Xion Island Zero: Chapter 43

The cabin was silent. The kind of shocked quiet that follows a tragedy. Blood had soaked into the floorboards. It oozed from damaged flesh until it sank, sticky and dark. Nash sprawled on the floor against the splintered wall. He worried about dirt on his good trousers. His breath was shallow. Pain lanced his side. He’d had a good life. No complaints.

Travis grinned at him from a few feet away, a double smile with his throat open from one ear to the other. His eyes were vacant, but fixed on Nash even in death.

The team had burst in moments too late, and that was sad for everybody. Their weapons were drawn, and they worked like automatons—trained, surgical, no time for sentiment or error. Not yet.

Renshaw stood over him, watching helplessly. Molly was shouting. Hands pressed on his body, but the noise came to Nash muffled and distant—like it was all taking place in another room.

He felt himself breathe.

‘He’s alive!’ Renshaw relayed the message through comms as Molly worked to save Nash’s life. The relief in his voice cut through the horror.

‘Don’t just stand there with your finger up your arse,’ Molly panted at him between chest compressions. ‘Help me,’ she said. But Norton was already there and dropped beside Brown. Her hands were shaking as she pressed against the wound in Nash’s side. ‘We need medics in here. Now,’ she screamed.

Nash looked between them, but his eyes lingered on Molly’s face. His girl. His OG. She was crying over him as she worked. His vision blurred, but his voice was surprisingly intact as he spoke through pink blood bubbles. ‘I told you I’m indestructible,’ he croaked. The few words tired him and had taken more energy than their net worth. He wished he’d said something meaningful.

She huffed through her panic. ‘Don’t you dare die on me. You stupid, stubborn bastard.’

‘Stupid, stubborn bastard, sir,’ he muttered. Or did he? He thought he did.

Other hands took over, and Molly was moved back. He didn’t want her to leave him, but he needn’t have worried. She was going nowhere. ‘Get off me, dickhead,’ she said to whoever tried to take her. Nash felt her grab his hand. He knew it was Molly. Only Kelvin cared about him more than she did, and he wasn’t here. Her feelings leaked out in telltale waves, and she clung to him as the medics worked.

The rhythmic beeping of a heart monitor had arrived from somewhere, and as long as it kept going, it was a soothing sound. Nash let it take him like a lullaby. He drifted through pain into the quiet space beyond it, and he thought about snow on his rooftop, of laughter echoing through their house as they’d sip eggnog as a newly married couple on Christmas Day. And he tried to remember the vows he’d written but hadn’t spoken yet.

He floated away, and the next thing he was aware of was a sterile hospital room bathed in pale morning light. Molly was still holding his hand; had she held it right through surgery? He listened as she told him off, and Kelvin loved him, and a doctor ran through his list of injuries.

The punctured lung made every breath a struggle, and his side had been smashed with the force of a wrecking ball. But he was alive.

Kelvin was still in his overcoat. He’d come straight from the office the night before and hadn’t moved. Nash was a detective. He detected things, and the three empty coffee cups beside him told Nash that Kel had been charming the nurses. His face was creased with worry. And the hurt he saw there made Nash sad. Kelvin’s polished ebony skin didn’t have lines, worry or otherwise. What was Nash doing to him?

‘I thought I’d lost you,’ he whispered. His eyes were glassy as he filled a mug from the jug on the bedside. Rituals didn’t change. In hospitals, they played out the same way every time. He shook his head, trying to push the water away. He wanted tea—tea and toast with lashings of butter. Oh, no, he didn’t. That was a thought too greasy, and he stared wildly around him for a cardboard hat to puke in as the anaesthetic wore off. His stomach settled before he found one, and he gratefully accepted a few sips of water.

‘Hi,’ Nash rasped, managing a tired smile.

Kelvin sat beside him, taking his hand in both of his. ‘Don’t you ever do that to me again.’

Nash squeezed his fingers. ‘I’m here, babe.’

He was aware of Molly sliding her hand out from under his to leave the room and give them some privacy. She was a good kid. Kelvin leaned forward, pressing a kiss to his forehead. ‘You daft man. We’ve got a wedding coming up in ten days. You can’t scare me like that.’

 That afternoon, they were all back. Molly, Keeley, and Jay crashed into the room in a flurry of noise and Celebration chocolates. Nash woke up and smiled, wondering what he had to celebrate, and then he saw Kelvin and remembered.

‘You look like roadkill,’ Keeley said with affectionate bluntness, and a bag of grapes.

‘And you sound like a jackhammer,’ Nash said. Jay was talking, too. It was fast and contained so many words, all coming at him at once. ‘Jay, hit your off switch, mate.’

He was narrating the aftermath of the cabin scene with dramatic flair. ‘And then I wheelied past Brown, and shouted “Eat my dust!” She was a mess after she found you.’

‘Wheelied on what? Your Barbie bike with pink handlebar ribbons and a basket?’ Brown said.

‘I was speaking metaphorically. Bite me,’ Bowes snapped back.

‘Out,’ Nash yelled. ‘All of you. Before I yank out my drip and use the wire to strangle you all.’

