Xion Island Carrier: Chapter 11.

The isolation ward, set up as an emergency ICU, was too bright. Always bright, an internal room without windows, compensating for the lack of sunshine. It was too quiet but those damned machines clicked and chirped like invading insects while James’ family bled and faded.

He hadn’t moved in fourteen hours. His back ached, and his emotions were stiffened and numb. But he wouldn’t leave—not even to pee, or stretch his legs. He didn’t dare blink properly in case they left him while his eyes were closed. His son was in the closest bed, and James had learned a startling truth: at times like this, the world didn’t stagger to let you catch up.

Aaron was unnaturally still. The sheet covered his mechanically assisted breath. His mouth was open, with tubes forcing it wide, and monitors blinked beside the bed. A nurse, lovely Fatima, had written on a clipboard chart, and he noticed how neat her writing was, despite rushing. 10:26: SATS: O2 91%, trending down. He’d read the notes as soon as she’d left the room.

Trending down. What a delicate way to say: he’s dying.

James hadn’t cried for a while. Crying meant giving up. He clenched his fists until his nails dug crescent-moons into his palms, and he watched his son fight a war that nobody had thought to equip him for. Where was his bazooka and AK-47?

He missed his son’s voice. The boy had groaned in pain when he was admitted, but he’d stopped making any noise at all. Coma had a way of silencing people, taking Aaron’s voice. The machines talked for him, and the alien thing infecting him had eaten his larynx. The oxygen feed had taken his mouth, and the disease did the rest.

Alison’s chart echoed Aaron’s, or he repeated hers. Which of them started this? Millie, running around with some boy, what was his name now? And did it even matter? She was beautiful, even in near-death, perhaps more than ever in this vulnerable state. She looked peaceful, but she was too vibrant and wonderful to be taken from him. Her temperature had topped 104.8, but at least the medication stopped her convulsions. She looked like Sleeping Beauty in a glass coffin—and the thought chilled him. Aaron needed an AK, and Millie, her Prince Charming, to kiss her awake. Alison needed hope, and they all waited in their induced comas for James to sort this out.

Three lives, reduced to memories and social media video clips. They’d never run in the Lake District countryside or sing again. Hope didn’t die in silence. It screamed first, and through it, James stood on healthy dry land and hated himself for living while his family drowned.

Shit. He’d nodded off. He woke, startled, mortified. He was ashamed of himself. How could his eyes close even for a second, while his children died? Dr Fendt had rushed away to rally more damning test results, but he was back, with tired eyes smiling at James. He spoke gently as James wiped his mouth and straightened in his chair. ‘It’s okay. Take your time. No rush, but please can I have a word outside when you’ve got a minute?’

‘No,’ James didn’t even look at him. He knew the doctor wasn’t bringing anything to cling to. ‘Say it here.’

Dr Fendt hesitated, then nodded. ‘Aaron’s condition is deteriorating. It won’t be long now. His organs are tired. He’s on full ventilation and broad-spectrum antivirals, but it’s time to think about letting him go, James.’ He trailed off, and James didn’t help him.

The words hit his chest, and he stared at Aaron’s body. What about his star-studded career playing for United? ‘No. Don’t say that. My boy’s strong. He plays football. And he’ll get through this. Don’t you dare turn him off.’

‘If that’s your wish, I promise, we’ll do everything we can to prolong Aaron’s life. James, this is your call—he’s not in pain. But he’s near the end. You need to be prepared.’

‘Can I hold his hand?’ James asked.

‘Of course.’

‘What about Alison and Millie?’ His voice was robotic. If he let one hint of inflection into his voice, it would be followed by the ear-splitting scream he held inside.

‘They’re very poorly.’

James nodded and took his son’s hand. The skin was hot. Not warm—hot, like boiled leather. His knuckles had swollen. IV medication ran into both arms, a tree of life connecting him to every second he stayed inside his body. The machines played a mournful pre-requiem dirge. And somewhere deep in the rhythm, James was persuaded to pray. He figured the Big Man might overlook the fact that they weren’t close friends.

It was forced, without many formed thoughts or pretty words. There were no bargains or trade-offs, and it wasn’t calling to any particular god or demon. ‘Please. Don’t take him.’ Although Aaron responded with the rasp of breath and a screen showed his heart’s pulse, James knew he’d all but gone. And when he was done praying, and divine intervention didn’t make Aaron sit up and smile his crooked grin, he leaned forward, brushing the fringe away from his forehead.

‘Do you remember last year when we got stuck in the snow?’ he whispered. ‘You were seven and we had to leave the car and walk to the garage. You pretended we were secret agents on a mission—like, spies or something. And when you were tired, I carried you on my back and we slipped and slid along with you giggling so hard.’

Aaron smiled in response—but only in James’ mind.

‘You were always tough, mate. Stronger than anyone knows. So let’s show them how brilliant you are. Come on. Dad’s here. I’m waiting for you, son. Let’s go and kick a ball on the green. Wake up for me, kiddo, because you’re giving your old man palpitations here.’ He had to let go of a boy with scraped knees and dreams too big for his football boots.

