BloodWorks

Prologue

“If it appears out of control, the fault is yours...because you failed to factor it in.”
Pompous words. He’d factored in life, and death, then decided it was worth the risk.
The child’s face haunted him.
His shoes scraped and snagged as he was dragged across the rough ground. He wore his assassins’ shadows like a second skin.
Shadows, long and dark...
Long and dark, like the ebony silkiness of her hair. His Ligeia.
In that terrible moment, there was no justifying his actions. Because death had hunted him and ignominy awaited...in the grave.
Now, it would never be put right. None of it...because the end had come too soon...before he could justify the means.
“The greater part of the fearful night had worn away, and she who had been dead once again stirred.”
Not for her. Not for any of them. Too late...
It was his last thought, as the bullets blasted him back.
*********

Chapter One


It was all so manicured; so...pristine.
Dammit.
Mick glared at the topiaried shrubs and wide expanses of green. Country club living. “There is no way,” he grumbled.
“What? You’ll learn to golf?” Josh grinned. “I agree.”
It didn’t improve Mick’s mood. His next words to Josh were almost a growl. “So while I’m ‘teeing off’, you’re going to be what?”
“Crawling around on my hands and knees, searching for Pythium, of course.”
“Of course.” Mick shook his head in disgust. “That’s what I thought you said. Ya know, there are other things to do on Saturdays—besides work.”
“Yeaaah,” Josh replied slowly. He had a feeling he’d be more comfortable crawling around the sump collecting fungal samples than Mick was going to be smacking golfballs with his co-workers. “Let’s think about this: I could be hitting a ball, then chasing it all over the grass. So much better.” His smile widened. “Where’d you get the clubs, anyway?”
“Marlena took pity on me...”
“That I can believe.”
Mick smiled at that one. “All it took was one brag about my holes-in-one...”
“Hope you told her it was mini golf.”
“...to make her hand ’em over.”
Josh knew him too well. “Let me guess: she gave you the lecture again.”
Mick nodded, and bit into a chocolate-coated muesli bar. “Yeah. Country club or die. Fitness is secondary—I need to acquire some dignity.” He chewed loudly.
“You need to acquire some food of your own. Give me those.”
Mick ignored him and rummaged through the glove box. “This the only healthy thing in here?” It was full of candy—everything from Nashi bars to Lifesavers to Hersheys to Droste. “Knew I should have been a dentist. Would’ve made a fortune off you.”
“Like I’d let you touch my mouth, or anything else. This is my stop.” Josh slammed on the brakes, and Mick bumped his head on the window.
It was at the far end of the golf course—the part they were still developing. The only piece of machinery here today was a big backhoe, churning away at the soft soil.
Josh gestured with his peanut slab. “Drainage,” he explained, pointing to where the big backhoe bucket was removing scoops of slimy, grey-looking soil. “Looks like they’re putting in a sump.”
“I say it looks like hell, considering what I have to pay to join this place.” Mick smirked up at the cemetery on the slope. Ancient concrete crosses, weathered angels, and lichen-encrusted tombstones. “How picturesque,” he said sarcastically. “Hope they plan on improving the view.”
“The local ghosts no doubt feel much the same way—whenever someone like you plays through.” Josh opened the door. “It’s why I’m here, Putz. To solve the social dilemmas of the country club crowd, beginning with why their damned ‘windbreak’ won’t grow.” He took another bite. “I’m all that stands between you and that view.”
“So get out and figure, while I go learn how to play.”
Josh patted the steering wheel affectionately. “This is my car.”
“Don’t remind me. A exercise in unhygienic, if I’ve ever seen one. Glad you make your fungus feel right at home.”
“Fuck you, too,” Josh said genially. He climbed out, then took a hand spade and some plastic bags from the trunk.
Mick tilted his head to eye Josh appraisingly. The man was looking a little white. “You feeling okay?” he asked hopefully. “’cause if you’re not, I can drive you home.”
Josh flushed. “You could drive me crazy. Go, so I can get some work done.”
“Fungus.” Mick’s voice was thick with distaste. He’d never understand it, if he lived to be a hundred.
Josh’s eyes lit up. “Pythium, if I’m right.”
“That’s right—qualify it,” Mick retorted. “As if anyone cares.”
Josh went on as though Mick hadn’t spoken. “Soil samples, grass samples, that kind of thing. Keeping it all nice and green for the goofers.” Josh tossed Mick his keys, then rummaged in the glove box and shoved two packages of Milk Duds into his pockets. “See ya.”
