by Perrin Briar
Stan scratched his chin. “Unless we can get on a submarine or into space, where else is there?” He grimaced. “I’m sick of fish already.”
“Aren’t we all?” Anne said.
Everyone’s bowl was empty, and they all looked a whole lot more tired.
“You all go to sleep,” Jordan said. “I’ll take first watch.”
41.
Stan and Mary snored from their bed made of stacked cushions and threadbare blankets. They lay in the furthest corner from the door, their heads directly below the windows. The heat from their bodies steamed up the glass. Jordan sat whittling at the door. Anne approached him.
“You’re not tired?” Jordan asked.
“Exhausted. But you need stitching back together
“I’ll be okay.”
“Your shirt’s covered in blood.”
“Promise you won’t take offence? I’ve seen your handiwork before.”
“Yeah? So?”
“Do you remember that time Joel managed to land himself with his own fishing hook?”
“My first patient.”
“Even Frankenstein would have shuddered at those stitches.”
“It wasn’t that bad.”
“It was!”
“Fine, let it get infected. But don’t come to me when you need an amputation.”
Jordan let out a sigh. “Where do you want me?”
“Where you are is fine.” Anne took up a threaded needle. “Where do you hurt?”
Jordan pulled up his sleeve to reveal a gash on his forearm. Anne cleaned it and began to sew.
“Jessie doesn’t have a scratch on her,” she said. “Can you believe that? The worst storm in years, and she doesn’t have so much as a graze
“Lucky Jess. Ouch!”
“Don’t be such a baby.”
There was a pause. Anne’s arm brushed against Jordan’s, and he could feel the heat off her body.
“How did you get away?” Anne asked. “The last I saw you, you were sucked out to sea.”
“I don’t know. I found a fragment of the hull and climbed onto it. I must have blacked out because when I woke up I was on the beach. How did you all get out?”
“Me and Jessie got sucked into the storm like you. We floated there for a while, clinging to each other. We tried to find the mainland, but couldn’t see it anywhere. Suddenly there was this explosion of water and the life raft came up. Mary and Stan came up with it. We all climbed aboard. Mary and Stan were really upset about Stacey. They wanted to swim down into Haven to rescue her. After they calmed down we all fell asleep. When we woke up we were on the beach. It was dark. We weren’t sure how long we’d been on the life raft and weren’t sure if we missed everybody already.”
“I know that feeling.”
Anne bit the thread off with her teeth and tied a knot. She took Jordan’s arm, extended it and then bent it at the elbow. “How does it feel?”
“Great.” Jordan admired her handiwork. “Since when did you get so good?”
Anne nodded to the sleeping shadows. “You can thank the guinea pigs. Do you hurt anywhere else?”
“My back. There’s a slight twinge.”
Anne helped him take his shirt off. She inhaled through her teeth. There was a long diagonal cut across his back. “Looks painful.”
“Only when I breathe.”
Silence as Anne sewed.
In a small voice Anne said, “I wanted to say thank you.”
“For what?”
“For holding me at the end.”
Jordan turned enough to see Anne’s face. “Thank you, but you were the one holding me.”
Anne smiled. Her lips grazed his back as she bit the thread clean and tied a knot.
“Don’t give up hope on Joel yet,” Jordan said, slipping his shirt back on. “I wasn’t back till a few hours ago. If Joel’s still alive, he’ll be here.”
42.
Jordan huddled up in a blanket in the corner, pressed up against the door. His head felt heavy and nodded with the threat of sleep. He opened his eyes, shook his head and maneuvered himself into a less comfortable position. He couldn’t allow himself to fall asleep, no matter how tired he was. His eyelids drooped and his head nodded toward the floor again.
Then he heard a noise.
Jordan blinked awake but didn’t move. He listened, but hearing no more sounds, began to drift off again.
He heard the noise again, louder this time. A creaking sound. Jordan yawned and stretched. He put his eye to the keyhole. The corridor was empty. He heard another noise, like something being dragged.
