attempting to negotiate the slick, moss-covered stone. Tripping over black ivy. Falling on his ass more than once. Smeared with grungy filth by the time he caught sight of the monster, standing across a black pit from Dawn, intent on dragging her to certain doom.

Still, Max had hesitated as Dawn tried to reason with the creature. He pointed his pulsers, but the idea of firing on an unsuspecting foe - however monstrous - seemed so cowardly. Only at the last moment had Max managed it. Only when Dawn’s peril made it impossible for him to do nothing.

Nevertheless, the results of the blast were horrifying. Triggering the pulser in Norman’s garage hadn’t made much of an impact beyond irritating Sue. Witnessing a chunk torn out of a person in gloppy chunks, on the other hand? That was something else entirely.

Max? Having circled the pit, Dawn looks at him with concern. What did you--

Are you okay? He talks over her, but suddenly, he must know.

Basically, but... You killed him. It’s almost a question.

He was about to pull you in. I had no choice.

I know! Dawn’s eyes glisten. Filling with tears. You asshole!

Max is taken aback. Then realizes: Her rage is aimed not at him, but at what’s left of the creature.

"I’m your family! Why’d you have to do that?! Dawn unleashes a mighty kick at the pile of monster. Knocks his upper half over the edge, into the pit. Shit. Her temper fades. I didn’t mean--"

Twang! The twine around her wrists pulls taut. Drawn into the pit by the dead weight of the monster holding it. Before Max fully grasps what’s happening, Dawn is yanked over the edge and out of sight.

CHAPTER FOUR

The first words Ren hears are: So? How didja die?

They are spoken by the first face he sees: A gummily smiling senior citizen. Looming above him. Leaning in the passenger side window of the pick-up truck. Her fine white hair a halo of cloud against the early morning sky.

How did I die? Ren has to think about this one. I-- I didn’t. I don’t think. As shitty as he feels, he may well have. Bone tired. Every muscle rubbery from exertion. Not that I remember, anyway.

No? She’s disappointed. Most people do, who come here... I did.

Uh-huh... Ren blinks. Rubs the stiff crust from his eyes. My condolences, I guess.

Had one of my spells. Took one of my spills. Woke up here, with alla them saying I’d earned my rest. Wouldn’t have to worry about keeping house no more. This here’s my reward for a hard life fulla toil. She waves a knobby hand at whatever lies behind her. Unenthused by her appointed afterlife. It figures this would be the best I could muster.

Ren groans. Struggles to sit up. Everything aching as he fights the seatbelt holding him back against the partially reclined seat. Finally managing to brace himself on one elbow, he peers out at a world he’s been absent from for too long. Where is it we’ve ended up, anyway?

Stricken, the old woman pouts. You... You don’t think it’s heaven?

Heaven? He squints past her. Through a gang of elderly gentlemen in plaid housecoats, leaning on canes and walkers in front of the Elysian Convalescent Home. Sighing, Ren shakes his head. No. I don’t think it’s heaven. Not hardly.

~

Butt-first, Sylvie pushes the glass door open. Battling a still-collapsed wheelchair, she backs her way out of the Home. Pivoting the thing awkwardly, she turns. Follows it down the ramp. Over to the curb where she parked her truck.

Hey! Sylvie’s shout registers with only a few of the elderly standing around. Those with hearing aids turned on. You get away from there!

The housecoated old woman extracts herself from Sylvie’s passenger window. Indignant, she backs away. You shouldn’t’ve brought him here... He don’t belong, you know? Didn’t even die, he doesn’t think.

He’s no concern of yours. Slowing the chair to a stop at the sidewalk’s edge, Sylvie steps down the brake pedal. Now go on. Git!

Muttering to herself, the old woman shuffles off to a safe distance, but no further. Hands on hips, she glares back at Sylvie. Daring her to try to roust her again. Ignoring the challenge, Sylvie turns her attention to her truck. Looks in the window. Finds her brother looking back. Oh. You’re up. Now that he’s awake, she’s not quite sure how to deal with him. Her plan was predicated on his continued unconsciousness. How’re you feeling?

Not dead, yet. He reaches down next to the door. Pulls the seat release. Accepts its spring-loaded help lifting him upright. Closer than I’d like, though.

Who among us can’t say that? Sylvie opens the car door.

He catches it halfway. Holds tight. The Home, Sylvie? I only just escaped a trap laid for me by the Old Men. Is there something I should know about why you’ve brought me straight back to them?