Mick glanced at his watch. “I go on duty at four.” He held up his phone. “No cellphones on the course...”
“Don’t worry. I’ll need a chocolate fix by then. Bring Rasputin down and—”
“—crinkle candy wrappers?”
Josh grinned. “I was gonna say ‘honk the horn’. But, whatever works.” He walked away, then turned back quickly, as Mick was starting the engine. “Don’t forget—”
“I know,” Mick cut in impatiently. “‘Park in the shade’.” He snorted. “I’ll hide your trashmobile in the bushes, so nobody can see it. Wouldn’t want to ruin my rep.” With a wave, and a cheerful honk of Rasputin’s horn, Mick sped away up the drive.
***
Josh wandered up to the cemetery first, aware that he was being morbid. He strolled between the plots, considering what it would be like to be under the soil, rather than atop it. Wondering what it would be like to have no control over a mouldering body, and be no more substantial than the wind which flapped his shirttails.
It was something he never would have done if Mick had been here. Dr. Carmichael Dodds—AKA Mick—knew him too well. He would have seen something in his expression.
And then his life would no longer have been his own.
Don’t think...
It was getting hard not to. Because lately he’d been making excuses he’d never had to before. And there were times when he’d just like to let it all go...
Either that or vanish some place else, where he wouldn’t have to live with their concern.
Soon. It’d come to that soon.
He looked at the graveyard and the settled stones, but felt no peace. He was all too afraid the “soon” might apply to this, too.
There was only one way to beat it—the same way he’d beat it for the last six years: be too busy to think. Work on Saturdays? Dedication to fungus? Mick just didn’t know where he was coming from these days, any more than the others did. Josh was dedicated all right, but it was to filling his life—all the blank spots. Recently, he’d also been dedicated to busy—being so busy that thought and regret weren’t issues. Busy enough so he could sleep nights sans pounding heart and nagging fears. Exhaustion was his current answer—for everything.
He’d been easing out of their lives with lame excuses for weeks now. If he was no longer a part of what they did, he wouldn’t be wounding them when he was no longer a part forever. They wouldn’t feel his absence so keenly then, and he’d be damned if he wanted to carry anyone else’s pain with him. Any more than he wanted to greet them every day between now and forever with the knowledge in their faces acting as a barrier. He’d rather walk, now—while he still could.
He hadn’t seen Mick, Tino, or Matt in a month. His closest friends, and he’d lied through his teeth. He’d avoided them like a plague, because they knew him too well. But he couldn’t avoid today—or Mick’s insistence—and he knew he’d never hold up to even nine holes of golf. Then Mick would know. And all his subterfuge would be shot to hell.
Fungus. Think work. It just didn’t seem important any more.
Josh clambered down off the slope, momentarily reassured by the strong way his legs and boot-clad feet tackled the uneven ground.
Not even winded...
He was nearly to the dying trees when the screams began.
***
The rumbling roar of the backhoe had given way to a stuttering clatter. At the same time, there was a shudder beneath Josh’s feet as semi-solid soils yielded to gravity’s demands. With a groaning squawk, the backhoe was toppling sideways, into earth that was suddenly no firmer than organic ooze.
The operator never stood a chance. Caught in his cage—belted and secured in place—he was about to go down with his ship. His head cracked against the metal cage, and then, he wasn’t even fighting his fate. The man’s head flopped loosely, as the front feet of the backhoe sank, and the big machine’s cant increased.
It was the moist soils. There’d been an inordinate amount of rain, which was why the Pythium had done so much damage to the golf course’s soils. It was also why a man was going to die today. His machine had tapped into some unsuspected soft core of earth—some unsuspected Artesian spring pouring across the clay layers.
Suddenly, Josh’s own preoccupation with death seemed foolish. He had months—maybe even a year. This man? Minutes.
Josh tore down off the slope, panting heavily as he ran, flat out. His pounding feet sounded that residual resonance which spoke of watery soils, as he sloshed and slid across the slippery clay-loam mix. He latched onto the metal bucket, then knew instantly it was a mistake. The clawed weight cast him backwards, the metal arm slamming his chest and sending him flopping, into what was quickly becoming a river of mud. A river of mud with a semi-solid base. One of Josh’s boots gouged into and stuck in a heavily binding layer of clay.