‘He’s on form,’ Molly said, taking charge and ushering the others out to leave Nash and Kelvin alone again. ‘You should go home and get some sleep,’ she said to Kel as she passed.

Keeley squeezed Nash’s shoulder. ‘Glad you’re still with us, boss.’

The room settled as though a storm had blown in and then left as suddenly. A nurse came and went. The lights dimmed, and the sun fell on another day.

When he woke in the morning, it would be nine days until he married the love of his life.

Dr Fendt called in before he left for the night. It was kind of him to stop by when he’d heard Nash had been hurt. ‘Detective Nash,’ he said. ‘I popped in earlier, it’s good to see you awake. You had us worried there.’

‘Just tell me when I can get the hell out of here.’

Bob Fendt laughed. ‘You’re a great detective, but you make a rotten patient. The nurses tell me you’ve been giving them a hard time. You’re going to be here for at least a couple of days.’

Nash raised himself on the bed and winced. ‘We’ll see about that.’

‘You’ve got a punctured lung, three fractured ribs, and a torn muscle in your side. Still want to run?’

Nash pulled another face. ‘Travis Bernstein?’

‘I’m sorry. He didn’t make it. Confirmed at the scene.’

‘I know that much. Hell, I was there when he cut himself shaving. I mean, where is he?’

There was silence until Fendt continued, more gently. ‘He’s been for an autopsy. And more importantly, we’ve traced the remaining tick infections through the Taylor lineage. Every infected member has succumbed, meaning the pathogen has been contained.’

Nash closed his eyes. Relief and sadness warred inside him. ‘All that death, and for what?’

‘Bernstein was unwell. But it’s over.’

‘The hatchlings?’

‘Sorry?’

‘He threatened a new outbreak.’

‘Nothing to worry about.’ Fendt patted the back of his hand and averted his gaze. Nash caught the look. The doctor didn’t look so sure of himself. But he was no expert in killer diseases outside the realm of normal. They were all out of their depth. ‘Don’t worry about anything other than getting better. I need that bed.’

Kelvin returned as the doctor excused himself.

‘Christ, it’s like revolving doors in this place,’ Nash said.

‘Hey, Grumpy. Chill your soup or I’ll go again without showing you what I’ve brought.’

He held a garment bag over one arm and had a small box in the other.

‘I’ve got your wedding suit,’ he said, putting it over the back of a chair. ‘I thought it might cheer you up, and we can get it altered to fit over your bandages.’

Nash stared at him. ‘We can’t go through with it.’

Kelvin leaned in. ‘You think a punctured lung and a psychopath with a God complex is going to get you off the hook? Not a chance, Inspector Nash. You’re marrying me next week. Whether you like it or not.’

They smiled at each other. They knew what darkness and hell looked like, and that they had choices in life.

Nash stirred at the sound of shoes slapping across the floor. He expected a nurse, or maybe Kelvin was back with more horrendous coffee. But the figure that stepped into the light was only vaguely familiar. An elderly woman stood at the foot of his bed, her expression hesitant. He thought he was dreaming or seeing things.

‘Can I help you?’ he asked.

‘I wasn’t sure if I should come. It’s Hilary,’ she said. ‘Carrie Taylor’s mother.’

Nash felt stupid. It wasn’t like him to forget a face. ‘Of course, Mrs Strickland. Forgive me. I didn’t expect to see you here.’

She stepped closer. ‘I wanted to thank the man who stopped my grandson from hurting anybody else.’

‘I didn’t stop him,’ Nash said. ‘He took his own life.’

‘We all failed him, and I have to live with that. Carrie loved him, you know. Even when we pushed her to give him up, she fought me every step of the way. I made decisions I thought were right at the time. Now I wonder if all this was my fault.’

Nash didn’t have anything to say. She wanted absolution—but he wasn’t the person to give it. Her entire family was gone, and she had to reach into her soul and find a way to forgive herself. Nash knew it wasn’t her fault, but Hilary Strickland had a lot of healing to do to reach that point.  She opened her handbag and took out a Christmas ornament. It was a hand-carved snowflake made from wood.

‘This was found in his belongings at the hotel. He must have made it when he was young. I don’t know why he kept it, or why I’m giving it to you, inspector. Maybe because we should know that he wasn’t always a monster. I think at one point, he was just a lonely little boy.’

She put it on the side table and left without saying anything else. Nash considered hanging the ornament on the tree at home, in honour of the injustice done to the young Laurence Taylor, but he shuddered. It was carved out of misery and regret. He didn’t want it to contaminate their home. Nash turned the snowflake over. He remembered seeing photos of the boy who carved it. His hands would have been small then, his focus sharp, trying to make something beautiful before rage consumed him and he turned to killing.

He lay back, and tears pricked him. The snowflake caught the light and threw tiny stars across the wall.

He closed his eyes as the tears won and squeezed through his lashes.

Christmas was coming. And maybe Conrad Snow was wrong after all, and he’d live to see it.

 

Hush Hush Honeysuckle Silas Nash book 1 KU   https://books2read.com/u/4EB0zg