The Dead of Summer, page 3
AUGUST 14
24 DAYS AFTER
11:04
I have just finished my first interview with the boy known as TS188.
They keep the boy apart from the other survivors. Obviously. In a repurposed storage bay deep in the hull, toward the bow of the Embrace. Low ceiling. No windows, no overhead lights. Feels vast and claustrophobic. Only illumination is two torches, which are pilot lights for incendiary precaution devices bolted to the floor at a marked perimeter. Perimeter is red paint in a half circle around the boy’s cot, where he lies with his back to me.
No restraints on the boy. I am told it is all part of the experiment. If he turns and tries to attack me, or even approaches the perimeter, he will burn. His cage is psychological in nature.
The boy: Dark brown curls. Tanned skin. Freckles? Hard to say. Bruises and scrapes cover his back. The medics won’t touch him. They claim he has been exposed, but he has yet to undergo the … ecstatic metamorphosis like the other infected. No growths on the skin yet, either, but it is hard to see him in the dark. All existing test cases indicate it could happen any moment. I have to work fast to learn what he knows. But he is hard to study. Smart. Skeptical. Always joking.
Our interviews are recorded and transcribed by a clicking machine at the desk where I am instructed to sit. I am told to deliver these to the soldiers at the door after each session. They do not know I have kept copies for myself. I hope that by annotating our sessions I can study the boy’s story further. I sense something locked in his words. Something he wants me to know, but not my superiors.
Attached is the transcript of our first session.
AUGUST 14
24 DAYS AFTER
21:26
It is late. The ship is asleep. I cannot stop thinking about what the boy said. I can’t stop scratching my skin. When my escort leaves, I will break curfew. I must know what became of Dr. Romero.
* * *
23:43
Back.
The lab was unguarded. Just tape and warning signs. Who would want to go back there? I entered with only a penlight.
The smell: Bleach and burning. And brine. The room: Dank. Salt water. Rotten, like her body was still in there. I tried to turn back, but then I heard voices coming closer. I hid inside the room. Tried to hold my breath. Then I heard her singing.
Her name was Shelly Romero. She sang to herself while she worked. “Broadway is my backup if this whole science thing doesn’t work out,” she said to me on my first day. A joke. I thought of that as my curiosity overtook my fear, and I held up my penlight to see what had happened to Shelly Romero.
It filled the back corner. At its base was a vague human shape, ruptured by growths flowing up the walls and across the ceiling. I automatically catalogued the familiar formations: bubble, elkhorn, foliose, fire. In the wild they grow separately, but here they had all fused together. Glistening with familiar slickness, but colorless now. Bone gray. Dead, like the calcified samples in the lab.
I leaned closer. Could not stop my curiosity. Tapped with my pen. Hard, like crystal. Sharp as cat teeth. So what was singing?
Got too close. My foot slipped and I fell, almost scraping my palm on the growths. From the floor, I snatched up my penlight, and now I saw it differently. Rippling chaos resolved into faces, hands, mouths frozen mid-scream. Dr. Romero’s resemblance echoed upward from her body. The growth was using her form to replicate itself. And that’s what sang: a choir of dead mouths. The sound: like wind ripping over the spouts of empty bottles at the beach.
I listened. Too long. A voice spoke behind me.
“We call it C. imperia. For obvious reasons.”
People surrounded me. Hazmat suits. They used surgical chisels to pry off sections of growth. Blowtorches to burn away the rest. The thing—Dr. Romero—did not flinch as the fire curled its edges away from the glowing metal walls. It was dead, yet its song haunted in the air.
“Now do you understand why I wanted you, specifically, on my ship?”
I understood. I knew the voice. Imogen Pfaff, the director of the Anchor’s Mercy Institute of Oceanographic Studies. My old boss. Of course it’s her. Of course this is her ship, her lab. Her experiment gone horribly wrong. Or right.
I know why I am here now. The boy was correct. About this, and what else?
Tomorrow I meet with him again. I must learn his story. It is the key to all this.
