Repulsion (Compulsion Book 2)

by Perrin Briar

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 engi
ne 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 gives 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.