by Perrin Briar
Anne shook her head. “I don’t know. I don’t think he does either.” She frowned. “Do you know what the scariest thing is?”
“I don’t know, do I want to know?”
“I don’t think he knows what’s happened.”
“What do you mean? Didn’t you tell him we found him at sea?”
“Not that. I mean about the Incident. He’s convinced he has to get back to his barracks at Sandhurst.”
Joel let a stream of air out through his teeth. “I was right: I didn’t want to know. How can he not know?”
“He might have suffered a concussion. Or it might be something deeper.”
Joel looked at Anne. “If that’s true somebody’s going to have to tell him.”
A knot formed in Anne’s stomach. “I know.”
4.
“Three weeks ago there were reports of people attacking one another. A lost generation at war with itself. Biting, fighting, aggression. No one took any notice. It was the kind of thing you saw on the news all the time. There were even jokes on entertainment programmes about people imitating zombies – a fad that had swept the world at the time. Films, TV shows, art, literature… It had somehow infiltrated every facet of modern life.
“But within days these acts of aggression had spread all over the country. No one went to work. The economy faltered and the problem only got worse. We talk about the Incident as if it was a specific moment, as if we could identify a single event that triggered the proliferation of the virus, but we can’t. There are millions of Incidents – one for each of us – the moment when we saw our first Lurcher and knew life would never be the same again.”
Anne looked at Jordan. He stared at the corner of the room. Stan and Joel stood behind Anne, Mary on the chair beside her.
“It spread faster than anyone expected. People evacuated their homes and drove to Land’s End and the Scottish Highlands, hopped on ferries to Ireland and mainland Europe, but wherever they went the virus followed them. The government were said to be developing a cure, but they were already too late.
“We managed to escape on Haven, to the sea. There were many others, but they’ve all since gone to different places. We thought maybe the virus hadn’t crossed the Channel, so we sailed to the coast of France and discovered more Lurchers there. It has spread – so far as we can tell – to all parts of the world. That’s why we’re at sea, why we’re living on this boat. Nowhere else is safe.”
Anne paused. Jordan hadn’t said a word since she’d begun.
“I know this is difficult to accept,” Anne said, “but we have evidence.” She laid a piece of paper on the bed cover. It was worn and smudged, barely legible save for the headline writ large:
THE END IS NIGH
“This is an article from The Times newspaper, dated March twenty-third 2014. It was the last publication in its two hundred and thirty year history.”
“2014? But it’s 2008.” Jordan met her eyes. “Isn’t it?”
Anne shook her head. “It’s 2014. I don’t know what happened to you – why you lost all those years, but one day I promise we’ll find them.”
Anne shared a look with Joel as Jordan read the article. Stan rested a hand on her shoulder and gave it a light squeeze.
After reading it, Jordan looked dazed. “But my barracks-”
“It’s gone.”
“My friends and family…”
“They could still be alive,” Anne said, “but you’ll probably never see them again. They’ll be on the run, like us. Looking for somewhere safe.”
Jordan’s eyes swam with tears, not of distress, but anger. “Why are you saying this?”
“It’s the truth,” Mary said.
“I was with my friends in the canteen just a few days ago…”
“That memory happened six years ago,” Anne said.
Jordan shook his head. “No.”
“For some reason you can’t remember the Incident. Maybe your mind is trying to protect you from it, I don’t know.” Anne nodded to the porthole. “Look outside and you will see we’re currently moored off the coast of Felixstowe. You’ll be able to see what I’m telling you is the truth.”
Jordan looked from Anne to Joel to Stan, then Mary, who all sat before him, crowded in the tiny cabin. He searched their faces for some sign of a cruel joke. None of them looked away. He pushed himself up, leaned forward on the bed, and was about to peer out of the porthole when he stopped. He shut his eyes and a cold sweat broke out on his forehead.
Mary stepped forward to help him. Anne held out a hand, stopping her.
Jordan fell back into bed.
