Fault

By Jeremy Elder

Scott Siveright has finally kicked cancer and is ready to resume life with his just-married wife Angie when the unthinkable happens—he discovers a tiny prick of light behind his living room couch. What begins as an innocent argument between Scott and Angie over having kids becomes a horrifying struggle in which Scott must penetrate the depths of his mind and aid Angie in a nearly fatal battle with a creature from another world. Fault is about overcoming pain, the consequences of isolation, and the true meaning of love.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jeremy Elder
• Release date: Sep 15, 2013

Book preview

PART ONE

Evaporation

One. The Rains Return.

Scott ambled down a long, linoleum hallway in the USC/Norris Comprehensive Cancer Center, his shoes squeaking on the shiny vinyl tile. No matter how many times he’d been there the multitude of generic doors and placards gave him no clue to his destination. But being lost in this instance did not bother him. He was in no hurry to reach his end.

Scott leaned his umbrella against the wall while he consulted the directory to take a new bearing. Remnants of the rain began to pool at his feet in a rhythmic dribble. Drip, drip, drip. Patter. Drip, drip, drip. Patter.

He traced along the sign with his finger.

Floor six, he said.

Drip, drip, drip. Patter. Creak. Drip, drip, drip. Creak.

Scott’s concentration was broken and he looked away from the placard in search of the strange sound—then gawked.

An old, obese man pulled his wheelchair down the hallway with one good foot on the floor before him and two plump hands on the wheels. His explosion of almost-white hair was counterbalanced by his thick, black eyebrows, now frowning with exertion.

Hi son, what floor are we on? boomed the man’s loud voice between labored breaths.

Scott closed his open mouth. He looked back to the sign even though he remembered the floor, just to break eye contact. Uh, floor four.

Humph, said the large man. I need to get to floor six. He gave a rattling sigh and began to wheel slowly away.

Drip, drip, drip. Creak.

Hey, uh. Don’t you have anyone to help you?

The man paused. My caretaker is sick today.

I’m going to the same floor. I can do it.

The man did his best to shift his massive form around and make eye contact with Scott from over his shoulder. That’s mighty kind of you.

Scott grabbed the handles of the chair and heaved forward. No problem, he grunted, and pushed him down the narrow corridor to the stale-smelling elevator.

Scott listened to the hum of the elevator motor, wishing to get out of the dreary and claustrophobic space. The hazy reflection of the wheelchair man in the elevator doors heaved as it searched for oxygen in the small room. Ding. The elevator doors parted and they were greeted with a rush of cool air from the hallway. Scott wheeled his load through. Uh, do you know what—

608 I believe.

Scott turned left the two rolled along, past the generic brown doors lining the hallway—passages to unknown destinations—and stopped outside the closed door to office 608.

I really appreciate your help, son.

No problem. You know, my appointment is right next door anyway.

The man eyed the placard to room 609. DR. SAMUEL CONLIN, MD. Humph, was his only response.

Scott opened the door to 608 and wheeled the man inside.

This is fine, the man said while signaling the nurse behind the desk. They can get it from here.

Scott turned to leave and the man grabbed Scott’s forearm with a fleshy slap. He looked up to  Scott. You take care of yourself now, you hear?

Scott’s eyes widened. What an odd thing for him to say. He was so big he was practically overflowing his wheelchair. Anyone could see the old man was suffering from a number of ailments, yet he was telling Scott to take care of himself? Still, Scott smiled at the grandfatherly concern. Uh, yeah. I will. Thanks. You too.

The man released his grip and Scott left the room. He turned the handle of his own door and it gave way with a loud clack! He stepped into the dimly lit waiting room of his oncologist.

Scott did the sign-in thing and plopped in a maroon-cushioned waiting chair to thumb through the same dog-eared editions of CAR AND DRIVER and MOTORTREND that he had for the past four years. If he was to be on a cushion staring at a page, he’d rather it be at home—a good book in one hand and Angie in the other. But there was no rushing a doctor’s office, and since he’d forgotten to bring his book, he was stuck memorizing stats for 2007’s hottest sports cars. If he was still coming here for checkups in 20 years, these cars would be classics.

