by A W Wang
Echoes
The Ten Sigma Series Book 3
A. W. Wang
Copyright © 2021 by Aaron W Wang
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in articles and reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents, are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, actual events, or locales is purely coincidental.
Cover design by Ivano Lago
EBook ISBN: 978-1-950519-04-0
Trade Paperback ISBN: 978-1-950519-05-7
Produced in the United States of America
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Echoes from Ten Sigma
Before you go…
Acknowledgments
By A.W. Wang
About the Author
To all those who will brave any odds
and never give up their dreams…
One
My chosen path has led me to this point.
As I stand in the doorway of the makeshift hospital room, uncertainty knots in my stomach. Mary, my wife of eleven years, lies on the bed in front of me, her frail body barely making a bump in the dirty sheets. Although she’s on the edge of death, her health isn’t my only worry. Besides the relentless cancer, she’s been acting peculiar, especially when she thinks I’m not watching.
The long, unfocused gazes. The hard furrows of concentration across her forehead. The hopeless sighs. Mary has always chewed her nails, but now, they’ve been gnawed to nubs.
These behaviors might be from the sickness, but…
Something’s wrong.
I stare through the flickering gleams of the overhead bulb playing on my glasses, willing her to say what’s wrong.
She stays silent, only sending a wave goodbye.
Although it’s well past visiting hours, I hate leaving, even for just the night. I don’t misread people, and I definitely don’t misread the person who is my soulmate.
A moment passes before exhaustion overrides my better judgment, and I decide tomorrow, when the sun is shining, will be a better time for a discussion.
With a sigh, I step into the hallway and close the door. My work boots thud on the threadbare carpeting as I walk by other cubicles, focusing past the suffering leaking through the tall partitions.
The nagging sense of finality tempts me to turn back.
Something’s really wrong.
However, since Mary needs rest and I have to plan the next trip searching for a cure, I shove the fears aside and head downstairs.
The narrow staircase ends on the ground level and spills into the general ward, a common room crowded with those even less fortunate. A sea of beds stretches beyond the dim cones of light falling from overhead, and more than a few groans fill the dark spaces near the walls.
My anger rises as I march through the misery.
This accursed place can’t be the end.
When I step past the open entryway, I pause and ball my hand, vowing never to lose the love of my life.
I need to believe tomorrow will be better. Because without optimism, what are you? Without moving forward, what do you have?
Feeling more determined, I head to the faint glows of the nurse’s station.
When I near the counter, Nicole, the night nurse, sends me a harried glance as she works on an old computer. I rest my elbow next to the desk lamp with a pleasant smile.
A few moments pass before she brushes stray hairs from her cheek and says, “Nick, how can I help?”
“I need discharge papers.”
She bites her lip. “Hold on, the night doctor wants to speak with you.”
Without a choice, I nod as she calls for him.
Dr. Jones, a thin, overworked man, runs from a back office, his lab coat spattered with faded specks of blood. When he reaches me, he says, “I understand you want us to discharge Mary?”
“There’s another lead in the Andes.”
“With all due respect, this is a bad idea.”
I lift my glasses and rub my nose, tired from the long day. “Look Doc, if this is about the money—”
His hand jitters in a no gesture. “Your friend who sends the supplies has been a godsend.”
Jimmy, the best man at my wedding, has been sneaking medical supplies to the care center as an alternative to payment. I don’t ask where he gets them, and I don’t tell the doctors who’s getting them.
“Then what’s the problem?”
“I know you want to save her, but I’m not sure you’re taking into account her current condition. It’s likely she won’t survive the trip or any new treatments.”
“If we stay here, can you guarantee a cure will be found and become available in time?”
He breaks eye contact, looking at the nicks in the laminated counter.
“We’ll take our chances,” I say politely. “My friend likes what you’re doing here. He’ll keep helping, even after we leave.”
The doctor sighs. “Nicole, give me the discharge form.”
After she passes him a tablet, he pauses. “Are you sure?”
I nod.
He presses his thumb to the DNA scanner. “Okay, it’s done, but I don’t like it.”
