The Last Mutation

by Michael Bray

  “I don’t –”

  “Shut up,” Mannering snapped. “Betty tells me you like to read. To collect things from other people’s lives.”

  “Yeah, I do. What does that have to do with anything?”

  Mannering stepped back and pulled a small red book out of his pocket. “Read this. I found it on the boat we use to fish. We had to tow the boat in, but we were able to repair it. You think it’s just stories, but it’s more real than you could ever imagine. You sit yourself down and you read that. Maybe then you’ll change your mind about playing fisherman.” Mannering shoved the book into Ethan’s hand. He looked at it, then back at Mannering to question what was happening, but Mannering was already staggering back up the dock towards the village. Ethan looked again at the book, and with Mannering’s words fresh in his head, sat on the edge of the dock again. He started to read.

  INTERLUDE FIVE

  GONE FISHING

  July 7th

  I can’t remember the sun.

  Some of the old timers claim to recall it, but the world I know has always been this shade of grey. The rains come often, but they are more ash than water, and leave a greasy sheen on the skin. People around here call me James, and although I know it’s not my real name, I don’t argue. Names don’t matter. What matters is that I – we – are still here. The last survivors of a dead world. I have dated the start of this journal as July 7th just for the sake of keeping records, although the truth is, we stopped counting days and months long ago after the event. If nothing else, it will serve to keep my thoughts in order as I write them down.

  The story of what happened isn’t one that any of us like to talk about. After all, we all lived it. We know. We look into each other’s eyes and there is something there. Shared knowledge, shared respect. I don’t really know what it is. Some kind of solidarity. It’s funny, because in the movies back before the world actually went and died on us, they always painted a picture of scattered groups of mangy survivors hiding from cannibalistic bandits and trying to make their way to salvation. The reality is that there are no bandits, not that I know of at least. In fact, those of us who are left have pulled together. I don’t know if it’s good fortune or irony that it took the world going to hell around us to finally make us set aside petty squabbles and come together to survive. Our group consists of seven people. We had twelve until recently, but we lost two on our last hunt, and another four to cancer.

  Damn radiation, that’s the enemy now. Even as we struggle to survive, it eats away at us. That and the things in the water.

  Before I get to that, I think a little backstory is in order. I managed to find this journal in the ruins of a schoolhouse, and borrowed a pen from Gimmy, who, out of everyone, understands best why I need to get this on paper. See, I’m pretty sure I’m dying. The cough that started a few weeks ago is getting worse and I have started to bring up blood. My nails and hair haven’t started to fall out yet, but I don’t think it will be too long before it happens.

  Brad thought I was just paranoid when I told him I thought I was on my way out, but he can’t understand that I can feel it inside. It’s in there, mutating my cells, screwing around with my internal composition, rearranging the furniture.

  The others don’t seem too concerned about my plight. We have all become desensitised to death, and even though they don’t say it, the look in their eyes tells me they see me as a dead man walking – an inconvenience; an extra mouth to feed when food is scarce. They won’t cut me loose from the group, but I don’t think many tears will be shed when I join the other four billion plus who have died on this god-forsaken ball of rock since this all began.

  We go hunting in a few days, and that means facing those things. Brad thinks they are stupid and mindless, but I don’t think so. They know we can’t live off the land, and that our only food source is out there with them. I keep wanting to call them fish, but that would be an understatement.

  They are mutations, things that used to live in the oceans and ruined by the event that killed the planet. I’m scared, and to think about it too much scares me to the point where I’m not sure I want to write it down. I don’t have time to go into it now anyway, so I’ll step back and give it some thought. The shadows are getting longer, and we will have to get the fire going soon. The nights are so cold. Tomorrow, I’ll tell you all about how this thing started.

