Cut Off [Part 1]

by Perrin Briar

  Reid put his flashlight on the lowest setting to maintain its battery life. When he didn’t need it, he would always switch it off. He would use this battery, as well as the four spares, before his flashlight would give up the ghost and become an unnecessary paperweight.

  Society could fall apart, or learn to deal with someone—or thing—having hit the reset button. Reid had no control over that. All he knew was he wanted to be as far from the chaos as possible.

  Reid had no high hopes for humanity. Even before this happened, they were on a course for self-annihilation. Perhaps the EMP had done them a great favor, covering the self-destruct button for a little while. Or perhaps it was the final nail in the coffin, and would push everyone over the side and into the abyss.

  The word humanity used to mean something, used to represent everything good about a species that dared to look up at the sky and wonder. These days, people screamed at each other in the supermarket, engaging in petty squabbles. On the news, people put bullets in each other for cutting each other off at a busy junction. Husbands murdered wives, who murdered their own children. The world was not the same as it had once been.

  Reid made his final pass of his apartment. He didn’t even turn back as he headed for the door. He didn’t have many happy memories there. There was nothing else he needed to take with him. Except perhaps the photographs of his parents. Still, the one in his mind was good enough.

  If he couldn’t use it to survive, it was better to leave behind.

  He shut the door behind him and began to walk toward the parking lot. He still hadn’t seen his neighbors. It was probably for the best. He didn’t need to take anyone with him. His best chance of survival relied on him heading out alone. People would turn on each other. It was a time for difficult decisions. Reid was prepared to do what was necessary.

  “Help!” someone screamed.

  It was a female voice, shrill with terror.

  The sound came from his neighbor’s apartment. Michelle and Joseph had moved in next door about a year ago. Reid hadn’t seen them much, which was fine by him. He preferred to keep to himself. Joseph had moved out the previous week after a massive argument. It wasn’t any of Reid’s business, so he’d simply turned the music up and continued working out. He would only have stepped in if the argument continued when it was time for bed. Thankfully, it had ended before that.

  The scream came again. It was a haunting, horrific sound. The type that would haunt him in his dreams if he didn’t do something about it.

  He felt his adrenalin pump through his system. He focused on Michelle’s front door. Who knew what kind of terrible things were happening behind it.

  This was it. This was how it would begin.

  Was Reid going to do the sensible thing and leave? Ignore her cries for help? Or was he going to attempt to rescue a woman he hardly knew?

  There would be many more situations like this in the ensuing days. He’d need to make a decision about what kind of survivor he wanted to be.

  His breathing sawed out of his throat, his heart beating on his chest as he stood there, staring at her door, the plastic bags clutched tight in his arms.

  4

  Michelle

  Michelle sat alone on her sofa, caught between two thoughts: her growing headache and the odd military truck that had turned a corner and left. That was when the two men kicked down her backdoor.

  They must have scaled the fire escape.

  Michelle screamed. It was piercing.

  The men rushed her, the large guy aiming a pistol at her grill.

  “Scream again and you’re dead, bitch,” he said.

  He sounded drunk, or possibly high. He was muscular, built like a brick shithouse.

  Michelle’s thoughts raced, but were fuzzy and indistinct. Everything was happening too fast for her to fully comprehend. Her body felt ice cold with fear.

  The second man was overweight with a thick paunch. He carried a pistol too.

  Neither man wore a mask.

  Pulverized with fear, Michelle couldn’t think. She screamed again.

  “Dumb bitch,” the muscular man said, slamming her head hard with a fist.

  The blow knocked her to the ground, but she didn’t pass unconscious. Her vision went fuzzy around the edges. She turned and focused on him. A strange thought circled her mind. Whatever he intended on doing to her, she wanted to never forget what he looked like. That way, she could inform the police.

  She couldn’t believe the sheer gall of these men, coming into her home without masks. Unless they intended on killing her, providing no witness to their crime. Perhaps that was their plan. The gun might not have been for show. Perhaps they were going to rape her. Then kill her to keep her quiet.