“This isn’t the wrong—”
“Decision? The situation is dire, and you can only hope to make less bad ones. Hopefully, this trip will be successful, but I’ll keep her room open just in case. Promise you’ll bring her right back if things don’t work out.”
“This place is pretty crowded.”
“Exactly. I think you’ll be back soon, and she’ll need her own private space without me kicking someone out.”
I smile. “That’s the best offer I’ve heard in a while. But this time, we’ll get the cure. Use the bed on someone who needs it.”<
br />
A moment passes before he nods.
After I step outside the entry doors, I pause under the front lights, letting the winter air clear away the stale odor of the care center. I pull up the collar of my bomber jacket, shivering.
The doctor’s right. This plan is a long shot, but it has to work.
It’s all we have left.
With a long night ahead, I march down the front stairs and into the darkness.
A self-driving cab drops me off a couple of kilometers from home. Although there’s a curfew, I need the sting of winter against my face.
My footsteps echo from the nearby buildings as I march past the few streetlights interrupting the night. Behind fences topped with barbed wire, once useful three-story structures lie deserted, their windows boarded and drab walls covered with graffiti—victims of the failing economy.
Even though my determination has overridden the doctor’s objections toward the plan, my mind still whirls in turmoil.
I pull the leather jacket tighter and walk faster, trying to outrun my desperate thoughts. By the time I cross into the residential district where warm lines of light appear here and there between drawn curtains, I’m sprinting.
What am I uneasy about?
As our single-story cottage comes into view, my frantic steps slow, and soon, I’ve stopped, hands on thighs, gulping heavy breaths. The last wave goodbye from my wife still has me spooked, and I can’t figure out why.
I cover the remaining distance at a jog, only pausing to open the gate of the white picket fence. Under the starlight, the fitted stones and painted porch look unassuming, even bland. The two-bedroom house isn’t the biggest or most expensive place in the neighborhood, but it’s the most tasteful and that makes it the best.
Wafts of scented oil hit me after I step into the foyer and lock the door. When I flip the ancient light switch, tungsten bulbs flare and a deep yellow pours through art déco fixtures, making wavy gleams on the walnut paneling. Courtesy of my wife Mary, everything in the T-shaped hallway looks and feels perfect.
Relaxing, I swivel and enter the den, the cozy space devoted to my sports paraphernalia and hologram projector. After kicking off my boots, I step onto a shaggy rug and toss my bomber jacket over the love seat. A small metal desk and comfy chair complete the assortment of man-cave furniture.
“Jasmine, on.”
A pink glow breaks the gloomy shadows as a cute fairy holding a wand materializes above the desk. Although the AI is only a basic assistant, it’s immune from hacking, which is the only way I’d trust software with my personal information.
“You have fifty-nine messages,” Jasmine chirps, leaking holographic specks of pink stardust.
While not showing weakness is important, I’m alone, so I slump into the chair and rest my head between my hands.
“How many are for bills?”
The happy AI voice replies, “Fifty-nine.”
“How many are urgent?”
“Fifty-nine.”
I moan in anguish, wondering if someone’s hacked my unhackable AI and implanted a sense of humor.
The innocent face returns a blank stare.
I rub my temples and watch the falling pink sparks cascade over a 1920s-style phone, a fifth-anniversary present from Mary.
A dark fury rises inside me, and I slam my palms on the desktop with a hollow thud.
My wife is dying, and giving up is not an option.
As long as her heart beats, there is a chance.
I raise my head from the ashes, telling the AI, “Let’s get the travel plans set up for the trip. Keep searching for more cures and prioritize the bills in order of past due date.”
Everything will be better tomorrow.
Tomorrow arrives with the blare of metallic rings.
I crack open my eyes, blinking from sunshine stabbing between the curtains.
It’s late morning.
Shit.
I overslept after spending the night postponing the avalanche of bills for a couple of days.
But today, everything will be better because today is the day we find the cure.
The evil five-year-anniversary present rings again.
Hating the one homage in my man cave to the vintage style of the cottage, I force my hand over the desk and yank the receiver from its cradle. “Hello?”