The blanket fell from his shoulders. He pivoted himself in front of the door to get the best view possible. The dragging became louder. He felt certain it would appear from around the corner any moment. He waited with bated breath. Jordan licked his dry lips. For a long time there was nothing, the silence most terrifying of all. The creak of a floorboard. A low throaty rumble. The blood drained from Jordan’s face as the figure emerged from around the corner. It held its right arm at the elbow, left leg trailing behind.
Jordan looked back at the sleeping figures and prepared to wake them, but doubt stayed his tongue. Maybe the figure wasn’t heading for them, but would head into another room altogether. If he shouted, he might as well ring the dinner bell. He put his eye back to the keyhole.
The figured limped into moonlight flooding through a hole in the wall, and for an instant, Jordan caught sight of the man’s face. His expression was gripped with a fierce determination, or perhaps fear. Maybe both. It was not the expression of a Lurcher, but a man.
Joel’s injuries looked too fresh to have been caused twenty hours ago at sea. With him bleeding like that, he was lucky not to have attracted the attention of every Lurcher within a half-mile radius.
Jordan reached for the doorknob.
That’s when he heard the scariest sound yet. A low groan. And it hadn’t issued from Joel.
Joel cast a look over his shoulder. He stumbled faster down the corridor, toward Jordan and the others. Behind him another figure appeared.
The hairs on the back of Jordan’s neck stood on end. Jordan, never taking his eye from the keyhole, reached for the machete propped against the doorframe. There was only one Lurcher. Jordan was confident he could take it.
Joel kept coming. There were more groans.
More Lurchers joined the first. They ambled after Joel in their own limping fashion, no two the same. Thoughts of fighting evaporated as the corridor grew thick with their rotting corpses.
But Joel kept coming.
He reached for the doorknob. Jordan did nothing to stop him, nor aid him. He felt powerless.
The doorknob began to turn, but it never made a full revolution, never cracking open. Joel looked at the door with a desperate expression – a man at sanctuary’s door, but unable to cross the threshold. Joel took his hand off the doorknob and instead opened another door. The Lurchers followed Joel into the room with their ubiquitous chorus of low groans.
Stan made a small sound in his sleep, and then quietened back down.
It was silent.
The groans had stopped.
There were grunts of pain amidst the crunching of bones and the snapping of ligaments and cords, the hard crunch of gristle.
Sometime later, after the Lurchers had had their fill, the groans came once again. They emerged from the room and wondered aimlessly down the corridors. One came close to the door, but was distracted by a noise one of the other Lurchers made and followed it.
Jordan sank to the floor, curling up into a ball. His body shuddered.
43.
Moonlight beams caught nightmare images: an eyeball dangling on a cheek, a face torn beyond recognition, an arm shredded and hanging limp from its socket, a cracked jutting femur, snapped ribs amid partially-digested intestines. The body was curled up in the corner of the small office, like a child trying to escape from the monsters in the closet.
The smell was overpowering, like a dog left out
in the sun for two weeks after it had died. But there was more than that. There was something behind the stench of flesh. Something sinister. Jordan had gone to a slaughterhouse once, and it had had the same smell. It was death, he realised.
Joel’s hand shot out and grabbed his ankle. His grip was surprisingly strong. One eye had been ripped from its socket, but the other stared at Jordan intensely. Joel moved his lips to speak, but his vocal chords had been torn out during the feeding frenzy.
Jordan took out his penknife and prepared to bring it down on his friend. Joel reached up with a slow movement, staying Jordan’s hand. He shook his head.
“Joel?” Jordan’s voice shook.
In answer, Joel tapped his own T-shirt with a fingerless hand. Jordan reached under it and unsheathed his four-inch serrated-edge knife.
Jordan’s eyes filled. He nodded. He put the tip of the knife to Joel’s eye. “I’m sorry it had to end like this, Joel.” Jordan pressed his weight onto the knife into Joel’s brain, to the hilt, meeting little resistance. Joel’s back arched. Blood gurgled from the wound and pooled out over the floor. With the last trickle of life, Joel smiled.