A nurse opened the door that led to the exam rooms and peeked into the waiting room. Scott? Dr. Sam will see you now.

Scott padded down the hall after her.

Dr. Sam will be in shortly. She smiled and left.

Thanks, he said, but the nurse had closed the door on him and was long gone.

Was it possible this room was smaller than the elevator he taken to get to it? There was only space for two chairs and the large exam table. A flat screen monitor hung on the wall adjacent to a long, slim counter, and the AC hummed, pumping stale air laced with isopropyl alcohol into the small space.

Scott’s fingers drummed on the counter. He was antsy to get this over with and get home to Angie. Things were finally starting to stabilize now that he had been cancer-free for more than a year. They could finally get down to being a married couple instead of her mothering him through the his sickness like a helpless child. He had so many plans—great food joints in LA they needed to experience, new places to explore, and now he could finally get serious about his writing goals. And there was the question of kids too. If all went well, this appointment would usher in this new phase of life, a transition from monthly tests and checkups to a much more manageable every six months. He was just finishing up a final finger drum flourish of Pink Floyd’s Take it Back on the counter when Dr. Sam entered the room.

Sorry Scott, not a slow day today, Dr. Sam said. He smiled and ran his stubby fingers through his thick, white hair.

No problem, routine check-ups like mine are probably at the bottom of your to-do list anyways, right? Scott rose to shake his hand.

Dr. Sam’s smile held, but his gaze telegraphed worry. How have you been feeling lately? he said, still gripping Scott’s hand.

Scott pulled away. Fine. Why?

No dizziness, nausea, pain?

Scott shrugged. No. Nothing.

Dr. Sam released Scott’s hand. Why don’t you have a seat Scott.

Scott sat on the edge of the exam table, frowning.

Dr. Sam sat too, spinning towards the computer. He pecked at the keys, bringing up an old CT scan on the wall-hung screen.

This was your cancer four years ago, before we started treatment. Then another image appeared next to the first. This is the same area a year ago, cancer free.

Scott shot Dr. Sam a perplexed look. He knew all of this. Why was Dr. Sam going over this during a routine exam?

Dr. Sam addressed Scott’s confusion with the next image. This is the result of your recent tests.

The final image looked too much like the first. I don’t understand, what are you showing me? Scott said.

Dr. Sam stood to face Scott and gripped his thigh just above his knee. The cancer has spread to your remaining testicle. His eyes made contact with Scott’s. This won’t be as easy as last time.

Scott’s skin tingled as if ants with needle-legs traversed every inch of it’s surface. His stomach tightened into a hard little ball and plummeted like a meteor. He heard the distant pounding of his own heart in his ears, and screwed his face and shook his head as if he could rattle Dr. Sam’s words from his brain. Easy? Two years of chemo and radiation wasn’t easy.

Dr. Sam heaved a deep sigh. No, I didn’t mean to imply that it was. But Stage IIIC is much worse than the IB you had before. He consulted his chart. It has spread to lymph nodes in your abdomen too.

Scott stood to inspect the screen up close. Aren’t there more tests we could do?

I’m sorry Scott, but the diagnosis is conclusive. I’m surprised you haven’t felt sick yet.

I do now. Scott slumped back onto the exam table and inspected his shoes with watery eyes. This can’t be right. We beat it. I thought you cured me, he said.

Dr. Sam leaned back against the counter. I did. In the end you had responded to treatment so well that even I thought that was the end of things. He surveyed Scott’s face. But this thing’s come back with a vengeance.

Scott blinked away his tears before they could fall. Objects in Scott’s periphery started to fade away. Dr. Sam inhabited a tiny point of light at the end of a very dark tunnel, as if Scott were peering through the wrong end of a pair of binoculars. Then everything went black.