  Michelle’s heart raced like it wanted to evacuate her chest.

  “Up for some fun?” the bodybuilder said to his fat friend.

  The fat friend stepped closer and leered at Michelle’s body. His face was little more than a blur in Michelle’s vision. Fat, with a squashed nose. The muscular man was closer, features sharper. His nose was long, with a short military-style haircut.

  “After you,” the bodybuilder said. “I want to watch first.”

  “You’re sick, man,” the fat man said.

  Michelle whimpered, stepping back.

  “Don’t worry, baby,” the muscular man said. “We’re going to take real good care of you.”

  “The police will come,” Michelle said. “With any luck, they’re on their way here right now.”

  The fat man chuckled in the back of his throat.

  “Everything’s gone off,” the muscular man said. “No phones, no security cameras, no nothin’. Who knows when it’ll come back on. So, we’re going to have a little fun while we can.”

  The fat man began taking off his belt. He needed both hands, so he put his gun down on the coffee table.

  “You’re going to enjoy it,” the fat man said. “We’ve been watching your tight ass every day of the week when you get home. Now, finally, we get a taste.”

  They knew where she lived? They had been watching her? This wasn’t a random attack?

  And they thought now was the best time to do this because the power was out? It didn’t make any sense. If they had watched her every day, they were local. They must have known Michelle would go to the cops the instant she escaped.

  She took some deep breaths to calm down. Cool heads prevailed. She felt burning hot tears at the thought of being raped. She couldn’t think of anything worse. Except for being dead.

  Suddenly, a noise at the door. Someone was kicking at it.

  “Shit,” the muscular man said.

  “It’ll be a nosey neighbor,” the fat one said.

  “Don’t you make one Goddamn sound,” the muscular man said to Michelle. “Trust me, this will be a lot more fun if you’re still alive.”

  Another strike against the door. And another.

  Michelle’s heart was in the throat. Was someone trying to save her? She had no idea who it might be. For a single weak moment, she hoped it was Joseph, coming to save the day. But no. He was out in California. And there was no way Mrs. Cairns could make that kind of noise. She couldn’t even attempt to kick down her door.

  The door burst open amidst a shower of chipped wood. A flash of a black boot. But no one stepped through the doorway. Probably a wise move, considering the men in her apartment were armed.

  The fat man reached for the gun he’d put on the coffee table.

  An Additional Gift From the Author

  I hope you are enjoying Cut Off. The complete book will be released very soon. In the meantime, why not check out my other series Blood Memory. As a special gift I’m giving you an exclusive behind-the-scenes peek of its opening. Details of how to grab the next book are available after the excerpt.

  -EXCERPT-

  Blood Memory

  Book One

  1.

  Anne recognized the sound. She’d heard it dozens of times over the pas
t week. She peered over the boat’s edge. The fog was so thick she couldn’t see more than a few feet beyond the prow.

  At thirty-two, with a thin wiry body and dirty blonde hair that barely reached the nape of her neck, climbing over the thirty-eight foot Viking yacht was easy for Anne, though her legs and arms still bore the scratches and bruises from the first few turbulent days on board. She held onto the railing that wrapped around the cabin’s roof and edged along the narrow rim to the stern.

  A body floated in the water. Only the torso was visible, the legs lost to the fog. The man’s head patted the boat with a hollow thud, the cause of the sound she’d heard. The man would have been handsome if it wasn’t for the puckered purple cut across his left cheek, his pallid skin, and nose bent at a broken angle.

  “Joel?” Anne’s words were muffled by the fog. “Come up here!”

  She listened but there was no reply. She stomped her foot on the deck like a buck calling a female.

  “What?” a voice called out.

  “Come up here a minute.”