He kicked and scrambled, trying to get some footing—but his trapped foot only sank deeper. His flailing arms, slapping the soil, contacted something firm, and he yanked and tore at the only solid object in his liquefying world. It was all grasp and lever and yank and pull as he struggled to get clear of the machine. It was still slipping: a fast-descending toothed monster. With a squeak and a clank and a monstrous shudder, the metal Goliath was moving fast-jawed to claim him.
The object beside him shifted, and all his scrambling was for naught. He was writhing and scratching at a near-liquid world, and he might have been in quicksand for the good it was going to do him. Josh could see his fate descending in the fashioned metal of the big toothed maw...the backhoe bucket, heading his way.
And in that instant, Joshua Griffin wanted to live, more than anything else. In a last adrenaline-driven effort, he latched onto the thing which had jiggled by his side and struggled to pull himself past it.
He never expected it to break free first. He pulled it upwards, to cushion the blow. Pulled it up and found himself staring at a clay-caked face.
It was a corpse—not so old, either. Days...maybe weeks. Sealed in clay and left to rot with the corpses on the slope above. Watery clay dripped out the nose and mouth.
It was what Josh had been thinking only moments before—about death and decay. About lying in the Earth and rotting away.
It’s me...
Josh lost it. He forgot about the toothed bucket, the trapped operator, his own imminent demise.
Death was staring him in the face, dripping filth out its ears...
Josh shrieked in horror, as loudly as the backhoe operator had screamed a few minutes before.
He never saw the bucket arrive. As one toothed edge ploughed into his mouldering shield, Josh was pinned—joined in jagged agony with the clay-streaked visage in his face. As the metal monster struck, the grey-caked skin was rammed roughly against his own.
Kiss of death...
***
Mick didn’t know when the uneasiness hit him, but it was sometime around hole three. The whup-whup noise of a helicopter intruded on his consciousness. He looked up, and saw the Med-Vac chopper in the distance. Dimly, he recalled the wails of sirens, but the sound was so much a part of his work that he hadn’t really noticed. If anything, he’d been glad someone else was handling it.
Mick watched as the helicopter descended, and his uneasiness increased. It made him feel stupid. He’d trained that kind of morbid transference out of himself years ago...he’d thought. It had been aeons since he’d wondered whether an ambulance or a rescue helicopter was carrying someone he knew.
But he couldn’t shake off the feeling that something was wrong. Mick finally gave it up. He wasn’t getting anywhere with his golf game anyway.
Give me a game of basketball any time...
Mick jogged across the greens. Time to raise Rasputin from the shrubbery.
***
Mick got there just in time—to gag and lose his lunch. It was something he’d never tell anyone—least of all, Josh—but the sight that met his eyes was enough to weaken the strongest stomach. The fact that it was Josh weakened it more.
The miracle being, Joshua Griffin was still alive. They’d towed the backhoe out, but it was only circumstance which had kept him from drowning.
That and the fact he’d been spliced to the bucket tooth as though he were part of it.
He was bleeding like all get-out, and Mick figured it was only the thickness of the solidifying clay which had kept him from bleeding out.
That, and the body which was packed against his own.
Fuck it all! Mick had to fight back a sob. He took a deep breath to steady himself, but could smell only sour soil and rancid flesh.
Damn! Whether Joshua Griffin wanted his “helpful touch” or not, he was about to get it.
Mick scrambled down, across the muck, as fast as he could go.
***
They’d somehow managed to hold him together en route. They’d had to bring corpse and part of the bucket with them, because they couldn’t risk extricating Josh outside the operating room.
Nor was Mick the only health care professional to lose his lunch before they’d finished. What the bloated corpse didn’t stir, the sour smell of the clay provided.
And by the time they’d rolled Josh into the operating room, Mick was a mess. Josh had woken up, only once—and that was to ask about the driver of the fuckin’ backhoe. It was all Mick could do not to turn away and bawl.
Now Hugh Rawlsby wouldn’t let him assist—not even stand in as part of the team—which made it worse. He’d taken one look at Mick and told him to go home. Too close to this one.
He was right about that. Mick’s and Josh’s friendship had weathered twenty-five years—from boyhood brawls, to teenage angst over acne and theft and cars and gangs, to all-night binges and failed marriages. There were only a few people Mick made time for—and Josh was one of them. And it was only around Josh and Tino and Matt that Mick could shed his professional glaze, and be himself.