Anne turned her head and nodded, the signal for them all to silently filter out. Soon it was just Anne and Jordan in the room.
“You’re welcome to stay with us for as long as you want, Jordan. Or leave. It’s up to you. But there are things on the land. Creatures. People you might recognise but aren’t human anymore. The world has become a more dangerous place than you remember.”
Anne rose and walked to the door.
“Anne,” Jordan said, voice threatening to break any moment. “Thank you.”
Anne closed the door behind herself. After a moment she heard soft crying.
5.
“Good shot!” Joel said.
“I still missed,” Jessie pouted.
“But you’re getting closer. Try again.”
Jessie raised the rifle up to her cheek and lined up for another shot. She fired. There was the sound of a metallic tink as the bullet hit a tin can bobbing five yards out at sea.
“I did it!” Jessie shouted, fist pumping the air. “I did it! Mary, did you see?”
“Yes baby, I saw,” Mary said, lifting her eyes from her half-knitted woollen hat and smiling. Stacey lay asleep in her lap.
“Stan!” Jessie said. “Did you see me?”
Stan sat crouched, etching a tally mark in the stern with a pocketknife. The tallies stretched from one end of the boat to the other in one continuous unbroken line. “What was that, dear?” he said, not looking up.
Jessie’s shoulders slouched.
“Well done, Jess,” Joel said, “you did a great job. But this time-”
The cabin door creaked open as Jordan made his way up the final few stairs. His face was drawn and pale, a scraggly beard caking his face. He was still very weak and walked with one hand on the wall to brace himself at all times. Anne put the book she was reading down and moved to aid him, but he waved her off.
“I’m all right. Do you mind if I join you?”
“Of course not,” Anne said. “Sit down.”
He sat on the hard plastic bench that ran around the deck. A tarpaulin was stretched above them, acting as shelter from the sun. It ran down at a sharp angle to a series of buckets and containers. Everyone pretended to focus on what they were doing, but Anne sensed they were all conscious of him. Stacey, awake, stared at him openly, but Mary was quick to divert her attention.
“Look down the rifle,” Joel said to Jessie, “down the sight. Try to line it up with the can over there. Good. Now gently pull the trigger.” This time she missed.
“So close! Never mind. Once out of five isn’t so bad.”
Joel picked up a piece of string that was wrapped around one of the cleats and hauled in the attached can. He leaned over the side and reached for it. Water dribbled from a hole near the base. A crude smiley face had been drawn on it with a permanent marker pen.
“We’ll make a Billy the Kid out of you yet,” Joel said, mussing Jessie’s hair. He turned to Jordan. “Would you like to try?”
Anne’s breath caught. She tried to catch Joel’s eye and shake her head to tell him not to make the offer, but he either didn’t notice or didn’t want to.
“I’m fine,” Jordan said.
“Anne said you were at Sandhurst.”
“Only for a few days, so far as I can remember.”
“You don’t want your skills getting rusty, do you?”
“I
entered soon after graduating from university. I probably don’t have many skills to get rusty.”
“Come on, it won’t hurt. It’ll be good for Jessie to see a professional. Have a go. It’ll make you feel better.” Joel loaded the gun and held it out to Jordan. “It might even help you to remember something.”
“Joel, don’t,” Anne said. “He’s not up to it.”
“I can try,” Jordan said, rising unsteadily to his feet and stepping forward. There was the sense he might fall over at any moment. Anne held up her hands in preparation to catch him. Jordan took the gun and held it between his fingers like it was an alien object.
Joel tossed a new can out to sea as far as the string would allow, some thirty yards. “Have you shot a gun before?”
“I’m… not sure.”
“Here, hold it close,” Joel instructed, “tight to your shoulder, then-”
He didn’t get any further. Jordan squeezed the trigger. There was a faint ting as the tin can was struck. The can ducked beneath the surface then did a little hop into the air. Jordan shot two more times, each time hitting the can. He lowered the gun and handed it back to Joel.