  July 8th

  Didn’t sleep too well. This damn cough kept me awake, and the few times I did drift off, I dreamed of those things out in the water. For as much as we have coped with a lot, it’s hard to handle how they look. First one I saw was twenty footer. Imagine a whale mingled with a squid and then turned half inside out, and you would be somewhere in the right ballpark. They are hellish, violent things, their need to hunt us as much as we them, making our clashes inevitable. But all that will be told in time. Later today, we go out to face them, and that frightens me more than I could ever express in words.

  The day of the event was a Thursday. Nobody knows for sure what it was. Different people hear different things. Weapons test gone wrong, solar storm, polar shift, hell, even an act of God. The best explanation I heard for it was an asteroid. A guy I met said he’s heard all about it from someone who saw it go down (I’m not sure someone so close to such a devastating event would survive, but we have to take everything with a pinch of salt these days). According to him, the man said it cut through the sky at over 20,000 miles per hour, and impacted somewhere in the Pacific Ocean. The sky lit up, and then the world became shrouded in darkness – a worldwide blanket of ash which blotted out the sun. Millions were killed by the blast and the resulting tidal surges; countless others by the fallout. Nothing was left untouched. Nothing escaped the hell that came. That, at least, was his story. Someone else told me it was a white flash, a high-pitched sound and then things started to die. Trees, people, animals. The fact is, nobody knows for sure what it was or how it happened, but the end result is the same. You know, it’s funny, in a way. For all the arrogance of man, it astounds me just how quickly we died out as a species. There was no fight, no master plan. Nature simply decided our time was done and wiped us out. I wish I had more answers for you, but the truth is I don’t. The world is how it is and nobody knows for sure why or what happened. That’s all I can tell you. It might have been better if everyone had died, but the human race is nothing if not strong; or maybe it’s unlucky. Either way, there are a few of us left. Mostly we’re skeletal, filthy wretches with haunted eyes that only tell part of the horror of what we’ve experienced.

  I sit now in this abandoned husk of a building, its interior as ravaged and barren as we all feel inside. Some of the others question why I bother to write something down when there is no hope that anybody will ever read it, and I suppose they have a point. I think whatever my reasons, it makes me feel better to get it down on paper. Maybe, just maybe, whoever you are that might be reading this, are in a better world than this one.

  I think about what is about to take place, about going out on the water, and it fills me with a horror even worse than the lingering stench of ash and death that clings to those of us who are left. Benson just told me that he understands if I don’t want to go out there with them, mumbling something about my condition. I know he didn’t mean to cause offence, but I still found myself getting defensive, screaming and shouting that I was fine. Truth is, I don’t want to go out there, but to stay here would be to admit that I’m dying, and I don’t want that either. None of us would be going out there if we didn’t have to. Let them keep the damn oceans to themselves if that’s what they want, but the fact is, we have no choice. They are the only thing left that we can eat, and so we have no choice but to hunt them. Even though they gave me a readymade excuse not to go, I still have my pride and want to prove my worth out there before I find a quiet corner to die in. I need to get away from these people, at least for a while. It’s funny that even in a world as empty as this one, we still need to spend time by ourselves.


  July 9th

  Had to get away yesterday. Hated looking at their faces. They look at me like I’m some kind of leper. I suppose in a way I am. I walked out into the bleak wastes, everything covered in grey ash or burned and broken. Bodies of the dead lie mummified in their thousands, some taking on a ghostly stone effect from the ash build up. It reminded me of something from Pompeii, and I almost laughed outright. The quiet is something that I still struggle to get used to. There is absolute deathly silence. There are no birds left to sing, no animals left to scratch at the undergrowth. No people to exchange nods with and share pleasantries. More and more often I wonder about my wife and daughter and I ask myself for the millionth time if it’s possible they somehow survived. I know, of course, that they didn’t. I went to all the places where I knew they would go if we were separated and found nothing but death and destruction. I only hope for them it was quick and painless. I wouldn’t wish this life I have now on anybody.