Matt was the wild man. He was a park ranger in a tame forest where the wildest vermin walked on two legs. He took out his tensions by attending every pro sports event he could reach, where he always drank far too much beer. They usually had to haul him home, but he didn’t care. Nor did he care who’d won. He went for the excitement, he claimed—to experience all the animal grunt and tackle, which had been fed out of the animals in the park. Matt was also an oestrogen magnet—something which Mick had frequently envied.
What wasn’t as obvious was his keen mind. Matt was an astute observer, who’d made some discoveries of note. He was nearly as well-trained in botany as he was in zoology. He and Josh could, and did, talk for hours about plant pathology.
Mick buried his face in hands which stunk of old watery clay. Shit! He dreaded being the one to tell him about Josh.
Him or Tino. Valentino Tortelli, who sold real estate during the day, and quoted his own poetry in dimly-lighted cafés all night. The man with a flair for making money, who despised what he did and the success with which he did it. Who always argued with Josh because the man kept so damn busy, and didn’t make time for aesthetics. Josh left himself no time to think. “Money’s for making during the day,” Tino always said, “in as short a time as possible—so you can spend your nights appreciating life.” With Valentino it was fine wine and finer women.
And Tino fed on them all. He hated the fact his job wasn’t “real” like any of theirs, so he claimed it was his duty to pick their brains. The truth was, they were the only ones around who knew how unromantic his origins really were. He and Josh had both come from abusive homes, and Tino had grown up angry. So the two of them argued—had always argued. But Tino was the first one there when Josh needed him, and if Tino’s poetry needed punch, it was Josh who recognised what was lacking. Mick knew if he were to mention Josh was in trouble, Tino would drop everything to be here.
Mick’s sigh had a quaver to it, and he swallowed hard, trying to get past that sensation of horror. As difficult as it would be to tell Matt and Tino, the truth was he’d be damned glad to have them here.
***
When Tino walked out of the ICU, his face was nearly as white as Josh’s had been. “Fuck it, he looks bad,” he whispered to Mick.
“He was delirious when I went in,” Matt admitted. “Rambling on about someone named Lisa, or Leesha.” He looked expectantly at Mick. “Did anyone tell her?”
Mick shook his head. “Don’t know her. Tino?”
Tino shrugged. “Josh never mentioned her to me. I haven’t seen him in weeks, though. Maybe she’s why.”
“I’ll go over to Josh’s house,” Matt offered, eager to take some action. “Maybe I can find her number.”
“Wait up. I’m coming.” Tino looked at Mick. “So’s he. Get your dumb ass up, Carmichael. Time to hit the showers.”
Mick argued, “I don’t think...” he began.
“That’s right,” Tino interrupted. “You don’t think. That’s what I’m here for.” He gave him a shove toward the exit. “The faster you move, the faster we’ll be back.”
Matt put a heavy hand on Mick’s shoulder, and steered him in Tino’s wake as the other man sailed past. “He’s right, Mick,” Matt told him firmly. “Mush.”
“This isn’t the way to the carpark,” Mick argued.
“When Tino heard about Josh, he hired a helicopter,” Matt admitted gruffly. He gave a sheepish grin. “I hate following Captain Dickwit’s orders, but there’re times when there’s no point in arguing.”
***
Josh fought them. His hand slammed the railing and it jarred him nearly awake. The memories seeped in, like rank clay.
The moon was full. The air had that fresh-mown scent, and the big sprinklers had been showering the greens, so the mix of just-wet soil and cut grass was a potent blend. They’d hauled him over, under the pines, and slammed him against the tree. The smell of the tree’s wounds—the sweet sticky sap—was thick on the air, drowning out the rest.
It was even thicker than the scent of his own blood. That he could only taste, in the salty tang of his torn lips.
He was going to die this night. He knew it from the anticipatory glint of the predators’ eyes—knew it because he’d touched evil and could recognise one of its own. He’d mistaken perspicacity for genius, and now he was going to pay.
Or maybe that was the price of genius: brilliance in your field didn’t bestow universal knowledge. He’d blown it—traded insight for arrogance...the miraculous for money.
I’m going to burn in hell...
And the burning was already starting.
A dream...only a dream. Josh tossed and turned. The flames were licking at his side—frying him from the inside out. Sizzling him on a man-size griddle...
Every gland in his body seared...
Josh shouted, and shrieked, and arched in agony. He tried to run, but they were pinning him down. Impaling him...
Oh, God!
As his dreams overlapped with reality, the only thing that stuck with him—then and now—was how much he wanted to live.
***
“And I thought Rasputin was bad,” Tino remarked, looking around Josh’s living room. “I think this rules out the ‘Lisa’ angle. Josh hasn’t had company in a while.”
