Before Andy could react, his father grabbed him from behind and turned him around.
His father’s angry face was close to his.
The world blurred into a kaleidoscope of colour. His uncontrollable tears made it impossible to see and he couldn’t understand what his father was yelling.
Andy choked.
He couldn’t answer.
It felt as if he had swallowed a sock, like it was stuck in his throat, and all he could do was try to breathe again.
“I said, what the hell do you think you are doing?”
He couldn’t look at his father, and he couldn’t speak. So he broke free from his grip and ran.
He didn’t stop running.
He kept moving down to the picnic ground at the other end of their street. It was his special place.
The rock was where Andy would hide when he knew his Mum would call ‘home time’.
Andy examined the edge of the slick brown rock that shielded him from the unrelenting wind. This was the side he would peek from to see if Mum had guessed his hiding place.
This was his rock.
This was his park, but it was so cold. Why was it so cold?
“Hello?” called a man’s voice in the dark.
A man, but not his Dad.
Had some other man found Dad’s broken guitar? Did Dad call the police? It was his father’s favourite thing, maybe he would go to jail for breaking it. He deserved it for what he had done.
“There you are! I’ve been looking everywhere for you, Andy.”
Andy looked up nervously at the man holding Dad’s guitar.
He was wearing a dark suit and tie and his hair looked wild in the wind. He didn’t look very happy.
“Are you the police?” Andy choked as he looked at the damaged guitar in the man’s hand.
“Me? No, I’m just a guy taking a walk.”
Andy looked confused.
“So, is this baby yours? I have a couple at home. Better nick though.”
“It’s Dad’s. It broke.”
“Well, laying around in all this snow is no good for the wood you know? But this one looks like it’s taken a beating.”
He knows.
Andy shut his eyes hard to stop the stinging cold, and to avoid looking at the man who knew about guitars. He could tell the man blamed him for breaking it. He wanted to run, but there was nowhere left to go. The storm was thick and swirled like a grey ocean around the solitary rock.
He couldn’t see the swing set or the picnic table Mum and Dad always sat at. He was alone with this man.
The guitar thumped into the snow in front of Andy. It caused him to look up at the stranger who brought it.
The man sat himself down and leaned his back against the rock beside him.
“Who are you? How did you find me?” Andy watched the man carefully.
The man half smiled. “It’s easy to find someone when you know what to look for. Did you break that guitar, Andy? Is that why you’re hiding?”
“Dad was angry at me.” Andy blurted. “I didn’t mean to do it.”
The man tugged at his jacket sleeves and crossed his arms. “So Dad wasn’t happy then? But your Dad loved you. You know that right?”
Andy blinked.
He was about to protest, but Andy knew his dad loved him.
Andy sighed. “Yes. Daddy loves me.”
“So why are you hiding? You broke the guitar. That’s not a great thing to do, but that can’t be it.”
Andy looked blankly out at the swirling snow.
“There’s something else, deeper. Why are you hiding?” the man persisted.
Andy shook his head.
“No Andy. There’s something else here.” The man gestured to their rock and the swirling storm. “We aren’t sitting out in a snow storm because you broke a guitar.”
Andy was confused.
The man shook his head. “Andy, deeper! You don’t stay out here when someone forgives you. You did something else. You may not remember it, but I know you did it.”
The man’s face was stern, but kind, as he waited for Andy to reply.
“I didn’t!”Andy shook his head and began to cry. There was nothing else he could say.
The man was growing impatient. “Listen to me! This doesn’t go away until you fix it. Think deeper.” The man urged. “Secrets, Andy. You are only hiding something from yourself! What have you got buried?” The man forced a smile and put a hand on Andy’s shoulder. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of, mate. We all bury things deep down when we don’t want to see them again. Me included. But you are the one who can stop the storm. Your secret is the key.”
The man looked down at Andy’s hand that had been stirring up the dirt and leaves next the rock.
Buried.
There was something buried.
Andy ran across the yard almost tripping on the corner of the sand pit. The tears burned his eyes and streaked down his cheeks.
There was a rustle to his left that made him stumble back.
He fell on his backside next to the garden bed.
Andy used his shaking knuckles to rub his eyes so that he could clear some of the burning fog. It was Mum’s honeysuckle hedge, and the rustle came from beneath.
It was the cat.
Fluffy, grey, Perky.
“You! You did it!” Andy hissed at the family cat that sat poised to spring from within the bush. “You!”
The cat backed up a little, it knew it had been seen.
“Why did you do it?” His little right hand wrapped around half a brick that was being used as edging.
He thrust the chunk of old red brick into the hedge at the cat.
Thump!
The sound of the brick hitting the cat on the head was the worst sound Andy had ever heard. It was like the sound of someone dropping an apple onto a tiled floor.
The cat tried to curl up, its head down.
Andy crawled into the hedge, still sobbing and hissing through his teeth. He grabbed the cat by its front paw and pulled it free of the bushes. It could have been dead, but it squirmed a little.
He couldn’t let it run away.
He looked at the blood pooling in the cat’s ear and its red eye.