AUGUST 14
24 DAYS AFTER
When Anchor’s Mercy went dark, the news networks scoured social media for clues as to what happened. The above is one of the last known posts from anyone on the island. It’s a photo recovered from the social media of Candice McCormick (third from the left), who was on Anchor’s Mercy for her bachelorette party. In the background, note the USNS Embrace, identifiable due to its size and the red crosses visible even from miles away. This photo was uploaded on July 19, two days before the first estimated outbreaks, and therefore five days before the USNS Embrace was officially deployed to help manage the developing situation. So what was it already doing circling the island, days before anything went wrong?
When I was little—but not so little that I couldn’t hold my own ice-cream cone without dropping it—Gracie and I would sit on the benches of the marina, cones in hand, and watch the ferries come in. She would point out all the interesting people she knew, like past guests of Singing House, or mortal enemies, or celebrities, or dogs she thought looked like celebrities. You never know who might waltz off one of those boats and right into your life, she would say with a wistful sigh. And, inevitably, some long-lost friend of hers would show up, totally unplanned, and she’d insist we all go get lobster rolls.
Today, we are the people waltzing off the boat, and there’s nothing wistful about it. In fact, a lobster roll might kill me. I’m dragging both our suitcases, sweating through my shirt, my head swiveling like a seagull as I search the crowds for anyone from school who might recognize us. Meanwhile, Gracie and Sam chatter away like old friends.
“There’s whale watching and oyster shucking and a shark museum.” Gracie points out the attractions. “Oh, see that pink pontoon? It’s actually the shuttle out to the tip of the bay. That’s the hook of land we passed, with the lighthouse. It’s the best-kept townie secret on Anchor’s Mercy. Right, Ollie-baby?”
“Right.”
“You’ll looooove Singing House.” I wince every time Gracie drags on Sam’s arm. “It’s right in town, right in the heart of it all. Ollie’s friends practically move in every summer. Ollie, remember that year Elisa declared squatter’s rights to one of the guest rooms? Sam, you’ll love Elisa. Like vinegar chased with sunshine. Her dad runs Marine Supply. You said you came here when you were little, yes? You probably remember it? Big old store just full of everything from shells to machetes.” She barely pauses as Sam nods. “Anyway, usually we’re all booked up in the summer season, but it’ll be just family for the next few weeks as we fix things up. If you get lonely in that rambling house, you’re welcome to come stay with us for a few nights. No charge.” And she winks. Like, actually winks.
My throwaway crush on Sam is somehow already deepening past the point of excusability. It doesn’t help that he keeps glancing at me. Is he feeling inspired or entrapped? I know he could just run away, but he seems genuinely interested in Gracie’s ramblings.
“You must have quite the luck.” Gracie’s bracelets jingle as she conducts her tour. “Striking up a conversation with the owner of an empty bed-and-breakfast during the busy season.”
“That is lucky.”
Gracie doesn’t say that the reason the bed-and-breakfast is empty is because everyone, herself included, assumed she’d be dead by now. But sure, let’s call it lucky.
“The sea is full of fortune for those that dive right in,” Gracie pronounces. “We call it Mercy magic. Right, Ollie-baby?”
I know my lines here. “Right. Mercy magic. That’s just how things work around here.”
This, I have to admit, is real. On Anchor’s Mercy there does seem to be a nauseatingly high amount of serendipity. Practically speaking it’s hard to avoid anyone or anything for too long on such a small island, but it’s more fun to think of it like an invisible tide, playing unknowable games of push and pull, floating you toward not what you want, but what you need. I never thought much about it. I only really cherished it once it was gone. Not a ton of magic to be found in the MaineHealth Cancer Care building, and what little we brought with us got rubbed off pretty damn fast. Now that I’m back on the island, I feel it again, plucking at my clothes, asking me to play, but I’m scared of what it might bring me.
Or who.
At the end of the pier, we walk through a rotunda bordered in grab-’n’-go restaurants and souvenir shops. Distant music grows suddenly close as a beat-up, hot-pink Jeep rips the crowd apart and lurches to a stop inches from Gracie.
“Is that Little Miss Mercy 1993?” the driver shouts.
“WILLY!” Gracie screams. A man swings out of the Jeep and scoops her up into a hug, literally halting traffic. I’m next. I groan as he crushes me in a hug that reminds me he was in the army for a mysterious amount of time before moving to work at the piano bars in town. Then he steps back to look at me.
