The Decaying World Saga Box Set [Prequel #1-#2 & Books #1-#2]

by Garza, Michael W.

  He waited for Alex to move, looking for a rise from his pajama top. A second felt like an hour when the boy’s chest didn’t move. John’s hand shook and the blanket moved. Angela shifted and the material pulled away from his grip. Instinctively, he tried to grab it but grabbed Alex’s shirt instead and felt a thick residue stick to the palm of his hand. He let the shirt go and then saw the material shift as Alex took a small breath. John couldn’t settle his nerves as he pulled the blanket back in place and left the room.

  The clock read 5:37, and the living room was filled with early morning light. John stood in the middle of the room getting dressed. The nametag on his dark blue shirt read Jon. The shirt belonged to someone who’d worked at the car repair shop the year before he started. The name was close enough for him. He slipped on his boots and made sure his lunch was packed. He was putting on his jacket when Angela’s voice startled him.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “I have to work.”

  “What about Alex?”

  Angela was a mess. She was wearing the clothes from the night before. Makeup was smeared across her cheeks and she looked like she’d been beaten.

  “You’re going to just leave him here?” she asked.

  John took a long breath. The last thing he wanted was to get her worked up. He hadn’t been comfortable with the idea of leaving her alone, but he didn’t want to lose his job either.

  “Baby, I got to work.”

  Her expression was blank. She looked at the front bay window as if they weren’t in the middle of a conversation.

  “Are you going to be all right?” he asked. She didn’t answer. He picked up his lunch bag and headed toward the door. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  He backed out of the drive and turned onto the long dirt road leading to the interstate. He cracked the window and let the smoke from his cigarette out into the cool morning air. The violet hue on the horizon was lighting the open landscape, but John was lost in his thoughts. The dread of the situation weighed heavily on his shoulders. Alex looked horrifying. The vision of his small, frail body barely breathing clung to his mind.

  He felt a tear swell in his eye and then roll down his cheek. He thought about his son as if he were already dead. John turned on the radio and let the music fill the cabin of his truck. He wiped his face with the sleeve of his shirt and took another long drag of his cigarette. He couldn’t imagine being at work all day, waiting for some frantic phone call from Angela, but he also couldn’t stay in the house another moment. He didn’t know what to do. The family was already on the brink. He’d pretended not to notice when Angela started drinking again, and neither one of them wanted to talk about the mounting bills. John was closer to the edge than he ever thought one person could reach without going over.

  ♦

  The sun had risen by the time John reached work. The shop was already open as he pulled in behind the building. He tried to regain his composure by taking several deep breaths. He wasn’t one to share his feelings and wanted to keep his problems to himself.

  “You watch the game last night?”

  John looked over and saw Mike Anderson getting out of his car; his signature ponytail hung over his shoulder.

  “No, I missed it.”

  “Man, you’re kidding me,” Mike said. “You missed a hell of a game.”

  John waited for Mike, and the two headed in together. From the moment he got onto the shop floor, he was busy. He wanted to forget about everything going on at home and threw himself at every available job. There was plenty to do and more than enough to keep his mind occupied. By the time he got a moment to check the clock, it was past noon.

  He ate his lunch quickly, sitting on a bench outside the shop. The afternoon sky was clear and blue. The air was cool, but the sun made it tolerable. He got back to work after rushing through his sandwich, and an hour after lunch, his boss, Mark Jacobs, motioned for him from behind the glass between the shop floor and his office. Mark pointed to the phone and then back out at John. A sudden rush of anxiety washed over him, and his hands shook as his thoughts turned to his family. He stumbled across the shop floor to the phone on the wall. Sweat built on his brow as the panic grew in his chest. Slowly, he picked up the receiver and pulled it to his ear as if it might bite him.

  “Hello.”

  John heard a click as Mark hung up the other line.

  “John?”

  He breathed a sigh of relief as he recognized the doctor’s voice.

  “Dr. Taylor, this is John.”

  A deep breath followed a long silence. John prepared himself for the worst.

  “I’ve done some blood work on the samples I took from Alex,” Dr. Taylor said.

  There was another long pause, as if Dr. Taylor was reading something, waiting for this minute to finish.

  “Yes,” John said.

  “I…I’m not really sure what any of this means.”

  John waited for the doctor to explain the comment.

  “Alex seems to be infected with some unknown compound on a cellular level. It’s not like anything I’ve even seen.”

  “What does that mean, Doctor?”

  “I know it’s not what you want to hear, John, but that boy needs to be in a hospital.” Dr. Taylor’s tone was more determined. “We’ll figure out the cost later. Don’t get caught up on that. I have real concerns for Alex’s health.”

  “I…um…I…”

  “Don’t think about it, John,” Dr. Taylor said. “Go home and get Alex to Ardville Memorial Hospital. Get him there today. I’ll call ahead and make arrangements.”

  John was nodding his head but couldn’t bring himself to speak.

  “Don’t think about it. Just get in your truck and go get your boy.”