  July 10th

  Barely slept last night. I think it was because I know today is the day that we head out onto the water. Even Stan was tense this morning as he checked the netting and harpoon guns. Four of us are going out. There is me (obviously), and Benson, who once again told me he understood if I didn’t want to go. He’s a nice guy and he means well, but I’m not about to be seen as a coward. Also coming with us is Toby. He’s pretty new to the group. Found him wandering down the side of the road, weaving around burned-out husks of cars. He’s only fifteen, and although he talks like the big man, this morning I saw fear in his eyes. The kid shouldn’t be ashamed. We all feel it. It’s like a physical thing, hanging in the air with the ash and the smell of rot and death. Benson told him not to worry, and that he was going out there as a boy, but coming back as a man. I don’t believe that. After all, I’ve seen what’s out there. In charge of the fishing trip is Stan. He knows all about these things and claims to have caught dozens of them before he joined up with our group. He certainly talks the talk, and we couldn’t help but feel reassured as he told us exactly how it will go down out there. He says there is a spot around eighty miles off the coast where these creatures roam, and that will be our best bet of finding them.

  It sounds crazy I’m sure. Hell, it looks crazy even writing it down. Nobody in their right minds would go looking for these things, but we are all hungry and have people relying on us. If we could manage to snag one, even one of the smaller ones, it would give us food for a few days. We would be able to eke out another few weeks of existence. Of course we all know the dangers. There is a reason going out there is a last resort. We know before we even set off that we might never come back. From where I sit, perched on the hood of a burned-out car, I can see the ocean. It laps against the shore. In the water are the rusting remains of a passenger plane, it’s blue and white frame a flashback to a life which is long dead. I look at the water, a dark undulating mass, and I know that they are out there. It’s starting to rain, and I need to get to shelter. The last thing I want to happen now is to catch a cold. I’ll be back soon to write some more.

  We are on our way. It’s still raining, so we are all cramped together here in the galley (no food, of course!). Nobody is talking too much. I think we are all just trying to deal with what we are about to do in our own special way. The boat is a ninety-foot crabber. It has seen better days, but is still seaworthy. Not many boats survived after the impact, so to find one still useable was something of a miracle. A minor victory in our hellish life, and the reason why we have set up camp by the water. Like our ancestors, we live near our food source, although this is quite unlike anything our ancestors had to deal with. The gentle rise and fall of the bow is making me sleepy, and I might even think I could get a couple of hours sleep if not for the nervous excitement of our situation. My stomach feels like a tight ball, and the nerves are really starting to kick in as the safety of land gets lost in the ash-filled sleety haze.

  The kid, Toby, looks terrified. He seems to have left his usual bravado on the shore, and he looks every bit the frightened child that he is. Hell, I can’t blame him. We are all scared, apart from Stan. He’s maybe in his forties, his hair long and silver, just like his beard. It’s his eyes that concern me though. There is a little bit of craziness in them. A little glint of something not quite right.

  This, incidentally, is my second fishing trip. The first one was a few weeks ago. We managed to catch a fifteen footer. It looked like an overgrown, deformed eel. We fought for hours to wrestle it on board and kill it. It writhed and thrashed on the deck, and I still don’t know how we managed to kill it without anyone getting injured. Oh, I should mention something else too. My hair is starting to fall out. I’m pretty sure that means I definitely have radiation sickness. It shouldn’t be a surprise, not really, but it’s still a shock. I think I’m going to go stretch my legs out on deck. Maybe I’ll try to talk to the kid and see if I can get him to relax a little. God knows, he looks like he needs it.

  Benson thought he saw one of them breach the surface.

  We stopped the boat and stared out into the water. It was eerie, an absolute flat calm. The silence was thick and we were grateful for the wind which rocked the boat as it drifted on the tide. We stared at the water for a while, half hoping that it was what we were looking for, half not. Something spooked the old man alright. You can see it in his eyes. As usual, only Stan seems unafraid. We might have stood there all day had he not started the engines again and set off on our way. We seem to be further out than usual. I asked Stan where we were headed and he mumbled something about deeper waters.

  That scares me.