“A twink? Still?”
Willy hasn’t changed at all, either. He is the same tall, deeply tanned man with a buzz cut, muscular arms decorated with blurry tattoos, and bootcut jeans that have swerved in and out of style since well before I was born. He smells like cheap sunscreen despite no evidence that he’s ever used a drop of it. He’s my old piano teacher, and my mom’s best friend, and the closest thing Anchor’s Mercy has to a mayor.
Sam thrusts out a hand. “Sam Hale, sir.”
The respect makes Willy’s eyes crinkle, and he bats the handshake away. “Not too generous with the sirs around here, kid,” Gracie jokes. While we load up the car, Gracie describes Sam as a new friend whose aunt has a place off in the dunes. Willy gets what she means right away—the kid comes from money—but years of bartending keep Willy’s face warm and unaware. Gracie adds, “He plays piano. He’s promised Singing House several songs. Right, Sam?”
“For sure.”
Willy approves. “Well, then, welcome to our island. Need a ride?”
“It’s cool, I was just gonna take a cab.”
Willy and Gracie erupt in protest. A cab? All the way out to the dunes? Preposterous! There’s no point resisting. I grab up Sam’s bag and toss it in the Jeep, and then we squeeze together into the back seat. There’s barely enough room to not touch knees and it’s hot as shit, but once the windows drop and Willy fires up his speakers—he’s got a Celine Dion megamix ready for Gracie—it’s kind of perfect.
“You have been missed, my dear,” Willy says as he tosses an arm over Gracie’s shoulders. “Both of you. It’s been positively dreary without the Veltmans and their magical Singing House. A shroud has been cast over the people of Mercy. A pall. The birds won’t sing. The oysters won’t open. Our top scientists are perplexed. Imogen Pfaff is—”
“Imogen Pfaff?” Gracie cackles. “God, I remember when she got that director job at the institute a million years ago. She’s still here?”
“And drunker than ever. Just the other day she delivered the world’s wobbliest rendition of ‘No Good Deed’ from Wicked. A little on the nose, don’t you think?”
Gracie gasps. “She did not! Where?”
“Where else?”
Together, Willy and Gracie groan: “Hail Mary’s.”
And, like the cursed structure that it is, the dark wooden face of the Last Hail Mary is suddenly staring us down. It’s right at the main intersection where traffic halts so hordes of sunburnt families can pass.
“Still standing,” Gracie says with admiration. “How is Mary, anyway?”
“Hanging in there, but she’s off her feet for now. Not sure she’ll be getting back up this time, but as always we’re hoping for the best, whatever that may be.”
My ears perk up. The ancient and unsinkable Scary Mary is sick? A year ago I wouldn’t have thought twice about this exchange, but I’m different now, and my ears hear old things in new ways. The world of Anchor’s Mercy has changed keys, and there’s a foreboding minor chord hiding in what the adults won’t say.
I lean forward. “What is Mary sick with?”
Willy looks to Gracie, like it’s up to her to handle this, which she does with a rare frown. “Don’t worry, sweetie. Just some adult talk.”
“I can handle it.”
“Ollie, don’t be rude.”
Gracie stares me down, and I want to snatch the stupid blue wig off her head. Rude? Is she really going to treat me as a kid, as if I didn’t sit by her for the last ten months for every single adult talk between her, the nurses, and the doctors? I slump back next to Sam. Willy turns the music up, but I keep listening.
“How long?” Gracie asks.
“Maybe a month. Could be weeks. I visit her on Sundays. You should come say hi.”
“Who’s managing the bar?” Gracie asks.
“We all pitch in.”
“I’ll swing by for the brunch shifts this weekend. Lend a hand. Just until Mary’s back to her old self.”
“You’re a doll, Gracie Jo. A doll.”
I lock this conversation up in my head with a few other thoughts that have been slow-boiling my insides. And I decide right here and now that I will get to the bottom of what the adults won’t talk about. For now, though, I need to play host for Sam’s sake.