Jessie stared in awe.
“Looks like you remember something, huh?” Joel said, beaming.
Jordan shook his head. “I don’t remember anything about shooting. Somehow it just feels right.”
Joel slapped him on the back, but it was too strong for Jordan in his current state. He stumbled forward from the blow.
Joel straightened Jordan up. “Oops. Sorry pal. I don’t know my own strength.”
Jordan’s legs shook and he looked even paler than before. “I think the shooting’s taken it out of me. I’m going to head back downstairs. It was nice meeting you all again.”
They all nodded, smiling back at him. Jordan’s eyes swept past Anne’s, and she thought for an instant they’d caught.
“Do you want help down the stairs?” Anne asked.
“I’ll be fine.”
As his footsteps disappeared down the stairs, Anne whirled on Joel. “What did you do that for? You knew he didn’t feel well.”
Joel took hold of the string and started pulling up the can. It had taken on too much water and had sunk. “At least now we know he wasn’t in the catering division in the army.”
“We don’t know that,” Stan said. “I’m sure all divisions have to do some kind of basic training.”
Joel lifted up the can and chuckled to himself. “With all due respect Stan, you’re wrong.”
“And how could you possibly know that?”
“I doubt if basic training could have done this.” He lifted the tin can. Water spilled from three bullet holes, each one having poked perfectly through the eyes and nose dots drawn on the can.
Wide-eyed with amazement, Jessie said, “How do I learn to shoot like that?”
One corner of Joel’s lips curled up. “With one hell of a lot of practice.”
6.
Stan flicked the line above his head, wound it around in a big circle, and then threw it forward with all the skill of an expert angler. The line whirred as it flew away and landed on the sea’s calm surface six metres out. Stan sat the rod in its mount and lounged in a deck chair beside Joel.
Joel lay back with his hands behind his head, feeling the relaxing rock of the sea beneath him and the ruffling of the tarpaulin above. “What I wouldn’t give for an ice-cold beer right now.”
“You and me both,” Stan said, smacking his lips.
They watched the horizon, flat and unchanging in the distance.
“Where do you suppose he’s from?” Joel said.
“Could be from anywhere, I suppose. His accent doesn’t give much away.”
“He’s not Australian, that’s for sure. Or from any of the other colonies. He’s not Scottish, Irish or Welsh. I don’t even think he’s from northern England, but you’ll have a better ear for that than me.”
The flywheel clicked. They paused, watching it. It didn’t move again. They returned to staring out at the ocean.
“Do you think we can trust him?” Joel said.
“No reason not to. He’s a survivor. If we start turning on each other we’ll be no better than the Lurchers. But God knows he couldn’t have picked a worse time to bump into us.” Stan peered over at the empty containers on the deck. “No water, nearly no food.”
“Can’t even catch a lousy fish bigger than a carrot these days.”
Stan smiled. “We’ve got fresh bait now, though.”
Joel rolled his eyes. “Oh, that’ll make all the difference, that will. We’d be better off eating the bait.”
The fishing line clicked again. Their eyes rolled to it. It clicked once more before stopping.
Joel checked over his shoulder and spoke in a low voice. “If something doesn’t change soon we’ll be for it.”
“Something will come up. It always does.”
“One day it won’t.”
The line clicked once more, something on the end tugging gently. Joel leaned forward in his deckchair. The line gave another little pull. The bobber ducked beneath the surface and then popped up again a second later. The fishing rod’s tip dipped down and bounced against its mount. The line unfurled, drawing farther out to sea.
“See?” Stan beamed. “Something always comes up. Must be the new bait.”
Joel picked up the rod and held it steady in his hands. He felt something tug on the other end. He could sense its powerful body through the line, making strong broad movements with its tail. Joel’s mouth salivated at the potential size of it. The rod pulled to one side, so fast Joel was barely able to keep hold. He tightened his grip and cursed himself for daydreaming. Joel pulled the rod back and reeled in the flywheel. The fish darted starboard, almost knocking Joel over the side.
