Chris Mooney - The Soul Collectors

She smelled the salt in the air before she heard the ocean.

The road wound its way around a cliff. Looking over the edge, she saw water lit up by the moonlight, the spent waves creaming against the rocks, and then they disappeared, lost in a blizzard.

She jerked backwards, blinking. No snow. She could see perfectly well. A hallucination. What had caused that? She hadn't drunk their water. What? Her heart was thumping erratically and when she touched her face it felt as dry as her tongue. Dehydration? Or had that bucket of water she used been laced with something?

Looking off to her left, she could see endless water. To her far right, more water lapping against cliffs and a half-standing lighthouse sitting on a small island. The area directly above the lighthouse was a field of broken boulders. No choice but to go down.

She had made it halfway when she saw some stairs cut into the rock. She took them down, relieved to see she didn't have to swim to reach the lighthouse. But she had to wade through water cold enough to turn bone to ice, and it rose all the way up her legs before she reached the next set of stairs. She stumbled up them drunkenly, her head pounding by the time she reached the top.

The door was locked. She went to try a key and found she was no longer carrying the key ring. She had no memory of having dropped or lost it.

It took four blows of her shoulder to knock it open.

A winding metal staircase, the wind howling above her. She found a storage room in the back, the wooden shelves stripped bare.

Shivering, she took the stairs, her breath pluming and then disappearing in the cold air.

Halfway up she found another room with an upended cot and an old AM radio covered in rust. Warmer in here than outside. She shut the door, heard the wind whistle through the gaps and cracks, and turned over the cot. She lay down on her back and stared up at the black ceiling, thinking.

Where was she? Had to be somewhere on the East Coast, okay, but where? Some sort of island? She hadn't seen any homes or cars. Nothing but woods and the ocean and this lighthouse.

Despair pressed against the walls of her heart and she closed her eyes and ignored it. Think of a plan. Wait for sunlight. Pray for a bright day and then head out of here. There has to be something here. Those people had brought her water, and Sarah Casey had brought her food. There had to be a grocery store somewhere near by. Darby switched back to Sarah Casey and wondered about the girl and her father, praying that they were still alive — still had the will to live. Jack Casey had had it crushed out of him, but his daughter — would she still cling to it if something happened to her father? What would she do if her father died? The question hung in Darby's mind as she drifted off to sleep. She dreamed that Coop had rescued her. He came with an army of helicopters that soared above the lighthouse, men rappelling down ropes and carrying guns.

Coop sat on the edge of her cot and nudged her awake.

'I came back for you,' he said. 'I found you.'

He took her in his arms and kissed her cheek and hair and held her as she let it all out, dry sobs at first, then the rest of it, the worst part, and she wailed into his neck and screamed into his chest, wanting to purge it from her heart.

When she pulled herself away, she saw Jack Casey's face pulverized and blood running from his nose and ears. His eyes.

'Luck always runs out,' he said. 'You have to come back home now.'

*

Darby sat up in the dark and saw light creeping underneath the door. Heard footsteps.

'Miss McCormick? Miss McCormick, you in here?'

She crept to the edge of the door and opened it slightly, looking down the winding staircase. In the bright sunlight saw a man dressed head to toe in black peering through the target site of an HK sub-machine gun. His partner was standing right behind him, SWAT in bright white letters on his back.

How had they found — the GPS transmitter in her arm. Sergey or the feds monitoring the signal had found it and sent people here.

She had to scrape the words from her dry throat.

'Don't shoot,' she said, her voice a whispery rasp. She came out of the doorway with her hands raised. 'Don't shoot.'

The one in the back turned to her, then dropped his gun and said, 'Jesus.'

The SWAT officers draped her arms across their shoulders and carried her out of the lighthouse. The wind slapped her face and blew her hair, and the bright sun pierced her eyes as she looked up the weathered cliff and caught sight of a Coast Guard helicopter.

'It's hidden in the woods,' Darby croaked. 'A hatch. Jack Casey and his daughter. Underground. Need to help them.'

They didn't answer and she realized they couldn't hear her.

She tried again when they brought her inside the helicopter.

'Jack Casey and his daughter.'

They guided her on to a stretcher.

'Below us,' Darby croaked. Christ, how her throat ached. It felt raw and dry and nearly swollen shut. 'Go to the woods and find the hatch, hurry, not much time.'

Darby felt a cool alcohol swab brush against the back of her hand. She turned and saw a Coast Guard officer, a woman, hovering by her side. Darby looked over the woman's shoulder, at the two SWAT officers who had turned away. They had heard her, she was pretty sure. She could see them running towards the woods, the trees shaking in the breeze on a beautiful autumn day.

Darby moaned when the IV needle slipped into her hand.

'Sorry,' the woman said. 'It's your skin. You're dehydrated. We need to get fluids into your system.'

Darby needed to be sure they had heard her. She beckoned the woman closer and told her about the hatch, Casey and his daughter, everything.

The woman straightened, looking confused and frightened. 'I'll tell them.'

'Where am I?'

'Black Rock Island. It's off the coast of Maine.'

'Stay.'

'I will. Don't worry, I'm not going anywhere — '

'No. Stay here. On the island. I need to go back there. I need to see.'

'There's nothing out there, hon. Nobody comes out this way.'

'Don't take me away' was the last thing Darby said before she drifted off. Coop came as the sun started to set.

Darby saw him standing near the edge of the woods. She sat up on the stretcher, the IV line still in her arm, and lost sight of him for a moment. Her head was spinning but not as badly as before and she leaned back against the cabin wall.

The aft door slid open and Coop popped his head into the copter, his face washed in the sunset's deep gold and purple hues.

Not Coop but a federal agent with a similar face and haircut.

'Special Agent Martynovich wanted me to tell you he's here.'

'The hatch?' Her throat was still raw but most of her voice had come back.

'They found it. He's about to go down, and he said he'll talk to you once — What are you doing?'

'Coming with you.' Darby slid the IV needle out of her arm. She found a bandage and covered the wound.

'Miss McCormick, you're not exactly dressed for the weather,' he said, looking at her hospital scrubs and bare feet stained with dirt. They had cleaned her up and dressed her while she had slept. 'It's getting pretty raw out.'

'Grab that.' She pointed to one of the bulky orange Coast Guard jackets hanging on the wall.

'What about shoes?'

'I'll manage,' she said. 'Come on, let's get going before it gets dark.' She found Sergey pacing in front of the hatch.

'I don't know anything yet,' he said. 'We discovered the hatches about an hour ago and — '

'Hatches? There're more than one?'

'Two. One here, and one in the southern part of the woods. Before I sent anyone down, I wanted the air tested. I'm glad I did. It tested positive for sarin gas.'