Joel’s final words came back to Jordan. “We have to do anything we can to protect them.”
“I’ll take care of them,” Jordan said. “I promise.”
44.
Waves inhaled, pulling themselves back, then exhaled, breaking over the seashore. The moon hung huge and bone-white in the sky, peering at its reflection in the dimpled surface. Abrasive lights flickered from behind, catching Jordan’s shadow and making it dance to an irregular beat on the unblemished beach before him. The house was ablaze with red-hot flames. Thick tendrils of smoke licked the sky.
Jordan, silhouetted by the fire, stood before the house. Inside, footsteps thudded their way up a staircase, toward the roof. Jordan stood, frozen in place. Inhuman screeches emanated from the house.
Jordan had an overwhelming desire to run into the building. He stepped toward it, but the heat was unbearable. His skin blistered. The house creaked and groaned and grunted. The flames rose higher and burned brighter.
On a large semi-circular window in the house’s loft, a tiny hand pressed against the glass. High above the hand, near the apex of the curve, faceless bright green eyes glowed.
A scream rose from the fiery pit…
45.
Jordan flew up into a sitting position. His breaths were rough and ragged, his shirt clung damply to his chest. He put a hand to his forehead and let out a long breath. He was in bed. Someone must have moved him in the night. He put a hand to his head. What a strange dream…
There was a scream.
Jordan looked over at the bunks around him. The blankets had been thrown back, empty. Jordan’s heart rate doubled. Where was everyone?
The scream came again – from outside the door. From a young throat.
Jordan was on his feet and pushing open the door before he was aware of what he was doing. A crying and hysterical Jessie was being led back into their room by Anne.
“Is she all right?” Jordan asked. “What happened?”
“Jessie had a bit of a shock, that’s all,” Anne said. “She’ll be all right.”
“But she’s not bitten?”
“No.”
Stan and Mary were looking down at something on the floor in the next room. The blood ran from Jordan’s face. It was the room where Joel’s body was.
The sunlight cast a less enchanting light than the moon and revealed the body in all its grim detail. Blood had splashed across the wall in three large sprays. Gnawed fingers laid out of reach. The smell had abated, but now flies were feasting voraciously.
“Jessie found him,” Mary said as Stan tore down the curtains and laid them over the body. “She came out to refill the buckets with water for us to wash in, then she must have come across him…”
“She should never have found him,” Jordan said.
“To think he got this close…”
Jordan’s jaw set. “We’ve got to go.”
“Go? Go where?”
“We’re not safe here. The sooner we get out of here, the better.”
“What about the body?” Stan asked. “The least we can do is bury him.”
“We can’t,” Jordan said. “Lurchers could come at any time. We have to get away from here.”
“He was a part of our family,” Stan said. “We can’t just leave him here.”
“He’s as good as buried anyway,” Jordan said. “The whole world is a grave now.”
Mary stepped forward. “But Jordan, Jessie needs time to grieve.”
“She can grieve later when we’re on a boat.” They opened their mouths to argue, but Jordan cut them off. “Pack up. We’re leaving.”
Jordan walked down the corridor and pushed the door open. Jessie was curled up in a blanket with her head on Anne’s lap. Anne stroked her hair.
“How’s she doing?” Jordan asked.
“She’s in shock.”
“How are you feeling?”
“I can’t believe he made it all this way.”
“I know.”
“He didn’t deserve to die like that.” Tears came to her eyes. “But what can we do? It’s happened.”
Jordan put a hand on Anne’s shoulder. “I’m sorry.” He nodded to Jessie. “Will she be okay?”
“I think so.”
“How long will she be like this?”
“She might be okay in an hour or a few days. It depends. I just don’t know.”
“Can she walk?”
“Slowly. Why?”
“The Lurchers could be back at any minute.”
“Can’t we wait just a little while?”
