Paul Jones - Revelations

The survivors gathered in the large room, sitting on the floor in small groups, talking quietly amongst themselves. Occasionally, one of them would stand and walk to a window and look outside.

Emily had observed that whoever was doing the looking inevitably fell into one of two groups: The first would quickly glance through the frosty window, not taking more than a second to assess the situation and wander back to their seat, as dark of mood as when they’d first stood. The second group would linger for well over five minutes or more, staring out that window as if they were willing the bloodstained clouds poised just a few miles off every corner of the coast of their island sanctuary to dissipate.

Both groups left the window disappointed every time.

There was a third group too. The one Emily fell into: those who watched the watchers. That had always been her way, that deep drive to observe and understand had had a large part to play in her becoming a journalist. But she wondered now, as she sat, her butt on the floor, her back against the wall, whether she should attribute that calling to nature or nurture.

Emily shifted her legs, disturbing Rhiannon who, head in Emily’s lap, moaned softly in her sleep. “Shhhh,” Emily cooed, stroking the girl’s hair until she sensed the child was asleep again. Thor lay nearby, stretched out, his head resting on his front paws, eyes wide open, watching Emily and Rhiannon with an unblinking gaze that seemed accepting of everything that was happening around him.

Emily had brought the news of the red-tinged snowfall and the tightening of the storm’s stranglehold on the island to MacAlister. He in turn had relayed it to the captain. Both men had gone outside to check her story for themselves, and both had returned grim-faced.

“Emily, I think it’s probably best if you and Rhiannon stay here with us for the duration, don’t you think?” MacAlister had suggested and Emily had readily agreed. She did not want to be alone through whatever might be coming. Once had been enough. But the excited chatter of the sailors as they had learned of the encroaching storm and seen the red-tinged snowfall had quickly devolved into worried murmurs, and finally, as the hours wore on, almost absolute silence.

Emily had begun to wish she had done as Jacob had and requested a room to herself. She had not seen him but once since Constantine and his crew had arrived. But Emily thought that Jacob’s hermit-like attitude was more from the habit of loneliness (or possibly the stash of whisky she knew he’d smuggled across with him) than from a shirking of any need for social interaction.

Occasionally, MacAlister or the captain would wander between the groups, chatting with the sailors. They were the epitome of stoic, she thought as she eyed MacAlister. He took a knee next to a lone sailor who had isolated himself off hours earlier, his hands clasped around his drawn-up knees as he silently stared at the opposite wall, his head bobbing slowly back and forth as if he listened to some inner song. Within minutes of MacAlister talking with him, the kid was back with his shipmates.

He was a good man, MacAlister.

The hours wore on, darkness came, and with it a howling wind that tore at the roof and walls of their shelter, rattling the windows and denying everyone sleep. The wind-driven snow had long blocked any view through the windows, tinting the glass with its pink stain, but that did not seem to deter the “window checkers,” who would still occasionally stand and wander over to look, even though they could see nothing now.

By the time the second morning crept almost unnoticed over the camp, the mood had dropped as low as the temperature outside, and Emily began to feel a new nervousness settle over the group.

“Cabin fever” was not a phrase you heard very often in these modern times, but Emily thought she could detect a sense of paranoia attaching itself to the men. It was a knifepoint of anxiety pushing through the thin skin of civility still left; the thick blade, the part that would do all the damage, barely concealed beneath the surface.

Later that day MacAlister insisted that the two girls take over his room, which they did with a sense of relief. Earlier, a fistfight had exploded seemingly from nowhere, and Emily felt a skinny rat of worry begin to gnaw at her insides. As it was, it was all she could do to stop Thor from attacking. His barking and the men’s yells had alerted MacAlister, and he had quickly stepped in and banged some heads, stopping the fight before it got past a black eye and a few raw knuckles. But Emily doubted that even MacAlister’s imposing reputation and martial ability would be able to brace the emotional wall holding back the swelling fear that threatened to wash over the men for long.

For the second time in the last twenty minutes Emily checked the Glock on her hip, relishing the sense of security as her fingers played over the weapon’s butt in the holster. The move to MacAlister’s quarters would be a good idea, she decided.

You’re a regular Calamity Jane, Emily Baxter, she thought with a hint of disdain as she followed MacAlister down the corridor past Jacob’s temporary quarters to the tiny room Mac had claimed as his own.

“Here you go, ladies,” he said, holding the door open for them.

“Where will you sleep?” Rhiannon asked, her face still flushed from witnessing the earlier fight but, and Emily could not help but feel a surge of pride over the growing toughness of the kid, no tears had been shed.

“Oh, I think it best that I stay out there where I can keep my eye on the rabble for the foreseeable future,” he said. “You ladies relax, and make yourself at home. I’ll check in with you later.”

As he closed the door behind him, Emily reached out a hand and placed it on top of his.

“Thank you,” she said, fixing his eyes with her own.

MacAlister smiled and nodded, and then was gone.

Emily was teaching Rhiannon how to play poker with a deck of cards donated by Parsons—and was already down three straight hands to the damn kid—when Jimmy MacAlister knocked loudly on his door, pushing it ajar before she could tell him to come in.

“Are you decent?” he blurted out through the gap, but didn’t wait for an answer before he stepped inside. “Sorry, ladies, but you need to come see this. Come on.” He grabbed Emily’s hand then Rhiannon’s and pulled them to their feet. Thor jumped up and leaped along beside them, barking excitedly, eager to join in whatever new game his humans were playing.

“What’s going on?” Emily said, half-protesting, half-laughing as she and Rhiannon were led down the corridor toward the exit.

“You’ll see,” he said cryptically.

As they passed Jacob’s lab he spotted them. “What’s going on?” he asked.

“That’s what Emily said,” Rhiannon laughed as they passed his door.

Jacob shook his head in bemusement, then swiveled his wheelchair away from his desk and followed after them.

MacAlister led Rhiannon and Emily through the anteroom and straight to the door, finally letting go of their hands as he reached for the handle to open the exit.

“Hey!” Emily objected, bracing for the sudden rush of freezing air. “Let us get our jackets on before you open that.”

“Won’t need ’em,” the Scot replied and pushed the door open.

The anteroom was flooded with bright daylight.

Emily gazed out through the open doorway. She could feel the cold air but she could also see all the way over to the other buildings and beyond even. She edged forward until she was standing in the doorway.