She hadn’t thought about how it might look, but of course he’d be suspicious. This is where he’d been sentenced to the underwater punishment he’d only barely survived. Little wonder he’s not thrilled to find himself there once more. Oh, no, no. You just needed--

If you’re still in their pocket, you--

She yanks the door from his grasp. Irritated by the implication. Moreso that it might be warranted. Swallowing her anger, she stands to one side. Shows him the wheelchair. It has medical facilities and was closer than the hospital. After what you went through? You need to be looked at by a doctor.

What I need, is to get back to my daughter. I vanished yesterday. As far as Dawn knows, I could be gone forever. Shit, she must be terrified.

Sylvie nods. Reaches into the half-seat behind him. Produces a bundle of clothes. His own. Taken when his sentence was passed. Atop the pile: Wallet. Keys. Cellphone. Go ahead. Let her know you’re okay. But you’re not going anywhere until a professional says so, too.

With quaking hands, Ren tries the phone. It blinks on briefly, then goes black. No charge. Naturally.

It’ll have to wait, then. Come on. She unfolds the wheelchair. Pats the seat. Hop in.

Ren slides his aching legs out of the car. Too exhausted to argue. Just tell me this one thing, Sylvie: Did you know? About the canister?

Sylvie is confused. What canister?

He scrutinizes her expression. Debating. Okay, fine. Gripping the roof of the truck for support, he starts to climb out.

No. Sylvie stops him. What canister?

Ren settles back into the seat. The tank waiting at the third diving bell. It was empty.

Sylvie frowns. That makes no sense. How could you even survive without-- Before he can answer, she cuts him off with a sharp punch to the shoulder. Actually, screw that! Her volume increase doesn’t seem to draw unwanted attention from senior citizens on the stroll, but Sylvie leans in closer anyway. Whispers: "Your diving suit. The depth gauge. First, you explain that shit to me. You fucking exploded!"

"The suit exploded. It was empty. He points down at himself. Still wearing his replacement wetsuit. I had spares. Socked ‘em away, back in the day. Just in case."

Back in the day? You’re saying: Back in the quarter-century-ago day... You hid spare diving suits, just in case you ever--

"The point is not that I had a solution, Sylvie. It’s that I needed one. The canister they left for me at Bell Three was empty."

Sylvie searches for an explanation beyond the obvious. Must’ve been some mistake. Maybe you--

No mistake. Rutherford recorded a new video. Just to stick it to me... She said I made too much trouble. Because I kept reminding the mainland that Mossley Island’s still out here. She saw an easy chance to deal me out, and grabbed at it. Ren stretches his legs to the sidewalk. Testing. It wasn’t their first try, either.

To what? Kill you?

Sure. They’d already tried crushing me. Oh, and setting me on fire. He pulls off his diving gloves. Holds out his hands, palms-up. Beneath the tattered remains of his bandages, the flesh is still raw and peeling.

"And we helped. A blackness settles over Sylvie. She’d personally - and happily - delivered her brother to the Old Men. After all, he’d broken the Circle. Admitted to it. He had to face the consequences, didn’t he? But they’d taken advantage. Used the opportunity to try to eliminate an enemy. Her own flesh and blood. We handed you to them."

You are not the problem. You only did what you--

Sylvie walks away. Rounds the back of her truck. Reaches into the open bed. Slides a large toolbox closer. Throws it open.

On unsteady legs, Ren climbs out. Sylvie? What are you--

Since we’re here anyway... She pulls out a thick crowbar. Tests its heft. We should probably go have a little chat.

CHAPTER FIVE

"Took the liberty. Packed up your shit for you. You don’t mind."

The Hunters’ bags have been moved from the bedroom. Helpfully piled by the cabin door. It’s the first thing the big man and little woman noticed upon entering. Now, they look past their luggage. At their uninvited guest: Balding, with a well-lined face. Just sitting there. Relaxing on the loveseat. Feet up on the coffee table. Mossberg pump-action shotgun held across his lap. Like he owns the place.

Here’s what’s what: Your reason for being on Mossley Island has evaporated. Your welcome has officially expired. Brow cocked in smug self-satisfaction, he reaches into a shirt pocket. Pulls out a ticket. Tosses it onto the coffee table. One-way to the mainland. Good for any ferry running today. No rush. Compliments of the Society of Maritime Treasure Hunters.

Husband and wife look at the boarding pass. Neither moves to take it.

No one need ever know what happened here. Your failure? It’ll stay our secret. Go back to your little university. Teach your little classes. Rest on your laurels. And forget about Pike’s treasure. Just you put Mossley Island out of your minds altogether. Otherwise, we--

Snarling, Treasure charges the intruder. Murder in her eyes. Eager to show him the error of his ways.