We briefly glimpse the bustle of Main Street—beachy boutiques, seafood shacks, candy shops advertising authentic saltwater taffy. A drag queen in a giant red wig stands out front of Willy’s bar, Scuttlebutt’s. She’s waving flyers for tomorrow’s drag brunch. She blows us a kiss as we pass.
“Isn’t it a little early for drag queens?” Sam asks.
Willy laughs. “Ollie, educate your friend.”
“The drag queens run this place,” I say. “Most of them have worked back-to-back brunches, and they won’t rest until the bars close late at night. The devil works hard, but the drag queens of Anchor’s Mercy work harder.”
“Oh, Ollie, you should give Sam a tour! You loved doing that when you were little.”
“Later.” I say it too fast, and Sam narrows his eyes. “I mean, I just want to get home first, but we can explore after, okay?”
Willy turns off Main Street. Thank god. I want to eavesdrop more, but Gracie is determined to get me talking. Dutifully, I drift into my smiling autopilot and do my best to give Sam all the fun facts about town. We’re in the historic district now, where all the houses have names. Here is the Admiral’s House, with the haunted widow’s walk! And there’s Bunter House, named for the owner’s beloved dog, now deceased yet taxidermied somewhere inside, or at least that’s the legend. And that is Maison Voiles, a pretentious little inn Gracie always sticks her tongue out at because they copied our sea-glass stained windows. Oh, and who could forget the little bookshop called the Mermaid’s Tale, locked into a decades-old feud with the piano bar right next to it, called the Mermaid’s Tail? The barstools are shaped like glittering fishtails.
And then, quite suddenly, my tide of fun facts has crashed us onto the shores of Singing House. The car slows out of respect.
The bed-and-breakfast hasn’t changed in any obvious way—it’s the same grand wraparound porch and double doors with sea-glass windows, the same soft pink Victorian facade trimmed with pearly-white gingerbread work, the same jagged roofline of gables, dormers, and turrets that always seemed to fit, like a key, against the beveled clouds of the bay. The garden is still a soft mutiny of hydrangeas, and the wisteria has made progress in its annual consumption of the parlor’s bay windows, but the overgrowth just adds to the house’s feral dreaminess. If anything, Singing House looks even more like itself, like a vision from my childhood. Yet there is something terrible about it, too, though I can’t place exactly what until Willy kills the Jeep’s engine.
It’s too quiet.
There’s no creak from the rocking chairs on the porch as a trio of white-haired lesbians play cards. No squealing front door as matching muscular men stroll out for the night, cackling into their to-go cocktail cups. No one leaning out the upstairs windows, calling down to an old friend they haven’t seen in years who just happened to be strolling by, drawn into the house’s whimsy.
No laughter, no chatter, no piano music tinting the breeze, inviting you in.
We ease around back, to the patio connecting Singing House to several smaller (though just as charming) boardinghouses. They’re in far poorer shape, showing signs of storm damage worsened by the lush rot of summer. A few windows are boarded up, making it all feel abandoned.
While we unpack the Jeep, Willy goes through a list of damages he’s been meaning to get to. Gracie may or may not be listening. She floats around the patio like a lost dandelion puff.
I reach for her. “Don’t worry. We’ll get this fixed up in no time. Aside from the cottages, it doesn’t look so bad.”
Like clockwork, Gracie’s face clicks into a smile, and she takes her hand away. “Bad? Let’s hold off on the nitpicking, okay? There’s so much to be grateful for, isn’t there? Let’s try to focus on that!”
I wasn’t nitpicking, was I? How does she expect to fix any of this if she won’t even acknowledge what’s wrong? Her positivity feels impossible in moments like this, but I can’t say that. I can’t say anything, apparently.
The back door opens with a loud slap and out rushes a woman with her cell phone raised, filming like she’s at a concert. Aunt Maddie, forever in clay-stained jeans, button-ups, and year-round tactical sandals she sometimes—right now included—wears over socks.
“Well, if it isn’t our very own living proof! Welcome home, you rugged bitch!” Maddie circles Gracie like she’s paparazzi, capturing the moment. Fresh hellos and hugs are exchanged, and of course Maddie casts an impressed look between Sam and me.