“We have to get moving.” Jordan kneeled before Jessie. “Jess. I know what you saw today was a bit of a shock, but we have to get back on the water. Okay? We’ll be safe there. Can you stand up?”
With the slightest of movements Jessie’s chin nodded.
46.
The docks were a complete disaster. The storm had turned strong seafaring vessels into a miasma of twisted metal and wood. Rigging was tangled in the sails. Masts lay snapped and useless. Upturned hulls had become breeding grounds for seagulls.
They walked down each quay, wary of any weak or rotten boards that squeaked underfoot. Gulls cawed loudly overhead, causing Jessie to flinch. Anne wrapped her arms tighter around her. But Jessie wasn’t the only one being all but carried by someone else. Mary was even paler than Jessie.
“Is she all right?” Jordan said to Stan.
“We can’t walk like we used to.” Stan forced a smile onto his face. “She just got a little hurt from the storm, that’s all.”
“Here’s one!” Anne shouted. The boat she pointed at looked to be in good condition. It was docked away from the others. ‘Big Daddy’ was written on the stern in a masculine blocky gold font. She was sixty-five feet if she was an inch. She was a thing of beauty, consisting of the same thing all beautiful women were: smooth curves. She was modern, clean, and designed for speed.
“Let’s get on board,” Jordan said. “Come on, Jess. Be careful. The gangplank’s a little slippery. You next, Mary.”
The deck had only a little chipping caused by the rain and bird crap. Mary and Jessie sat on the pink leather sofa.
“Anne, Stan, you prepare for cast-off,” Jordan said. “I’ll go and try to see if I can get this heap started.”
“Hardly a heap, is it?” Stan said, looking around.
“It looks new,” Jordan agreed, “but there’s no telling the state of the inside from the out. You should know that, Stan. You’re sixty years old but move like a teenager.”
Stan made a fart noise with his lips. “A teenager ten times over, maybe.”
“What can I do?” Mary said, still out of breath from the climb up the gangplank.
“You can stay and look after Jessie,” Jordan said.
“Babysitter duty, huh?”
Jessie stared directly
ahead, eyes fixed on some indeterminate spot. Ordinarily she would have protested at such a remark.
“Jordan,” Anne said. “Be careful below deck. Anything could be down there.”
As Anne and Stan moved back down the gangplank, Jordan headed below. The walls were inlaid with walnut and chased with polished-to-perfection stainless steel. He got the feeling no one had so much as stepped onto this boat since it was transported here. Maybe it had never been used. He grew excited. He opened a door. It was a cabin with a single bed. Another door, another small cabin. On his third attempt he struck gold, and couldn’t help but smile. There wasn’t so much as a speck of dust in the entire engine bay.
Jordan performed all the checks Joel had taught him with Haven’s engine, and then started the engine.
CHUG CHUG CHUG CHUG CHUG.
“Yes!” Jordan raised his arms triumphantly in the air. He ran back up the stairs to the main deck. “I did it! We’re outta here!”
As Jordan’s eyes blinked and acclimatised to the sunlight, he became aware that something was very wrong.
Jessie sat staring into space, unchanged. Mary was now on the floor, crawling toward the gangplank. Anne and Stan hastily hacked at the boat’s mooring. For some reason they hadn’t simply lifted it. They were doing it with such force and ferocity that at first Jordan couldn’t quite fathom a reason for their behaviour.
“They’re coming!” Mary shouted, pointing off into the distance. “They’re coming! They’re coming!”
Jordan looked in the direction she was pointing. His breakfast turned to water.
47.
It was like watching something from an ultra-realistic war movie where a bomb had gone off, blowing bystanders’ clothes off, and they belatedly ran for cover. Their arms flailed wildly, heads rolling back and forth on broken necks. Dried crusted blood clung thickly to their skin, giving the impression they were wearing matching sweaters. Their movements were jerky, unnatural. Jordan had never seen them out in the open before. Despite their missing or useless floppy appendages, they moved quickly.