Shocked that the mere presence of a weapon isn’t enough to dissuade attack, Théo scrambles backwards. Fumbling to turn the shotgun toward the woman. Lifting the barrel only halfway before she’s on top of him. Wrenching the gun from his grip. Tossing it across the room. Apparently defenseless, he is barely able to block her pounding fists. Or her slashing fingernails as they dig furrows across the flesh of his forearms.

Flailing under the little woman’s furious assault, he kicks out with his prosthetic leg. Fending her off with a solid wooden foot to the chest. Gaining just enough space to escape. Tumbling over the arm of the loveseat. Onto the floor. Combat-crawling away as quickly as he can manage.

But Treasure is far from finished. Already, she’s on him. Catching hold of his ersatz ankle. Planting her own foot deep in his asscheek, she pulls. Hearing the velcro tearing as she rips the artificial limb free from his stump.

Scowling back at the woman - as much from the affront as the pain she’s inflicted - he finds her brandishing her prize. Raising it like a club. About to bring his own wooden leg down on his head.

CHAPTER SIX

With his fully functional hand, Martin closes the binder. With his weak and entirely uncooperative hand, he pushes it away. Sick of the very sight. Laying back against the flat hospital pillows, he shuts his eyes.

Even now, the simple, colorful images continue to buzz through his mind. Everyday objects. Straightforward concepts. Pictures with clear and obvious meanings. Intended to provide a kind of hunt-and-peck voice to those - like himself since the combination heart attack and stroke - who have abruptly lost the ability to speak. Very helpful. Unless the information one needs to communicate is substantially more complex.

This is the situation in which Martin finds himself.

Because what Martin needs to say is: My granddaughter is unknowingly a descendant of the monstrous fish people of Adderpool whom we tried to force off the island decades ago, but ended up all but wiping out in our efforts to keep the island and its inhabitants safe.

What he can say is:

SUNRISE = FISH GIRL

What Martin needs to say is: The sisters of St. Neot’s Coptic Convent have been engaged in an elaborate, long-gestating plan which required them to convince my son to leave for the mainland, where he was somehow manipulated into marrying a particular woman, with whom he produced an offspring, who was to return to the island at a particular point in time in order to be sacrificed for reasons entirely beyond his ken.

What he can say is:

CROSS PENGUINS = FROWNY FACE

QUEEN CROSS PENGUIN POISON KNIFE SUNRISE

What Martin needs to say is: For the love of all that’s holy, get Dawn off the island and as far away as possible before the malicious nuns can use her to enact their evil plan. Whatever they have in store for us is almost certainly worse than what we fought off fifty years ago, and you’re our only hope to stop it.

What he can say is:

SUNRISE BOAT VACATION

FIGHT CROSS PENGUINS TODAY

Martin groans. Cursed with knowledge he is utterly unable to pass along. When he opens his mouth, gobbledy-nonsense pours out. When he puts pen to paper, nothing he writes amounts to more than hen-scratch. What he does have is a binder full of stock photos and poorly drawn cartoons.

It doesn’t matter how hard he works at it. He can prepare day and night. Go through the binder another thousand times. There’s simply no way he’ll be able to put across the necessary information without using language. His granddaughter is in danger. Her continued presence on the island endangers everyone else. And there’s apparently nothing he can do about it, but watch.

Hey. The voice is soft, but Martin jumps anyway. The binder slides from his lap. Into the space between mattress and guard rail. The hand he orders to grab it moves a few inches without enthusiasm, before giving up.

Shoot! Sorry ‘bout that, Mr. Lesguettes. Lemme get it for you. The young orderly leans over the bars. Reaches down. Snags the binder with one hooked finger. What was his name? Martin can’t remember. Can’t quite make out the text on the name tag pinned to his wrinkled scrubs.

Didn’t mean to startle ya, there. Just wanted to letcha know your breakfast’s here. He pulls the binder free. Ha! Got it. He looks it over. Skims through. Workin’ with the pitcher-book, huh? Good on ya, man. Can’t let this stroke shit slow ya down.

He scans through the illustrations. Gotta be careful, though. Had a lady in here once, learnt it forward and back. Got so’s there weren’t nothin’ she couldn’t say with it. Time came, they had to take it away from her, on account of as long as she had it, she didn’t feel any pressing need to learn to talk again.

The orderly rolls the wheeled lap table to Martin’s bed. Slides it over the guard rail. Up to Martin’s lap. She told me this one, one time. Check this out: He sets the binder down. Flips through its laminated pages. Pausing to point to a few images in particular:

QUESTION MARK

CROSS+PENGUIN

BABY+BELLY

QUESTION MARK

Cross-Penguin. That must be shorthand for a nun. Baby-belly can only mean pregnancy. Question marks before and after... It’s a riddle!