  John didn’t say goodbye. He could still hear Dr. Taylor talking as he hung up the phone. He looked back at Mark’s window. He wasn’t the type of boss who thought highly of employees leaving early. Mark wasn’t in his office. John made a careful, although hurried, calculation that he would be better off trying to sneak out than to ask for permission to leave. He’d done it before. John called out across the first bay.

  “Mike.”

  He saw stained pant legs underneath the old Chevy. Mike rolled out and spotted John.

  “What’s a matter, buddy?” Mike asked. “You don’t look so good.”

  “I got to go,” John said.

  “Everything all right?”

  “No.”

  Whatever Mike saw in John’s eyes was enough information.

  “Go ahead,” Mike said, as he leaned around the front tires and looked back at Mark’s office. “I’ll cover for you. Just don’t let anyone see you pulling out of the parking lot.”

  John didn’t respond. It took a moment for his mind to catch up with the conversation. “Just go,” Mike said.

  John heard Mike and started to move. He slipped out through the bay door and headed around the building. A moment later, he was in his truck and driving. The drive home was a blur. He tried to focus on what he needed to do but found his thoughts drifting. Something in Dr. Taylor’s voice told him it was even worse than he was letting on. The lights and sounds of the small town gave way to open fields and sloping lowlands. Sunlight reflected off the hood of the old truck. John kept the windows down as he tried to read between everything the doctor had said.

  “It’s too important,” John said to himself. “We’ll get through this.”

  He turned on the radio and tried to clear his head. The music had little effect, but he kept it on. The drive took longer than usual, and by the time he could see the outline of his house on the horizon, over an hour had passed. John tapped his fingers nervously on the steering wheel. His heart was racing as he tried to anticipate what might happen at the hospital.

  In one sudden moment, all of that changed. Angela burst out the front door and fell to her knees on the lawn. Her face was streaked with tears as she frantically screamed. John’s heart sank. He coul
dn’t hear her, but he already knew what she was saying. The truck pulled into the driveway and John jumped out. The shrill of Angela’s voice was bloodcurdling.

  “No!”

  John ran to her. He fell down in front of her and tried to put his arms around her. Angela punched and pushed at him as she continued to scream.

  “God, please.” She looked at John as if for the first time. “My baby’s gone. My baby’s dead.”

  John felt sick as his soul tore in two. He let Angela go and sat motionless as they knelt on the front lawn in agony. John wept as the sound of a mother’s desperate pleas roared up to the heavens.

  3

  John watched as if looking at the world through someone else’s eyes. He picked Angela off the ground and carried her into the house. She screamed and wailed like a banshee, the pain in her voice unmistakable. He felt nothing, having disconnected from his feelings, unable to accept what his wife had said. His son couldn’t be dead. He was only a boy. Little boys didn’t die; little boys had long lives ahead of them.

  Crumpled on the living room floor like broken furniture, John and Angela cried. They sat for hours, at times inconsolable. Their nerves were like raw wires and their senses corrupted by the anguish. There was nothing in life for them to compare the feelings. John felt sick; the thought of his son was like a punch in the gut. The wave of pain was inescapable, and he was drowning in it.

  It was late in the night when he came to. Angela was lying on the floor beside him. At some point, they’d both fallen asleep. He brushed the hair from her eyes and watched her deep, slow breaths for a moment. He tried not to think about anything else. Alex was in the other room, but John didn’t have the heart to look. There wasn’t a light on in the house, and the darkness in the living room was complete.

  He allowed his eyes to adjust and then came to his feet. He took the small blanket off the arm of the couch and covered Angela. He would try and let her sleep as long as she could. The concern for her mental state was something else he didn’t want to think about.

  He stumbled across the dining room into the kitchen and pulled at the refrigerator door. He poured himself a glass of water and stood in the glow of the refrigerator light for several minutes. His mind was swimming as he tried to figure out what he should do without having to think about it at the same time. He went back into the living room and stood frozen, looking at the floor. The blanket was lying on the carpet, but Angela was missing. John put the glass down and examined the front door; the lock was still in place. He eyed the dark hallway.

  He walked to the edge of the hall with hesitant steps, his ears picked up a quick shuffle from somewhere farther down, and then everything was silent. He plunged slowly into the darkness with the sound of his heart pounding in his ears, the rising of his breath like a windstorm. A thin slice of moonlight outlined the open edge of Alex’s door. He was almost unwilling to go any closer. He could hear her breathing. John forced himself to take a step, and then another.

  He pressed his hand against the doorframe and peered inside. The lone window was open, and a breeze pushed the drapes aside. There was a distinct, large mass atop the small twin bed. John felt repulsed although he couldn’t explain why. The boy was dead. He imagined the feel of his cold skin against her and his ridged limbs. He nearly vomited. He pushed himself away with one last look and backed out into the hall.

  ♦

  Angela woke early in the morning. John watched her come into their room, her face void of emotion. She looked close enough to count among the dead. He hadn’t slept, lying there in the night trying to pass the time. He didn’t know what to say to her. She used the bathroom and started to leave. John felt he had to say something.

  “We need to call Dr. Taylor.”

  His voice was loud after the long silence.

  “No,” she said.

