Perigee [bxb] | Bad Moon Book II

51; {Matt}: a starving darkness

It was nearly 2 PM on a Tuesday evening when Matt finally began to unpack the luggage he'd taken to California. He heaved his dusty bag onto the bed and stared down at the rumpled shitstorm inside—his clothing ruffled and stuffed into every pocket, dirty socks intermingled with clean shirts, his cap from Meadowbrooke Grange crinkled and crushed at the top of the pile.

For several minutes, he stood there and stared mindlessly at the pile, running his fingers through his hair until it stood in some places. He'd have to wash them all—which meant leaning against the broken latch on the dryer door for forty-five minutes until the load was finished. It meant having to be within the vicinity of his father and his drinking pals from the bar downtown. It meant he couldn't escape.

He felt a sudden buzz in his back pocket and Matt reached for his phone, opening the newest text from Quentin.

He'll be here soon, it said.

No, no no no. He'd forgotten all about his appointment with the medick. He'd been dreading it so terribly, he put it out of mind at some point and hadn't thought about it in the days since.

"Shit," Matt cursed, debating whether to ignore the text and never show, or to get the hell away from the political griping in the next room over. If he had to suffer the word commies one more time, he was going to drive the Wrangler into the pig pen and hope the sows take him out.

Deciding it was better to suffer the scrutiny of a medical professional than waste another moment in this hell hole, Matt took the cap from the pile of dirty clothes and shoved it on over his head. He gave himself one last glance in the mirror, and escaped through the garage where no one could hear him leaving.

It was nearly three when he arrived at the manor and for fifteen minutes after that, he stood on the veranda, waiting for someone—anyone to open those stupid, sizable, gaudy front doors. Who in the hell needed two front doors was beyond him. When it was clear that no one would answer to the bleat of his fist, he stepped around to the side of the house, through the iron gate and into Anna's garden.

The prime of its life was beginning to ebb—the leaves on the red oak tree turning brown, the flowers crusting at the edges. Everything would die by winter and this garden would become a graveyard until Spring. A part of him wanted to stick around and take in the plant life before it was all turned to icy catacombs. He traveled through the maze of overgrown flora until he caught wind of Jaylin's voice. Matt followed the sound around the bend, until he spotted him beside the herb garden, struggling with a ladder twice his size.

He noticed Matt approaching and set the heavy thing down in the dirt. "Shit—Matt, sorry. We're kind of in a predicament. Can you help me with this?"

Matt obliged, fetching the end of the ladder from the ground. The thing was huge—tall enough to reach the second story windows. Too tall for one man to manage on his own.

"The hell are ya doin' with this, Jay?"

"It's hard to explain," Jaylin said.

They carried on, down toward the small orchard of apple trees that edged the garden—and there Quentin stood, head tilted to the skies, a hand shielding the sun from his eyes. And when Matt followed his gaze up to the peak of the tallest tree in the bunch, he found little Nadaline nearly at the tip, hugging the trunk and inching her way up the puzzle of thin, skeletal limbs.

"How the hell did she get up there?" Matt gawked. "Why haven't you called the cops or something? Y'all need a fire truck in here—one of those ladders—"