Martin grasps the meaning almost instantly: How did the nun get pregnant? Seeing the orderly’s expectant look, he nods. Eager to read the answer.

CROSS+PENGUIN

CLOTHING

CROSS+BOY

EXCLAMATION POINT

Martin’s eyes flash as the answer comes clear: She dressed like an altar boy. He stares at the orderly with incredulous amazement. To encapsulate such a complicated set of ideas with so little... How had he managed it?

The orderly misreads Martin’s expression. His own face falls. Shit... You’re not Catholic, are you?

Martin smiles. Then, laughs. Not at the joke, obviously. At the fact he understood it. That four images combined to ask the riddle. Five provided the punchline. That the simplest information somehow became a full story. And the story made perfect sense.

Man! The orderly grins. Shifts the binder onto the bedside table. Had me near-to pissin’ myself for a minute there. Leaning into the hallway, he grabs a tray from the breakfast cart. Slides it onto Martin’s table. Can’t afford to lose this job, y’know? He removes the lid from the tray. Sets it aside. Visually, the meal is less-than appetizing, but the smell has Martin’s mouth watering instantly. Y’all set, there?

Martin nods. Unrolls his silverware from its napkin wrapping with his good hand.

Tuck in, then. He heads for the door. Pauses before exiting. Tomorrow, maybe I’ll tell ya the one about how the priest makes the holy water holy.

Martin gives him a thumbs-up. Grateful. Any concerns he’d had about using the binder to communicate have faded. All in the face of one tasteless joke. If this kid can put across that punchline with so little? Martin can, too.

He has to.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Outside Paula’s cell, the convent is bustling. Humming with a constant low-level din as everyone carries out their final assignments. Making last minute preparations. Chattering incessantly as they come and go.

For her part, Paula stays cloistered away. Not wanting to hinder anyone’s progress. Feeling less than fully welcomed by her sisters after singlehandedly putting a halt to the restoration ceremony. As though she wanted Sister Grace to go on suffering. When nothing could be farther from the truth. Besides, her own tasks lie ahead. Things she needs to do on her own. Separate from the Sisterhood.

In the meantime, she waits. Readies herself. Cross-legged, in the center of her floor. Rocking slightly. She needn’t leave her room to know what’s going on in the rest of St. Neot’s. She saw it all days ago. Sketched it out with pastel crayons. The drawings sprawling across her walls. Even edging onto the ceiling in places.

Above her small window: Stick-figure nuns harvest vegetables from the gardens. Fill wheelbarrows with fresh produce. Guide chickens from coops into cages. Lead goats away on leashes.

At floor level, near the furnace vent: Five nuns carry medical equipment from an all-but deserted infirmary. One bed still occupied by a sickly nun with flaming orange hair.

By the door: A line of nuns descends a staircase. Every one laden with boxes or bags. Some pairing up to carry larger items. All of them moving from the convent into the caves below. Then - much lower on the wall - out onto the beach.

Elsewhere: Nuns tote pots and pans from the kitchen. Others pack books from library shelves. Until finally, the drawings are only of empty rooms without any nuns left in them at all.

A knock at the door. Sister Paula? An unfamiliar voice. Sister Katrine sent me. Said you had something you needed done?

Paula jumps to her feet. Beckons the young woman in. I do! I have something. I’m so glad you’re here, Sister... She leans forward, expectantly.

Jennifer.

Sister Jennifer! Paula hugs the woman. A bit too tightly, perhaps.

At your service. Excited, Jennifer’s bright eyes scan the walls. Taking in as much of Paula’s meandering mural as she can. Oh, wow.... This is amazing! She darts an anxious glance in Paula’s direction. I mean, I know you must get that all the time.

No! That’s so sweet of you to say! It’s always nice to hear. Moving to the end of her cot, Paula bends. Lifts a cardboard box from the floor. This is what I need from you: These have to be donated.

Donated? The younger nun hurries to receive the container. Heavier than it looks. Folding back a flap, she finds it filled with a variety of dog-eared magazines. Torn subscription labels peeled from each, obscuring origins. Her smile falters, but doesn’t fall. Even so, she is clearly disappointed.

Oh no! Is something wrong?

No, I... I’m sorry. The smile strengthens. Sheepish, now. Self-effacing. I just... I know I’m not ready for one of the big missions, but... I was really hoping to do something important.

"This is important, Sister Jennifer. It’s crucial."

No, I get it. Every chore needs to be done. But really... It’s just taking out the recycling.

It’s not. It’s much, much more. Paula braces the woman’s shoulders. Looks into her eyes. "Listen: After work, a man finds a transit token on the sidewalk. What luck! Now he can take the bus home, instead of huffing it on foot. It saves him a