Two small, red eyes emerged from the center of the darkness. As they grew to fill his vision, so did a dread unlike anything Scott had ever felt. The eyes of flame pierced into his very being and mocked his weakness.

YOU WILL DIE

Scott? Dr. Sam reached down the dark tunnel to place a reassuring hand on Scott’s shoulder.

Scott blinked, the red eyes faded away.

I know this is hard news. I hate it as much as you. This is the worst part of my job. It wears me down. But we have to start treatment now. Timing is critical.

Timing? Scott said, his voice echoing in his head.

You’re a real tough guy. You did good last time. But the prognosis isn’t good. We can fight it, but I can’t make any promises. He placed a pamphlet on Scott’s lap. Things have advanced since your last treatment. Aggressive cancers like this qualify for new clinical trials. We might be able to beat the typical three-month prognosis.

Scott’s head creaked on his strained neck. It took his eyes a moment to focus and read the title of the pamphlet: High Dose Chemotherapy with Stem Cell Transplant: Treatment You Can Trust. He laughed despite himself. TREATMENT YOU CAN TRUST. Right now he wasn’t even trusting he’d be around this time next month.

Scott rose. Thanks Dr. Sam. For all your help.

Scott?

Scott started through the door.

Scott we haven’t even started your exam yet.

Scott turned down the hall, leaving Dr. Sam.

Scott? Dr. Sam called after him. Please, talk to Angie and get back to me right away. We need to begin treatment immediately.

Scott’s only reply was him shaking his head rapidly as he left the office. And the sound of his heart hammered at his ears like the final nails being driven into his coffin.

Two. Hero.

Scott sat in his truck, watching rain pelt the windshield until the mostly obscured sun disappeared below the horizon. He was cold and stiff, as if the news of his prognosis had prematurely started the process of rigor mortis.

His cell phone rang. He jumped and fumbled with his shaky hands, trying not to drop it. Angie’s gorgeous smile stared back at him from the screen.

Hey, yeah. Uh, hi Angie, he said.

Scott? Everything okay?

Did she already notice that something was wrong? Oh fine. Yeah, nothing’s wrong.

Okay… you heading home now?

Scott put on his best smile even though Angie couldn’t see his face. Yep, you know how late these guys can run. If the freeway behaves I should see you in an hour.

All right honey, see you soon.

Okay, bye. His smile disappeared.

For a long while he drove, tears welling in his eyes but not falling. His chin was scrunched in a grimace and his insides in knots. He knew he was dead this time. Before he was lucky, but not now. This was too big. He had barely made it through the last battle, and that was Dr. Sam and Angie’s doing.

Three months. If he didn’t agree to become a medical guinea pig, ninety short days until curtains.

How would he tell her? They had barely completed their first normal year of marriage, and now it would be burned away like an early morning fog. He would have no wife, no family, no chance to pursue his dream to write. Nothing. Gone. The great simplicity of death.

But it would be far more complicated for her.

Sure, he could go through the treatment, enduring long hours of pain and nausea, hair loss and aching bones. But it would be bad for him and even worse for Angie. She would be planted by his bedside like before, killing herself slowly as if every discomfort she felt would somehow ease his. Only it would be a waste. He would be gone and she would be alone, having to plan a funeral for her young husband, then wondering how to live life alone until she was able to find someone stronger than he had been.

That’s what it came down to after all—he just wasn’t strong enough. Maybe he could have done more to keep the cancer away—exercised relentlessly, eaten a raw diet, skipped out on his secret weekly cigarette. The work stress he piled on himself couldn’t help either. Or maybe it was genetic—his body just wasn’t built to last a whole lifetime, rather some half life like those poor kids with progeria. He smirked. At least he had it one better than them, he wasn’t wrinkled and bald. Yet.

The cars snaking down the freeway in front of him kicked up water from the road and misted his windshield. He watched the tiny dots of water. They collected in drops, then gathered rivulets that were swept away by wind and gravity. Unseen forces seemed to control his destiny too.