“Unless he’s been visiting her house,” Matt remarked. He was hunting through the stacks of loose papers on Josh’s desk.
“You gonna use the shower, Mick?” Tino suggested, pinching his nose.
“If I can find a clean towel.” His tone didn’t sound very hopeful.
Matt sniggered. “You ought to rent Josh a maid, Tino. Just for his recuperation.”
Mick avoided saying anything. He didn’t think he could sound any more hopeful about Josh’s recovery than he could about the towel. He wandered into the bathroom, and hunted for soap. The pill bottles were in the top drawer.
Prednisone. Chlorambucil. Cyclophosphamide. Fludarabine. Mick stood there, looking at them but not seeing.
Not Josh. I would’ve seen it. There would have been some sign...
Pale. Tired. He’d opted out of seeing people because he couldn’t keep up the facade. Josh’s place was usually messy, but never as messy as this.
Too tired to do anything about it.
Too depressed to care?
Maybe I’m wrong.
Mick picked up the bottle and looked at it. No mistake. “Joshua Griffin” was on the label.
It’ll be on his chart.
But what if it’s not? What if they don’t know?
They’ll know. You’re the only one who doesn’t.
Mick was suddenly furious. How could Josh keep it from him? How long had he known? Suddenly, Mick had to find out.
It’s not your secret.
Maybe not. At the moment, he didn’t care. “Tino!” he roared. “Get in here!”
Tino tore in, with Matt at his heels.
When Tino saw he was all right, he leaned against the doorjamb and crossed his arms. “If I’d known you were this upset about the towel thing, I wouldn’t’ve suggested it,” he said coolly.
Mick held up the pill bottle. “What do you know about these?” he asked accusingly.
Tino looked startled. “He’s on uppers?” he asked. Tino scowled, almost as darkly as Mick was. Josh’s mother had been an addict. He’d never thought Josh would be stupid enough to go for that kind of thing.
Matt looked at the bottle, memorised the name, then disappeared in the other room.
“Could be why he’s been so withdrawn,” Tino suggested. “Did he seem depressed to you?”
Mick didn’t enlighten him—he didn’t have to.
Matt came back into the room a moment later, his face pale. “Looked it up on the computer,” he whispered. “Leukaemia? How long?”
Mick shook his head. “I don’t know.” He turned on the shower with an angry flick of his wrist. “But I sure as hell am going to find out.” His face was like thunder. “Out,” he ordered tensely, tearing off his shirt. “I have to get back, and make sure this stuff is on his chart.”
***
Josh could hear the regular blipping in the background. The lights were dim, but there was someone in the room when he awakened. An orderly or male nurse—Josh couldn’t be sure. The man looked familiar, but he couldn’t figure out why.
The man hissed, “...the tractor operator?”
“What?” Josh whispered, the sound barely audible above the machinery in the room. He shook his head, confused. The tractor operator. Josh frowned, squinting.
The man must have seen something—some trace of recognition—in his eyes. He fiddled with the IV, clumsily detaching and reattaching the tubing.
Air. Air in the IV...
Like someone in a trance, Josh saw a two-foot-long air bubble bleb down the line.
His brain kicked in and he tore the needle out, ripping the tube out of the bag. Like a lag in a poorly dubbed film, Josh rasped, “What the hell—!”
He was talking to the air. The only thing remaining was the pooling moisture from his dangling IV. The man—nut or nightmare—was gone.
***
Mick was already in a foul mood when he got to the fourth floor. He didn’t even bother asking—he just opened up Josh’s file on the computer. He looked at it for a second, swore under his breath, but couldn’t resist checking out his latest vital signs. His fever didn’t seem to be abating. If anything, it was spiking. Mick scrolled up, to see whether he’d regained consciousness.
Briefly. Long enough to pull out his IV. Apparently, he’d been rather loquacious, too. Not exactly coherent, but talkative.
At least he’s talking to someone, Mick thought bitterly. He’d only just closed the file when he was paged.
The police wanted to talk to him, about the missing tractor operator, and now, it seemed, a missing corpse. For some undoubtedly morbid reason, an unknown person had absconded with Josh’s punctured playmate. The entire idea made Mick feel like casting up his accounts once more.
Mick stomped out to his car, then drove like a defiant madman to the police station.
Fuckin’ police can’t even fine me when I deserve it...
He couldn’t recall having a worse day in his life.
*********