BloodWorks - chapter one by N. D. Hansen-Hill

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Soon. It'd come to that soon.
He looked at the graveyard and the settled stones, but felt no peace. He was all too afraid the "soon" might apply to this, too.
There was only one way to beat it—the same way he'd beat it for the last six years: be too busy to think. Work on Saturdays? Dedication to fungus? Mick just didn't know where he was coming from these days, any more than the others did. Josh was dedicated all right, but it was to filling his life—all the blank spots. Recently, he'd also been dedicated to busy—being so busy that thought and regret weren't issues. Busy enough so he could sleep nights sans pounding heart and nagging fears. Exhaustion was his current answer—for everything.
He'd been easing out of their lives with lame excuses for weeks now. If he was no longer a part of what they did, he wouldn't be wounding them when he was no longer a part forever. They wouldn't feel his absence so keenly then, and he'd be damned if he wanted to carry anyone else's pain with him. Any more than he wanted to greet them every day between now and forever with the knowledge in their faces acting as a barrier. He'd rather walk, now—while he still could.
He hadn't seen Mick, Tino, or Matt in a month. His closest friends, and he'd lied through his teeth. He'd avoided them like a plague, because they knew him too well. But he couldn't avoid today—or Mick's insistence—and he knew he'd never hold up to even nine holes of golf. Then Mick would know. And all his subterfuge would be shot to hell.
Fungus. Think work. It just didn't seem important any more.
Josh clambered down off the slope, momentarily reassured by the strong way his legs and boot-clad feet tackled the uneven ground.
Not even winded...
He was nearly to the dying trees when the screams began.
***
The rumbling roar of the backhoe had given way to a stuttering clatter. At the same time, there was a shudder beneath Josh's feet as semi-solid soils yielded to gravity's demands. With a groaning squawk, the backhoe was toppling sideways, into earth that was suddenly no firmer than organic ooze.
The operator never stood a chance. Caught in his cage—belted and secured in place—he was about to go down with his ship. His head cracked against the metal cage, and then, he wasn't even fighting his fate. The man's head flopped loosely, as the front feet of the backhoe sank, and the big machine's cant increased.
It was the moist soils. There'd been an inordinate amount of rain, which was why the Pythium had done so much damage to the golf course's soils. It was also why a man was going to die today. His machine had tapped into some unsuspected soft core of earth—some unsuspected Artesian spring pouring across the clay layers.
Suddenly, Josh's own preoccupation with death seemed foolish. He had months—maybe even a year. This man? Minutes.
Josh tore down off the slope, panting heavily as he ran, flat out. His pounding feet sounded that residual resonance which spoke of watery soils, as he sloshed and slid across the slippery clay-loam mix. He latched onto the metal bucket, then knew instantly it was a mistake.