“Easy there, fella,” he said, righting himself, leaning back and reeling in the flywheel.
“What do you reckon it is?” Stan said, dancing around like he had ants in his pants. “Tuna? Mackerel? What I wouldn’t give for a bit of cod.”
The rod bent over at a seemingly impossible angle as the fish fought to escape. The muscles in Joel’s arms tightened hard as stone, veins protruding. “We might have hooked us a whale! Blimey. He’s a tough old brute, I’ll give him that!”
Joel battled the fish for over twenty minutes. It never gave an inch it couldn’t fight him for. The muscles in Joel’s arms burned as he wound in the flywheel, his hair damp with sweat, his arms shaking with the effort.
“Let me take over,” Stan said. “You’re tired.”
Joel felt the weight in his hands and eyed Stan’s weedy frame. “You’re all right.”
“Go on. Let me take over.”
The fish had lost a good deal of its aggression, strafing side to side two metres out. There was the slightest glint of its silver scales beneath the surface. Most of its fight was gone, Joel surmised.
“All right,” Joel said. “Brace yourself.”
Stan assumed a wide stance and accepted the rod.
“Keep a tight grip on her.” Joel wiped the sweat from his brow. “Reel it in before it recovers.”
“I don’t know what you were talking about,” Stan said. “She doesn’t seem all that strong to me.” Stan reeled the fish in. Its silver scales glittered at the water’s surface, water running through the funnels between the armour-like plate. “It’s a tuna fish! What in God’s name is it doing out here in the English Channel?”
The tuna’s gills flapped open and closed. Its black eyes staring everywhere at once. Its blue fins made lazy movements. And then it went crazy. Its thick body thrashed against Haven’s stern, thumping a fractured beat, splashing them with spray. The line tightened, the rod bending at a near ninety degree angle. Stan was tossed to one side. He hit the deck hard and lost his grip. The flywheel unspooled, thirty clicks a second. The tuna fish ducked beneath the surface. The rod shot across the deck.
Joel stamped his foot, trapping the rod beneath i
t. The tuna stopped sharp like it had run into a brick wall. Joel picked up the rod and began reeling it in again, his muscles aching. Joel roared as he pulled with all his remaining strength and pumped the flywheel. The tuna drew closer, back to the waterline, though it was hardly visible through the thrashing fins and churned water. Joel tugged at the line, but the tuna fish would not come free of the water. A stalemate. The fish was losing strength, but so was Joel.
“Don’t let it go!” Stan shouted, blood trickling down the right side of his face. “Don’t let it go!”
Joel trapped the rod under his feet again. He unsheathed the knife at his waist and leaned over the side, preparing to sink it into the tuna’s flesh. The fish gave one last thrash, his tail whipping up. The rod pulled up, knocking Joel off-balance. His eyes widened in shock as he fell overboard. He felt the cold scales of the fish whip past his leg. He thrust out with his knife, but the fish slapped him across the face and shot away. It was gone before Joel could turn.
Joel raised his head above the surface like an angry hippo and blew out a mouthful of salty water. Something hit his head and flew off after the fish. He made a mad grab for it, but he was too late. The fishing rod skimmed across the surface, disappearing into the distance.
There was the thud of footsteps on the deck. Jordan offered his hand to help Joel back on board, but he refused it and climbed up by himself.
Anne helped Stan up. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” Stan said, shaken.
“I’ll take a look at that cut.”
“It’s nothing.”
Anne checked it. “Looks worse than it is. I’ll get my kit.”
“What happened?” Mary said. “We heard thumping and thought” -She looked at Jessie and Stacey and changed what she was going to say- “something was wrong.”
“I could practically taste it,” Joel said, leaning on the stern, looking out to sea in the direction their meal had gone. “I could smell the bastard! Shit!” He lashed out at an empty container, knocking it overboard. The girls started.
“We’ll catch another one,” Mary said. “We always do.”
