by Perrin Briar
“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 stronger, 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.
“Sorry,” he said. “I’ll clean it up.”
“The same way you fed yourself?” Anne said with a smile. “No thanks.”
“I must be weaker than I thought.”
Anne picked up the spoon, dipped it into the bowl, brushed it against the lip so it wouldn’t drip, and brought it to his mouth.
“You’ve had a lot of practice at this,” he said, swallowing it with visible effort.
“Three days’ worth.”
“How far are we from port?”
“Not far. Why?”
“I need to get back to my barracks.”
“Barracks? You were in the army? Stan will be happy.”
“Who’s Stan?”
“One of the guys who lives on the boat. We’ve had a pool going, about which armed services you came from, navy, army or air. Stan gets an extra helping of soup tonight.”
“At least someone has benefitted from me being here.” He saw something on Anne’s wrist. “What’s that?”
“It’s nothing,” Anne said, hastily pulling her sleeve down.
“Let me see.”
Anne looked away.
“Please.”
After a pause she pulled up her sleeve revealing purple and yellow discolorations. Jordan laid his hand gently on her forearm, his fingers lining up with the bruises.
“I did this?” He sounded horrified.
“By accident.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have got so close.” She refilled the spoon and raised it to his lips, but he turned away from her hand. “You need to eat.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“You said you were starving.”
He still wouldn’t look at her.
“You don’t have to eat if you don’t want to. And don’t worry about the bruises. Haven g
ives me plenty.”
He smiled weakly.
“Can I ask, do you remember how you ended up in the sea?”
He thought for a moment then shook his head. “No.”
“What’s the last thing you remember?”
He frowned. “I remember walking into my barracks’ canteen. Someone waved me over to their table and… that’s about it. But up to then I remember everything. My dad was in the army, and was stationed all over the world.”
“Where is your barracks?”
“I was being trained at Sandhurst. Actually, I need to get back soon, or at least notify them I’m not dead. Don’t want them thinking I’ve gone AWOL.”
“Are you sure that’s the last thing you remember?” Anne asked. “Being in the canteen?”
“Yes. Why?”
She gauged his expression, considered a moment, and came to a decision. “Because we’re off the Norfolk coast.”
Jordan opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out.
Anne spoke for him. “Sandhurst must be two hundred miles away. How on Earth did you manage to cover that kind of distance without remembering it?”
“I don’t know.”
“It might be possible you suffered some kind of concussion when you fell into the sea, or something. Possibly retrograde amnesia, or with your armed services background some kind of post-traumatic amnesia.”
“Are you a therapist?”
“In my past life.”
Jordan smiled. “At least I’m in the right hands.”
“There’s one more thing. When we found you, you said a name. Rachel. Does it mean anything to you?”
“Rachel?” He shook his head. “I don’t know any Rachel.”
“Maybe I misheard,” Anne said.
Jordan yawned. His eyes looked heavy. “Do you mind if I sleep? I suddenly feel very tired.”
“Not at all. Sleep.” She picked up the tray and headed toward the door. She frowned, something on her mind. At the door she stopped. “Just one last question: what year is it, Jordan?”
“Now?” He smiled. “2008 of course.”
3.
“Well? How is he?” Joel said. “I could hear voices through the door.”
“He’s fine,” Anne said, “but he’s got a lot of healing to do.”
“Is he safe?”
“He used to be in the army, so I guess so.”
“Army? Shit.”
“I know. Stan’ll be laughing.”
Joel studied Anne’s expression. “There’s something else, isn’t there? Something you’re not telling me.”
“It’s… nothing.”
“It’s obviously something. What is it?”
Anne took a deep breath. “The last memory he has is from when he was training in Sandhurst. In 2008.”
Joel blinked. “2008? Are you sure?”
“He seems adamant.”
“But it’s 2014.”
“I know.”
Joel ran a hand through his hair. “So where has he been for the past six years?”
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 programs 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 recognize but aren’t human anymore. The world ha
s 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 woolen 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.”