  We all know that the deeper the water, the bigger these things are. Some people claim they grow to hundreds of feet in length. Some side effect of the event. Nobody I know has ever seen one that big. Stan said he saw fifty footer once, and that for me is plenty big enough. I tried talking to the kid, but whenever I try to get through to him, he throws his guard up. It’s almost like if he doesn’t admit that he is scared, he won’t come to any harm. That’s not a bad outlook to have I suppose, but the downside is it will hit him really hard when we finally make contact.

  One thing I should point out which might be a sore subject when you come to read this. Just know that (hopefully) the world is a much better and less desperate time for you than it is for us now. Maybe for you, bait shops exist, as do other things to lure in our predators. For us, we have no such luxury, so we have to make use of what we have. The key is to find a body that still has plenty of meat on them. They don’t seem to mind so much about the rot, as long as they are meaty. I know they were once people, but this isn’t a time where we can afford to be picky. Besides, we have to do something to draw them to us. Anyway, you can save your judgement. We do what we have to in order to survive. End of story.

  God, I’m hungry. That’s the plus side of food being so scarce. We can’t afford to be picky. Believe me, I have wondered on more than once occasion if we are doing more harm than good by eating stuff that swims in these polluted seas, but then I also remind myself that we don’t really have much of a choice. It’s like the way a bear might chew through its own paw to escape a trap. Sometimes, you just have to do whatever you have to in order to survive.

  We are definitely going further out than usual. I hope Stan knows what he’s doing.

  I intended to do this sooner, but my hands were shaking too badly. We saw…something. The right words for what it was are too hard to find right now. All I know is that it was big, almost beyond my ability to comprehend. I’m not exaggerating here, when I tell you that it was at least two hundred feet, or at least the part of it that we could see was. It’s back arched out of the water, and it was a mottled pinky brown. There was a half-developed tentacle growing out of it, squirming and thrashing as the misplaced appendage broke the surface of the water. It was as thick as the oak tree that used to be in our backyard when I was a kid, a memory that until I saw that hellish creature, I had completely forgotten about.

&nbs
p; The kid is crying. He’s trying to be quiet, but we can all hear it. The fact that nobody is trying to help him or offer comfort says a lot about the current mind-set of those of us who are left. We are living all of those clichés of old. It’s a dog-eat-dog world, only the strong survive etc. etc.

  Don’t get me wrong, I would love to help him. As I peek over the top of the pad as a write this, I can see him on the seat opposite me. Knees pulled up to his chin, head down as the boat crests the waves in pursuit of our creature. I think he would take that now, that comfort or reassurance. The simple fact is that I have none to give. I have my own problems, my own issues and my own fears, the most pressing of which is what we are going to do about our captain, who is now cackling and whistling as we chase this giant monster. Doesn’t he know that we can’t possibly hope to capture it? We’re not experienced hunters or fishermen. Hell, we struggled to capture that fourteen-foot eel last time. What the hell does he expect us to do if we catch up to this thing? I look at the others, and they meet my gaze. We are all thinking the same thing, and wondering if we should do something or just wait and let things play out. Either way, I feel sick and just want to get back to dry land.

  We have no business being out here.

  #

  Toby is dead, and I don’t think the rest of us are too far behind.

  I paused just after writing that and couldn’t quite believe it. The poor kid lost it, panicked and charged at Stan, demanding we return to dry land. They got into a fight, although that’s probably not the right word. Toby tried to attack Stan and got the hell beaten out of him for his troubles. Stan dragged the kid out on deck and straddled him, hitting him over and over again. The sound was so loud, so raw that I will never forget it. He eventually stopped fighting, but Stan carried on anyway. None of us moved, none of us even tried to help. I feel so guilty, but it still caused no reaction. Am I really that broken? Am I really so desensitised to this new world that I can’t even find a reaction to a grown man beating a child to death while we all watch? Maybe this new earth is just what we deserve. We have become so barbaric that maybe death would have been too good for us.