  “But we need…”

  John stopped when she kept walking. He heard her go back into Alex’s room and shut the door. He forced himself to get out of bed. He took a shower and put on some clean clothes. After a call into work to say he wouldn’t be in, he stood at the end of the hall looking at the closed door. Sunlight crept across the floor, leaving a long shadow on one side of the hall. Something about Angela’s eyes scared him. He wanted to call Dr. Taylor anyway but didn’t. John tried Alex’s doorknob and found it locked. He knocked lightly and called out to his wife.

  “Angela.”

  Silence.

  “Baby.”

  Nothing.

  “We need to talk about this.” He waited for several minutes and hoped he wouldn’t have to bust through the door. “This isn’t going to make anything better.”

  “Just go away,” she said. “This will never be better.”

  “That’s not what I meant.” He knocked on the door with increasing force. “Open the door so we can talk.”

  He stopped and heard the bed squeak, followed by steps in his direction. The knob turned and the door swung open. John leaned back as a swift, awful smell hit his nose.

  “Come out here, Angela,” he said. “He’s gone, baby, and there’s nothing we can do about it.”

  A terrible scowl covered her face. “God wouldn’t do this,” she said. “He wouldn’t take my baby.”

  “Come here.” He grabbed her arm. “Let’s talk in the living room.” He didn’t want to step in Alex’s room ever again. He was taken by surprise when she pulled away from him. Both arms swung widely, and her fist caught him on the jaw. He stumbled back and had to use the wall to keep from falling.

  “You won’t take away my baby,” she said.

  She hit him two more times before he could get out of arm’s reach.

  “That’s enough,” he said and then turned for the kitchen. “We can’t do anything.”

  John heard Angela’s footsteps running down the hall. He’d reached the dining room when the impact hit him in the back. Flung forward, John crashed onto the floor with a violent slam. He gasped for air and tried to clear the daze from his head. One strike after another, Angela punched him in the back of the head. He forced himself off the ground, and she flipped over on her back.

  “You’re crazy,” he said, yelling.

  “No one’s coming to take my baby.” Angela ran into the kitchen with John close behind. “No one.” He wasn’t fast enough to stop her, and by the time he caught up, she had the phone receiver in one hand and a butcher knife in the other. They eyed one another like fierce combatants, standing a few feet apart.

  “Put the knife down,” John said, trying to calm his voice. He didn’t recognize the insane rage in his wife’s stare.

  “No one’s going to take my baby,” she said.

  “All right, no one’s going to take him. Just put the knife down.”

  The standoff lasted a few minutes before Angela dropped the phone. The hard, plastic receiver bounced off the linoleum floor, dangling by the coiled cord. Her posture relaxed, but she didn’t put the knife down.

  “We need to talk about this,” John said.

  “They’ll come in here,” she said, her voice shaking. “They’ll come in here and put their filthy hands on my baby.” She started to cry. “They’ll put him in a bag, John. They’ll put my baby in a bag.”

  She set the knife down on the counter. John took two steps and wrapped his arms around her. He grabbed the knife with one hand and slid it into the sink. He let her cry for a while until her body went limp in his arms.

  ♦

  They lay on the kitchen floor for an hour. John decided to stay close to Angela. He didn’t want to let her out of his sight. In her state, there was no telling what she would do.

  Angela was calm. She’d stopped crying although she didn’t say much. She had a blank stare on her face, her eyes locked on the phone receiver still dangling from the cord. John decided he would try to make some progress.

  “Dr. Taylor would never do anything to hurt Alex.” He waited for some type of reply but got nothing. “You know that, don’t you?”<
br />
  Angela slowly nodded.

  “He’ll treat Alex as if he were his own son.” Even as John said the words, he didn’t really believe them. Dr. Taylor was a good man, but the truth was, the doctor had little to do with the dead. He knew he would have to get Angela out of the house when the ambulance came.

  “He will?”

  The words crept from Angela’s mouth in a whisper.

  John hugged her. “He will,” he said.

  He tried to get up and stand Angela up with him. She was wobbly but managed to stay on her feet. Her stare was still on the phone, her mouth hanging open. A long line of spit dangled from her bottom lip.

  “Why don’t you go back to Alex’s room,” John said. He wasn’t sure if it was the best idea, but he didn’t want her listening while he explained to Dr. Taylor what had happened.

  She nodded and shuffled out of the kitchen.

  “I’ll be back there in a second,” he said.

  Angela said something, but he couldn’t make it out. John stood next to the sink as he tried to think of what he would say. He tried to come to the words, Alex is dead. Tears filled his sunken eyes. Maybe I should check on her, he thought, and then he shook his head. He knew he was stalling. He took a deep breath, crossed the kitchen, hung up the receiver, and waited. He was mad at himself for stalling.

  He gaped at the phone as if it might shock him. He picked up the receiver and studied the numbers. There was a faint glow from the pale, green light beneath the numbered buttons. The continuous sound coming from the earpiece was somewhat soothing. He knew what to dial. The finality of the call was what stung the most. Once he told anyone, it was all over. He would have to accept that his son was dead. They would come as Angela had said, and they would put his boy in a bag.