by Perrin Briar
But she sorely wanted to.
“No,” Ernest said. “It’s fine. Really.”
The truly surprising thing was that he was serious. It really didn’t bother him in the slightest. He even smiled. It wasn’t tinged with the slightest sadness.
“You’re really not bothered or upset?” Jenny said. “If I thought you were, I can live by myself.”
“If you didn’t date Fritz, who would you date?” Ernest said. “You’d have to wait a while for when Jack is of agreeable age. Even longer for Francis.”
Jenny barked a laugh.
“Yes,” she said. “Maybe I could try out all the Flower men until I find one I like.”
“Oh God,” Ernest said. “I just realized something.”
“What?” Jenny said.
“If you and Fritz get married that’ll make us in-laws,” Ernest said.
“Woah!” Jenny said. “Slow down! Marriage is a little way off, don’t you think?”
“Who knows,” Ernest said. “First dating, then marriage and kids. Maybe the other way round if you can’t find a decent supply of contraception-”
“Woah!” Jenny said. “That’s quite enough of that discussion, thank you very much.”
“Just saying,” Ernest said with a shrug. “I suppose you can find lots of banana leaves.”
“Stop,” Jenny said, her shoulders moving up and down with laughter.
“Though I suppose they’ll be very baggy and loose…” Ernest said.
Jenny clutched her sides.
“Stop!” she said. “Just stop!”
Ernest realized then that he had never really thought of Jenny the same way Fritz did. He was worried about losing her as a friend. Fritz wanted to date her. Ernest supposed he wouldn’t have to worry for long. After all, how long could anyone bear to date Fritz and stay sane?
Ernest chuckled to himself. Jenny gave him a sideways look.
“What?” Jenny said.
“Nothing,” Ernest said. “Something funny just occurred to me, that’s all.”
“Care to share?” Jenny said.
“You’ll have the same thought soon enough,” Ernest said.
That left Jenny to frown, wondering what it could possibly be. She shrugged. She supposed it didn’t really matter.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
CHUCERNE was nestled in a valley with mountains on every side. From this vantage, with a thick mist lapping at the sheer snow-capped cliff faces, it could have almost passed for an island, dislocated from everywhere else. Birds flitted through the air, chasing one another. The dry crisp leaves of winter gave way to the green sprigs of spring and hope.
Jack smiled at Nips. Fritz interlocked his fingers through Jenny’s. Manuel held Francis’s tiny hand like a caring parent. Really, Francis was the parent in their relationship, and though Manuel didn’t speak, Bill thought he caught the hint of a smile on his face.
In truth, the town of Chucerne was an island. It was an island of safety in a world gone to hell. Everything they had done and learnt on the speck of land so many thousands of miles away were precisely the same skills they would need to survive here, in the heart of Europe. Sure, it was on a bigger scale, and there would be vastly different obstacles, but the theory was the same.
On their way here, they had cut through the Mediterranean and experienced calm seas. They disembarked at the port of Marseille in the south of France. It seemed strange to Bill to be in a place he had been to often in the past. It was like revisiting a dream, only this time it had overtones of darkness to it.
They had left The Red Flag in the hands of the rest of the crew, who sailed off into the sunset. They would head to western Europe and then cut across to America. They too were heading home. They still had a long journey ahead of them, just as the Flowers did.
As darkness descended on the mountaintop, they were treated to a pleasing sight. Lights came on in the small town. From this distance, they couldn’t tell if it was fire or electricity, but hope took all forms.
All the family had to do was get down there, the end of their journey, back to the town they had left to go find themselves. And they had found themselves. Now they were returning as new people, with a lot more to offer and a great deal of experience to share.
In the distance, howling like a harsh wind over challenging terrain, was the unmistakable groan of the undead, distant and yet forever within reach, tugging on their fear. They were home, but it would never be as they had remembered it.
Enjoy Flowers Vs. Zombies?
Then you’ll love Blood Memory!
Thank you for reading the Flowers Vs. Zombies series. I hope you enjoyed it. I’m always sad whenever I come to the end of a book series I love. I feel a little empty that there isn’t more. The good news is it doesn’t have to be the end!
I have many other series, some of which tie-in with the Flowers Vs. Zombies series! You’re probably wondering where the Overlord In Black comes from. You’ll discover that in my Blood Memory series!
As a special gift to you, I am including Book One in the series FREE in the following pages. You’ll also find links to the next book in the series to purchase if you want to continue reading.
With hundreds of reviews (most of them 5*!) you know you won’t be disappointed. So, without further ado, grab yourself a nice drink, get comfortable, and begin your next favorite series.
Happy reading!
Perrin
Blood Memory
Book One
Perrin Briar
1.
Anne recognized the sound. She’d heard it dozens of times over the past 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.”
“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.”
“I will. Enjoy the book. By the way, Professor Quirrel’s the bad guy.”
Joel’s eyes and mouth made wide disbelieving circles as Anne pushed the door open with her backside and stepped into the tiny room.
A single bed took up half the space, where Jordan lay asleep. Anne and Mary had cleaned him and taken care of his wounds, stitching closed his cuts, cracking his broken nose back into place, and applying the meager medicines and salves they had found on board. His fever was gone and his heart beat s
tronger, but he hadn’t woken up yet. Beside the bed sat a rickety old chair on which Anne had placed clean folded clothes. The T-shirt lay half hanging off the pile as if it had been knocked off in haste. She eyed it with curiosity, and then turned to Jordan.
“You can quit the act,” Anne said. “I know you’re awake.”
The man didn’t move.
“How long have you been conscious?”
He still didn’t answer.
“I suppose you don’t want this soup and bread then? I’ll come back later when you’re ready to talk.” She turned to the door.
“Wait.”
Jordan’s head sat up at a sharp angle, his bloodshot eyes half-open under heavy lids. “What gave me away?”
“Your clothes are messed up. I folded them for you and no one else comes into the room. It doesn’t take Sherlock Holmes.”
He smiled. It crinkled the corner of his eyes and mouth. “Rookie mistake. I woke up and tried to get dressed when I heard voices outside the door.”
She put the folded clothing on the side table and sat on the chair with the tray on her knees. “Are you hungry? I brought some soup.”
“Starving.” He levered himself up into a sitting position on shaky arms. “How long have I been here?”
“Three days.”
“You’ve been taking care of me?”
“It’s no trouble.”
“Thank you.” He looked around the room. “Is it just me or is the room swaying?”
“You’re on a boat called Haven. We’ve been at sea now for twelve days. We found you floating at sea.”
“Floating around? I never was much of a swimmer.”
“Here,” Anne said, filling a spoon with soup and raising it to his mouth.
“That’s okay. I can do it.”
“Are you sure?”
“I think so.”
She sat the tray on his lap. He picked up the spoon. It shook in his fingers with the effort, and dropped, clattering on the tray, scattering soup droplets over the bedspread.