Aaron’s eyes fluttered—but didn’t open. James saw it as a response, even though he’d been doing it all along. He’d come back in a minute. They’d see. Aaron’s mouth moved. He was dreaming, already walking onto the field with his ball under his arm. ‘You’re going to be okay,’ James said. ‘What does that doctor know? He doesn’t understand how amazing you are.’

A nurse stepped in, adjusted a tube, and smiled. Pity—a whole insipid world of sympathy in her eyes. She didn’t say anything. And left.

The machine didn’t sound as tireless, as though it could go on ad infinitum.

It slowed, the beeps becoming lazy.

James’s gaze snapped to the monitor.

O2: 85%. 81%. 78%.

Alarms chimed. James clutched his heart as though they were screaming about him.

Two nurses came in fast, followed by another doctor, but Dr Fendt was calm. He moved to the bed and checked Aaron’s lines.

‘Respiratory failure,’ a nurse said in a whisper, as though that made it easier. She shut off the alarm and reset the machine.

‘James, would you like to step outside?’ Dr Fendt asked. It was a question, not an order.

James shook his head, frozen. And Fendt nodded in response. Without taking his eyes off Aaron, he touched James’ arm. ‘This is it,’ he said, preparing James for the shock. He looked at the second doctor and one of the two nurses. ‘Thank you. We can manage here.’ After he dismissed them, he smiled at James and spoke to the other nurse. ‘Nurse Collins, you’ve been Aaron’s primary care nurse, so please can you stay?’

Fatima nodded but didn’t speak. This was the time for silence and respect. As few intrusive words as possible.

The room filled with sound: plastic snapping, machines screeching. Fatima delivered the stats in code as her hands moved over Aaron’s body, pressing, checking he was comfortable as he left his dad, adjusting.

And Aaron didn’t move.

The line on the monitor dipped. Flattened. Jerked.

Then went flat.

A long, high note pierced the room and lodged inside James’ brain forever.

‘No pulse,’ the nurse said.

‘Commence CPR,’ Dr Fendt ordered. Fatima counted compressions as he bagged oxygen every fifteen beats.

James pressed against the wall, letting it hold him up as he watched them try to bring his son back. His little boy became less with every crushing pressure on his sternum and every second that passed. James watched him disappear, the football under his arm dropped to bounce on the newly cut grass.

After five minutes—and a lifetime—Dr Fendt checked the time out loud. ‘Give him another cycle,’ he said. James knew the doctor was treating him, not Aaron.

Ten minutes.

Fifteen.

James fell to his knees.

‘Please,’ he said. ‘Please don’t stop.’

At nineteen minutes, Fatima looked into Dr Fendt’s eyes. He nodded. It was a small acceptance, but devastating.

James screamed, ‘No.’  

And the room was quiet.

Bob Fendt angled his body so that James would have to look past him to see the nurse removing the tubes and wires defiling his son. He nodded at James. ‘I’m so sorry. Take as much time as you need.’

James looked at Aaron—he was sleeping, that’s all. So peaceful, so beautiful. He felt the world dissolve around him and let the shock in. He didn’t get up from the floor. Something inside him caved and collapsed.

The next twelve hours dissolved into a blur of diminishing breath and then death. Millie went first— she was fast. A sudden seizure, and his pocket-rocket was still forever. James let go of the persistent scream. Millie had once said hospitals were where Wi-Fi goes to die, and when he was all screamed out, the memory made him smile through his devastation.

 Afterwards, he sat beside his wife. He presented her with a bouquet from the hospital gift shop. ‘They aren’t much, but it’s the best I could do. Fancy springing a date night on me like this. What are you like?’

She didn’t answer.

‘Look at me. I haven’t even changed my shirt for you, but you’re beautiful, as always. Remember our first date, darling? I knew right then that I was punching, but I made it my mission to make you love me.’ His voice broke. Remembering happy times was too much. ’There I go, getting all soppy. You’ll have me singing to you next.’ He shook his head to dislodge the memories, there’d be time for those later. He kissed her tenderly on the lips and her forehead, forced back the flood, and spoke to her like a father would, arranging the school day’s childcare with his wife. ‘So Alison. You look after those kids for me. Keep them warm. Keep them safe, and make sure you tell them I love them. You hear?’ He didn’t beg her to stay. He knew she had to go. The room was full of machines, but the only sound James heard was goodbye.

Alison died at eight-forty-six that night—her heart stopped, restarted, then failed for good. James had become an old hand at this. He let the wall support him. Sitting in the hollow space where his family had been,  he watched nurses avoid his eyes.

He stopped speaking and couldn’t focus when Nash returned, stiff and sympathetic, but with more questions and no answers.

There was a crime scene in his home. Forensics and investigators, all looking for something to blame him with. Nash advised him to avoid the press, circling like vultures outside the hospital gates where they’d been kept back. James was grateful there was no arrest. Not yet. But nothing mattered anymore. Jail was better than going home when he was allowed back in the house. Hell would have been preferable to that empty house filled with ghosts.

Why was he in good health? Doctors mentioned genetics. Immunity, and an anomaly. But all James could think was that they were gone.

And he wasn’t.

Xion Island Carrier is book 6 in the DCI Nash series. They're all on KU. Hush Hush Honeysuckle is Book One, and this is the Amazon link.

 

https://books2read.com/u/4EB0zg