My sister-in-law Emily’s voice spills from the round earpiece. “Nick, it’s Emily. Where have you been?” Her tone contains an edginess I’m not sure I like.
I push my glasses up and rub my bleary eyes. “I’ve been here. I overslept.”
A sigh leaks from the earpiece and then a sniffle.
I’m definitely not liking where this phone call is heading.
“Emily, what is it?”
Another sniffle comes, and knots of dread grip the pit of my stomach.
“Emily?”
“I don’t know how to tell you this.” Her voice breaks into a sob. “Mary’s passed away.”
My anger rises as I reply, “That’s not possible. I was with her last night. There were issues, but I’m sure she wasn’t close to death.”
“The hospital called me when they couldn’t reach you.”
“There’s been some mistake. I’m heading down there now,” I say, slamming the receiver back into its cradle.
I push away the chair and stand, grabbing my bomber jacket. A moment after I have Jasmine order a taxi, I fly out of the house.
But, as I wait for my ride, the pit in my stomach grows, even as my mind divorces itself from my churning emotions.
This can’t be true. She can’t be dead.
I hope.
Two
Powered by denial, I arrive at the care center and charge up the front stairs. After the glass doors slide open, I storm inside.
While a couple of nurses buzz around a waiting line of patients, the night nurse Nicole steps from behind the counter to greet me.
Between heavy breaths, I say, “It can’t be true. Mary was sick, but she wasn’t that close.”
Her lips tighten, and she glances at the floor. “Nick, I’m so sorry.”
“Where is she?”
“Nick—”
“Where is my wife?” The question comes out too loud and heads turn.
Nicole raises her palms defensively, replying, “You don’t have to do anything. It’s all been taken care of.”
“What’s been taken care of?”
“Everything.”
“I want to see her.”
“Nick—”
My glare silences any further argument.
She lets out a resigned breath and nods.
I follow her into the common room, where stark bands of sunlight filter through dirty six-paned windows, illuminating many beds filled with sick people.
The sobering view gives pause to my anger; I’m not the only one suffering.
When we leave the oppressive space and enter a service corridor, the heavy odors surrender to chemical scents. Compared with the moans of the patients, the echoes of our feet clacking on the cheap tiles seem too sterile for the surroundings. After turning past a supply closet and passing an open room smelling of formaldehyde, we reach the metal doors of what used to be a meat locker.
“You’re keeping her here?”
Nicole meets my stare with a mask of stoicism. “This is the best place we have for a morgue.”
Morgue.
Any hope I had for this to be some colossal mistake evaporates with the finality of that word.
The insulated door swings open with a sucking sound, and a wall of frigid air falls past.
My heart breaks as I rush inside to a cold steel gurney. Instead of lifting the white sheet, I ball my hands over my mouth.
Nicole joins me. As she grabs the corners of the cloth, her fingers tremble. She spends a moment summoning her courage then pulls the sheet downward.
A breath catches in my throat, and I stifle a wail.
Eyes closed, Mary lies on the shiny metal,
her complexion waxy and gray. Every muscle in her body is limp.
I pinch my lips, searching for something, anything.
A single thought rises above the turmoil.
No matter what I do, she’ll still be gone.
My fist slams on the cold steel.
Nicole says, “Just remember, she’s in a better place. Things are better for her now.”
“How would you know that?”
She swallows, biting her lip, but doesn’t answer.
I breathe slowly to calm myself and tense the muscles across my face to hold back a flood of emotions. After a minute passes, I gingerly extend my hand and touch my wife.
Her skin is cold and clammy, and her muscles devoid of resistance, as though the flesh never held any life at all. But I’m relieved her expression is serene, not feeling any of the pain or nausea that tormented her last days. When I lean close to give her a goodbye kiss, I brush away some of the wisps remaining from her once luxurious red hair.
My fingertips come away powdery.
Odd.
I rub harder, revealing a purplish discoloration over her forehead. Perplexed, I make small strokes, moving my thumb past her temple. The marks continue as if circling around her head.