  Joel grumbled as he ascended the stairs. He was a thirty-year-old walnut-haired broad-chested Australian more accustomed to the Outback than the ocean. Upon seeing the body he said, “Bloody hell, not another floater. Can’t we just toss it back?”

  “You know we can’t.”

  Joel cupped his hands around his mouth and called down the stairs. “Yo! Stan! Come up here!”

  Pigeon-chested Stan McIntyre was two inches shy of Joel’s six feet two, but he had a bearing his past life as a school teacher had imbued him with that made him seem taller.

  “Where are the girls?” Anne asked.

  “Inside with Mary,” Stan said.

  “Do we have to do this one?” Joel whined. “Can’t we just let him be? Respect the dead, and all that.”

  “Not when he might have something in his pocket that could aid us,” Stan said.

  Joel blew out an exasperated puff of air. “All right then. Let’s get this over with.”

  Joel and Stan took an arm each and pulled the body on board. Water splashed and pooled over the deck.

  “Whose turn is it to turn out pockets?” Stan asked.

  “I did it last night,” Joel said.

  “And I did it this morning.”

  “Me too,” Anne said.

  Joel rolled his eyes. “Great.” He rooted through the man’s pockets. He screwed up his face. “Nothing. I knew there wouldn’t be. Let’s toss him back.” Joel hooked his hands into the crook of the body’s arms and lifted him up until he was almost standing. He was about to push it over the side when the body wheezed a gasping breath. Joel’s eyes went wide and he dropped the body.

  “Jesus Christ! The bugger’s still alive!”

  “Is he one of them, do you reckon?” Stan said, picking up a length of iron kept for such occasions.

  Anne reached over slowly, keeping a close eye on the man, and put her fingers to his wrist. “He has a pulse. It’s faint, but it’s there.”

  “He can’t be alive, can he?” Joel said, hand on his chest like he was going to suffer a heart attack. “He must be one of them. None of the others were alive.”

  “That doesn’t mean this one can’t be.”

  “He can’t be alive. He’s been floating around for a week.”

  “We don’t know that. He might have only fallen in a few hours ago.”

  “His beard,” Stan said, gesturing to the man’s five o’clock shadow. “If he’d been at sea a long time it’d be longer than it is now.”

  “There’s only one way of knowing for sure,” Anne said. “We have to check him for bite marks.”

  Joel shook his head. “No. No way I’m going near him. You know how fast those things can move.”

  Anne reached into her pocket, extricating a switchblade. “I’ll do it.” She kneeled down at the foot of the body and began cutting off a saturated sock.

  “Fine,” Joel said, getting down on his knees and cutting at the other sock with his own knife. “But if anything happens I blame you. Stan, you stand over him with your pole ready. I swear, if his eyelids so much as flutter, give it to him.”

  Stan took position over the body, pole poised.

  Joel shook his head. “I can’t believe I’m doing this.”

  They cut away the man’s pants. His dark wire-like hair lay plastered to his pale legs. They cut away the man’s light blue shirt with fancy cufflinks.

  The man mumbled under his breath.

  Everyone froze. Stan tensed, pole held over his shoulder like a batter stepping up to the plate. The man quietened down and they continued. They pulled off the man’s shirt, exposing his arms. They were not large and muscular, but toned and hard. They tore through the man’s undershirt. Anne gasped. Crisscrossing his body were a series of pale white scars and strange flower-like burns, long-since healed. One nipple had been shorn off entirely. Around the remaining nipple were a series of small circles Anne suspected were cigarette burns.

  “Jesus,” Joel said.

  They rolled the man over. His back sported long diagonal slash marks that crisscrossed his spine.

  “No bite marks at least,” Stan said, lowering the iron rod.

  Anne fingered the scars. “By the look of it, some other monster must have gotten to him.”

  The man’s bloodshot eyes flickered open. He grabbed Anne by the arm in a vice-like grip.

  “Rachel!” he shouted in her face. “Rachel! No! Rachel!”

  Stan moved to swing.

