Spiderbones

Chapter 1 "One in four members of the Sheltered Valley Indian Reservation requires a new heart," began the article that made Ted Fyre famous. "Infants are born with faulty organs; many of them don't live beyond the age of five. Adults develop unexplainable heart conditions that can only be treated with transplantation. Due to a desperate shortage of organs, nearly 7,500 people might die waiting to receive transplants." Child after child had grown violently ill before and after Ted broke the story. So had their aunts, uncles and parents. The subsequent public scrutiny was fierce; it pressured the government to act. Federal officials commissioned research studies to investigate the causes of the outbreak. They also agreed to build a specialized medical centre to treat the ill. Ted was initially encouraged by the news of these initiatives, but he quickly learned that success was punished. The non-Aboriginal public soon tired of hearing about the dying Indians from his reservation; they believed that the issue had been dealt with. They were wrong. The construction of the medical facility wouldn't be completed for another three years; too many people were still grieving the unjust deaths of their loved ones. He was desperate to keep the story in the headlines. Today, he planned to interview the widow of a man who'd died with an experimental device in his chest. She lived a kilometre away from him, a short hike through the woods between their homes. It was October, and the colourful leaves on the trees were sufficiently pretty for a postcard he suddenly imagined: "Welcome to the Sheltered Valley Indian Reservation. Organ donations gladly accepted." He turned his attention to the beauty around him, and found that something was amiss. There wasn't a sound around him. Nothing was moving either, not even a tree branch swaying on an imperceptible wind. No birds flew overhead; no squirrels collected nuts. No forest was ever this dead. He continued his scan of the woods, noticing a chill in the air just before something warmed his face. His eyes traced the direction of the warmth; it was coming from the yellow, orange and red leaves that decorated the landscape this time of year. The foliage was reflecting sunlight towards him, almost like a spotlight. How odd. He looked more closely, wondering if his imagination was playing tricks. The leaves stared back, showing him their bright green stems. What looked like veins branched out from every stem, invading the fall colours that otherwise dominated the woods. Abruptly, he felt cold fall air enter his nostrils. It stopped before it reached his lungs. His face warmed up as blood rushed to his head, desperate to feed his brain whatever air remained in his body. He rapped his chest, hoping the rapid blows would open his airways. They didn't. Why the hell not? He could sprint uphill on the back roads that surrounded his First Nation. Walking in the woods shouldn't trigger what felt like an asthma attack. He repeated his thought, but logic did little to restart his lungs. He guessed he had a minute before he passed out. Still able to think, he considered the two options that shot through his mind. First, he could run to the nearest home: his own. He might get help more quickly, but his rapid footfalls would use up his remaining air all the faster. Second, he could wait out the attack. He'd conserve his air, but if he passed out, it could be hours before someone found his body. Unable to decide, he sucked for oxygen again. He still couldn't breathe. His heart started to pound in his chest, triggering a panic too intense to describe. The fear clouded his thoughts, forcing him to rely on his instincts to choose his fate. He started running.