Mum would see.
Mum would hate him too if she saw the blood.
“No,” Andy muttered. He would not let the cat steal his family.
He reached deep into the bush and found the piece of brick. He held it tightly in his fist, and then brought it down again onto Perky’s head. Perky’s back leg twitched and it felt like it was going to run away, so he hit the cat again. This time Perky’s body went limp, floppy, like a warm stuffed toy filled with water and sticks.
The cat was certainly dead.
Andy picked up the cat by its back feet and snatched Mum’s little hand trowel from the unfinished garden bed.
He knew where he could hide Perky, and himself forever.
Andy began to breathe quickly and sharply. He was choking again. The icy cold stung his eyes and throat.
“No, no, no, no…” he muttered.
“Ah, you’ve remembered something…” the man said as he leaned back against the rock that sheltered them both. The man prodded the broken guitar with his foot and it rattled and made a metallic sound.
“I didn’t do it, I didn’t.” He tried to curl up, facing the other way so that he couldn’t see the man in the suit next to him. He gazed out at the snow-covered leaves on the ground, realizing that he didn’t notice the leaves before, just snow. Then something among the leaves caught his eye.
He began to panic.
Why is that here?
His Mum’s little garden trowel lay protruding from beneath the leaves. He began to shuffle back against the man beside him, to escape the scene that was quickly unfolding in his mind.
His hands pressed into the dirt beneath him. It was soft, like turned soil.
This was where he had buried Perky.
They were both sitting on
the grave of the family cat. The boy jumped to his feet quickly and began to scream.
The man followed and grabbed Andy by the shoulders and smiled. “It’s okay.”
“What?” Andy whimpered and tried to escape.
“Andy, we all have things buried somewhere. It takes courage to face them.”
“I killed our cat! I killed him with a rock!” the boy yelled back. “I killed Perky.”
The man shrugged. “And you will live with that. But you will live. Time to go.”
“But we can’t see…!”
***
“But we can’t…”
Andrew Campbell looked around the room lit by fluorescent lights. He sat up slowly and his head swam.
He didn’t know where he was. It wasn’t his normal bed.
“Hello?” Andy croaked with a dry throat.
A short blonde nurse parted the screen and lit up. “Oh wow! Mister Campbell! You’re awake! We will get your wife on the phone immediately.
“What? Why am I…?” Andy looked down at his body covered by white hospital blankets.
“You’ve been in an accident.” The nurse said as she checked his pulse and his eyes. “You’ve been unconscious for eight days.”
“Eight days?” Andy blinked.
“You must have heard your brother’s voice. Amazing!” She beamed.
“Brother? I don’t have a brother.” Andy coughed, his throat still dry. “You mean someone was here? Who was it?” Andy’s vision began to swim again, so he tried to calm himself down. “What did he look like?”
“Sorry.” The nurse said shaking her head. “He was about six foot I guess. Bit scruffy. Kinda nice looking and he was in a suit with a thin tie.”
“A suit?” Andy Campbell looked over at the visitor’s chair next to the bed. ‘But you will live,’ the man in the suit had said in his dream. Or was it a dream?
“Mister Campbell? Are you sure you didn’t know that man?” The nurse cringed.
“Maybe I did…” Andy trailed off as he began to notice an open window at the other end of the hospital suite. It was sunny outside, a blue sky with a few fluffy white clouds. “Time to go…” Andy muttered.
Chapter 2
IT WAS CLOSE to midnight.
A man in a rather unkempt black suit and tie sat in a brown-vinyl drinking booth of a rowdy Ballarat club. He rubbed at his temples with his right thumb and forefinger trying to alleviate the ache in his head. It was a dull throb, like a premature hangover.
“Why do I choose this noisy damned place every time?” he grumbled.
The man had been asked to meet his contact at ten o’clock, but the contact was late. It was unusual, but doctors could be run off their feet for hours after their shifts were over. This wouldn’t have been a big issue for the man waiting, if he had not run out of money, but as it happened, he had spent his last eight dollars on a very weak tasting scotch on the rocks.
He tapped a couple of fingers on the table to distract himself.
His mobile phone buzzed on the sticky laminate tabletop. It was a message from an unknown number, probably Doctor Enstein.
Out front.
Coming in now.
Where are you?
The man lifted himself from the booth a little and looked back towards the front of the club.
Through the crowd at the bar he could see the doctor looking about. The doctor was a tall man in a light blue shirt with a dark blue tie. He had small glasses too far down his nose and tight curly hair.
This was the second time the man had met the doctor, and due to the nature of his current employment, hopefully not the last.
He glanced down at the bitter drink and swirled it around the glass. Doctor Enstein had been his contact for the Melbourne and Ballarat hospitals for two weeks - he seemed nice, and he also kept the meetings brief, and always brought payment.
“The Fixer,” Doctor Enstein said, grinning.
“You’re late Doc,” the man replied with a slight smile. “So I take it you have my payment for the last four?”
“Easy, mate!” Enstein said raising his hands, “Let me get a beer first. I just knocked off, and it’s been hectic. Give us a sec.” Enstein left the booth and pushed his way to the bar.