  “No! Don’t!” shouted Anne, holding up her free arm to stop the blow.

  The man’s grip weakened slightly. His hazel eyes looked deep into Anne’s chestnut brown. He reached towards Anne’s face with his fingertips. Joel and Stan took a protective step forward. The man gently stroked Anne’s face, following the smooth contours of her nose and chin. His hand let go of hers, his eyes rolled back into his head, he fell back, shivering.

  Stan put a hand to the man’s forehead. “He’s burning up.”

  Joel removed his own pants and covered the man up. “We’d best get him inside.”

  Anne spotted something that glittered in the man’s manubrium – the gap where the collarbones met. He wore a ball chain necklace with two metal circles attached.

  “Dog tags,” Stan said. “What do they say?”

  Anne rubbed her finger over the embossed engravings. “Jordan Grant,” she read. “Service number 293097.” She looked at the unconscious figure. “Hello Jordan Grant. Welcome to Haven, the safest place on Earth.”

  A stiff breeze blew a gap in the thick fog revealing a harbor city. Broken hulls and overturned yachts lay scattered in the dock. Dirty smoke rose from a dozen places, licking the sky. A sign proudly boasting beach accolades lay half-buried in the sand. Hundreds of human figures jostled for position at the water’s edge, watching the floating meal with hungry eyes. Their cacophonous low groans a single wail of death.

  2.

  Mary poured the soup into a chipped ceramic bowl. Though they usually ate out of empty tin cans, Mary, incapable of letting go of the Old World entirely, insisted the guest use the fine china. She placed it on the tray beside a cracked glass of water and a heel of hard bread.

  “When do you suppose he’ll wake up?” Mary asked. She had a full head of black hair and jingling jewelry. Her eyes were emerald green with flecks of gold that seemed to catch every nuance of movement. She was short – the only member of the crew who could look Anne in the eye.

  “I don’t know,” Anne said. “He’s been through a lot. All we can do now is take care of him and hope for the best.”

  “I saw his fortune,” Mary said.

  Anne glanced at the battered pack of Tarot cards that lay on the table. “What did you see?”

  “Death. But not his. He is a man surrounded by it, I fear. Be careful.”

  “Speaking of being careful, how are we doing for food?”

  Mary gave her a look that said, “Don’t ask.”

&nbs
p; “How long do you think we can last?”

  “I’ve already used the cabbage three times to make soup. We’ll soon be better off drinking water – which is another problem we have. It hasn’t rained in weeks. Our supplies are running low.”

  “We could boil our socks.”

  Mary screwed up her face. “If we do, you can have Stan’s. I swear sometimes he keeps a hidden stash of cheese in there.”

  Anne picked up the tray and crossed the small living area. She almost dropped it as Stacey flew past, chasing Jessie. “Careful!” Anne said, but they were too busy playing to listen.

  They had come across the pair hanging on for dear life to a buoy. Despite their different appearances – Stacey had red auburn hair with dark eyes, Jessie had blonde with light eyes – they had taken them for sisters. Jessie was thirteen going on fifty, a mother figure to five-year-old Stacey. They never talked about where they came from, which led them to suppose it couldn’t have been anywhere good.

  Anne came to a short corridor that split into four rooms, three cabins and an engine bay. On rainy days she leaked, and the slightest breeze could make her list like she was a fairground ride. Rust scaled the walls, creating large patches of brown flakes that Stacey used to draw pictures in with her finger. In many places the wall panels were held in place by a single rivet. She was falling to pieces, but she was their home.

  Perched on a stool in the corridor, Joel read a water damaged copy of Harry Potter. It looked like a children’s flip book in his massive hands. “Feeding time again?” he said, not looking up.

  “The body needs to eat if it’s going to heal.”

  “Do you want me to come in with you today? He might like to see a fresh face.”

  “He hasn’t even seen mine yet. Besides, it’s better if he sees one face when he wakes up.”

  “All right. Let me know if you need any help.”