When did it all start going wrong?

He thought back to that day—that amazing, warm summer day. The kind imbued with intense sunlight and just enough breeze to make it comfortable.

Angie and him had lounged beside their community pool. No one was there but them, side by side, enjoying the first real summer day of the season. The smell of orange blossoms wafted from their nearby backyard and the squeals of happy children echoed from the tot lot. Angie had looked even more gorgeous than usual with the sun warmly radiating off her olive skin.

She turned on her side to face Scott and poked his shoulder. Are you ready for some of those? she said.

Scott cracked one eye open. Huh?

I was just listening to those kids play over there.

Scott turned to face her. Hun, kidnapping is entirely out of the question, he said in his most mock-serious tone.

She giggled. Come on, maybe just one?

He stretched and sat up. Okay, but you’ll have to trade in Niles. That dog whines more than any real baby would.

No way, she protested. I love that big oaf.

Scott laughed.

But seriously, she said, how about having our own, human baby.

Scott smiled and caressed her thigh gently with his fingertips. Right here right now? Okay, but I didn’t know you were that big on PDA.

Quit it, she giggled, batting his hand away. Not here, just soon. At home. And with the doors closed.

He caressed her leg again. Yeah, we should seriously talk about it.

She brushed his hand away again. Quit it.

He made eye contact with her, smiling. Maybe we should practice a bit. His hand reached for her once again.

She giggled and swatted at him like a bothersome fly. Go for a swim. You need to cool off!

He laughed. Fine. Fine. Maybe later then?

She raised an eyebrow. I’ll think about it.

He smirked then stood. That’s not a ‘no’ at least.

She went back to enjoying her novel and Scott walked to the edge of the pool, wrapping his toes around the sun-warmed edge of the pool deck. He dove, executing a dive that would make his old swim instructor proud, and happily avoided splashing Angie.

He flipped on his back while still underwater and surfaced to float leisurely on the pool’s surface. He watched the clouds float through his field of view and decided that this was the most perfect summer day ever invented. He slowly kicked towards Angie and turned over to hang on the pool’s edge. For a while he watched her mouth the words of her book as she read.

Hey Ange.

She looked up from her book.

This water’s pretty amazing today. Are you gonna join me?

She shook her head. Scott, you know I don’t do pools.

Yeah, I know. But how about just this once? I’ll hold you and we can float around together.

Nah. She went back to her book but was now fidgeting.

Come on, it’s just water. He flicked her feet with a few drops.

Angie closed her book and stood. "You know, I think I’m getting a little too much sun. I’ll meet you inside, k?

When strode by him to leave Scott lunged from the pool and grabbed her ankle to stop her. Hun, wait. It’s just—

Angie slipped on the wet pool deck and tumbled in on top of Scott.

The next few seconds were all thrashing limbs and muted screams as Angie tried to disentangle herself from Scott and get to the surface. He pushed her upwards, doing his best to ignore her nails that dug into his back. She clambered to the pool deck, coughing and sputtering, and Scott hopped out to kneel beside her.

Angie, oh my gosh, I’m so sorry. He reached out to touch her shoulder.

She flicked away his hand. Don’t. Don’t touch me right now.

He was confused. What? It was a stupid accident. He tried to touch her again. I didn’t mean—

Scott, no! she said through labored breath, then grabbed her towel and rushed away to disappear inside of the house.

Scott was left to drip beside the pool, not sure what had just happened.

Drip, drip, drip. Patter.

Rain drops collected on the windshield. Scott sat in his driveway, his truck idling, not sure when he had even arrived home. He cut the ignition and sighed.

He wished he could have that day back again—both to enjoy and to do over. That had been the beginning of a widening fracture in their relationship. All because of his stupid stunt to get Angie in the pool. The fun, intimate moments were disappearing—being replaced with silence and distance. And he wasn’t even sure why.

Could telling her about his cancer really improve things? If he confessed his prognosis she may get closer to him, but it would be out of