The man in the suit didn’t keep a bank account, so he used his money, as he needed it. He didn’t mind relying on money to live, he just hated bank accounts and the strings society insists that a person needs. This man, Fixer, preferred to be invisible.
Unknown.
He cradled his head between his hands and rubbed at his temples. The headache began to throb again. It would build up from nothing and then fade away like the tide.
He rubbed at his temples. “What is wrong with me?”
“Judging from looking at you, mate, I’d say a headache.” The doctor’s voice jolted him.
He had returned with his drink quickly.
The man mumbled something and took anther sip of his cheap scotch.
“So, the last four are done,” the man repeated to the doctor.
The doctor smiled. “You are all business aren’t you, mate?”
“Well, I have rent to pay, three hungry kids to feed…” The man lied with a half smile.
Enstein leaned back into the vinyl. “Good on ya. You are a lone wolf for sure. Your kind don’t get tied down.”
“My kind? What is that supposed to mean, Doc?” The man squinted.
Has he met people like me?
“I don’t ask questions.” The doctor shrugged. “That’s what the deal was, so I will never know will I?”
Enstein took a mouthful of his beer, and looked around at all the people.
“Are you sure there isn’t another name I can call you? This is Ballarat, no one uses code names, it just feels…excessive.” The doctor made a sour face, then smiled. Teasing.
“Fixer is fine with me, or Sir, Mister or ‘Hey you’ are all acceptable. I try to keep a low profile. I prefer to be able to disappear when I want to.” The man took a deep breath, trying to ignore the headache.
“Okay then. Let’s get down to business before we find we have too much in common and become best friends.” Enstein smiled.
He then slid a white business sized envelope across the table toward the man in the suit.
“Four thousand,” the doctor said gesturing to the envelope. “That’s one thousand each. I don’t know what you do for these people, but they are awake and getting stronger each day. There are families out there that would give you more than a thousand for what you’ve done.”
“This is all I need.” The man put it into his jacket pocket. “Who’s paying?”
The doctor shrugged and made a face. “Beats me. I’m just doing what I’m told. The head of my department told me to give it to you.” The doctor pushed a folded piece of paper across the table. “And this.”
Another list of patients.
“You don’t know where this money is coming from?” The man asked.
The doctor shook his head.
“What’s this? More patients?” The man examined the piece of paper.
Enstein nodded, took another sip of his beer while he glanced about at the people swarming the bar and the stairs that led to the dance floor.
“I’ve got it!” He shook his head. “You, my friend, are a genius! You ask to meet in a club after ten at night, on a Friday, right? Clever.”
The man in the suit gave a curt nod and drained his glass.
They had agreed to meet at this location because everyone in here at this time, on this day, was most likely drinking or drunk. So with alcohol clouded memories, there isn’t anyone that could say for certain that they had witnessed the meeting or not.
The doctor drained his beer, leaving a foam-rimmed glass on the table.
The man in the suit smiled broadly. The doctor had worked it out. He did enjoy the company of intelligent people occasionally, and the doctor was quickly becoming a favorite. Enstein was a good man. The doctor wanted to know
more about Fixer, but he guessed and made harmless jokes.
He still felt his anonymity was safe when he was with the doctor.
Doctor Enstein took a deep breath and stared down at the two empty glasses on the table. He suddenly appeared very tired.
“I better get home and get some sleep. I start at seven in the morning. Plus the wife will smell the beer and tell me off for going out late.” Enstein rose from the booth and began to fix his shirt.
“I’m sure she must understand,” the man said as he picked up the list of names.
“Good luck, Fixer. I’m sure you don’t need me to tell you that, but I will anyway. At least one of those guys on the list is a tricky case.”
“Which one?” The man said unfolding the list and scanning the four names.
“Li. David Li. Had an accident in the Grampians and got knocked around a bit. His body is healing quickly, but neural activity is minimal. He has been moved to Ballarat this week and he was with Melbourne for three weeks.”
“I’ll visit him soon then,” the suited man said smiling. “Good to see you again, Doctor.”
“You too Fixer. You are an enigma, mate. I’m glad there are still mysteries like you about. It keeps logical men like me from getting cocky.” He chuckled to himself and began to push his way back through the crowded room to the front door.
The man in the suit waited a few minutes before leaving the club too.
Outside he noticed that the Ballarat weather was typically miserable. He trudged along the wet asphalt of the footpath enjoying the way it glittered under the streetlights. He was raised here in this town, but he had been away for a long time. No one would recognize him now.
His name was Athan Harper, but there were only a few people that still knew him by that name. There were very few people that knew him by any name.
The people he did know, were like him, a bit different to normal people. But Athan hadn’t seen any of them for a long time either.
Athan was what some experts called Post-Human. It was a title they used for genetic mutations that could not be explained even after extensive research. And that was why Athan kept a low profile. Australia was pretty safe as far as Post-Human Collection teams were concerned, or PHCs as Athan called them.
The Post-Humans (Book 1): The League Page 3
