Parasite

Chapter One

0054 hours

September 2, 2015

Gulf of Maine

WHEN SOME KOOKY mainlanders offered to pay extra for a midnight ferry, Bill Jamison had jumped at the chance to pay off his bar tab. Now he regretted it. The middle-aged fisherman leaned morosely against the starboard rail while beside him his business partner, Jim Kendrick, fought the uphill battle of smoking a pipe during a storm. The rain pounded against the deck in a dull roar and, judging from Kendrick’s cursing, the pipe had gone out once again.

Not for the first time, Jamison reluctantly noted that his partner was getting on in years. Kendrick’s coat hung from his wizened frame like a cloak. His mysterious weight loss had made them both nervous, not that either one said anything. For an Eldrick Islander, the prospect of cancer was like foul weather; something to be endured without complaint.

Goddamned son-of-a— Kendrick upended the pipe and a sodden wad of tobacco fell onto the deck. He kicked it away, smearing it across the boards.

We shouldn’t have gone out tonight, Jamison said.

Horse shit, Kendrick huffed. We’ve sailed through worse than this.

That ain’t what I meant. Jamison jerked his head toward the mainlander lurking near the bow of the ferry.

Tall and blond, his passenger’s washed-out appearance resembled a photograph, the kind found in a neglected attic of subjects long deceased. Judging by the young man’s pinched frown, Jamison assumed that Silas Spencer was either a lawyer or an undertaker. He shuddered; Jamison hated lawyers, having seen enough of their kind during his divorce. Blood-sucking monsters the lot of them, in his opinion, but he had never been afraid of them, not even when the wretches helped his ex-wife take half of everything he’d owned.

But he was afraid of this one.

It was the eyes. He had seen eyes like that once before, years ago. Back when he had spent much of his days drunk. Once, while Kendrick cleaned their catch, Jamison had gone too far and drunk too much. His legs had betrayed him, and he had tumbled over the side. He remembered tasting blood. A tangy mix of iron and salt that burned his lungs when he tried to inhale. His eyes had stung. He had floundered in the icy water. He, a man who had learned to swim before he could walk, was drowning.

Then the moment of panic was gone, and instinct had set in. Jamison’s powerful legs had propelled him upwards, his arms outstretched toward the boat. He had nearly reached it before the shadow was beneath him. It came at him like a torpedo, almost too fast for his gin-addled brain to comprehend. A massive, prehistoric monster armed with muscled jaws and sandpaper skin. The soulless black pits of its eyes rolled back in its head, and its gaping maw expanded to reveal rows upon row of serrated teeth.

In the split second before the attack, Jamison had stared into the darkness of oblivion—then he had been shaken like a terrier on a rat. The shark had separated the flesh from his leg and sentenced him to a month in a mainland hospital whose bill he was still struggling to pay off. The very existence of such a creature disproved the notion that humans sat at the top of the food chain.

Safely back in the present, Jamison shuddered and remembered to breathe. He rubbed at his forearms, warm beneath his thick woolen sweater. He had been lucky. If he had drunk a little more gin, perhaps he wouldn’t have had the presence of mind to sink his knife deep into the shark’s eye socket. Now only scars and nightmares remained, and he hadn’t touched the bottle since. He liked to say that his rock bottom was on the ocean floor.

Jamison recognized something of that great white shark in Spencer. The man’s flat, grey eyes made his skin crawl. He glowered at Spencer’s broad-shouldered back, but Spencer didn’t seem to notice or care. His attention lay on the swirling mists beyond the ferry’s bow. Typical yuppie mainlander. Pretentious bastard, Jamison thought.

They’re up to something, he said aloud, glancing toward the cabin where the other one had sequestered himself.

Kendrick only snorted. They’re mainlanders. They’ll spend a few weeks on the Isle, get bored, and then go back to whatever hell hole they came from. You know the type. We get a few every other year or so.

Jamison did know the type. Unlike Nantucket, or Martha’s Vineyard, Eldrick Isle never attracted the summer crowd. There was nothing to offer. The once booming fishing industry had been usurped by commercial trawlers decades ago, forcing the neighboring isles to turn to seaweed farming instead. Eldrick, however, chose to bow its head and soldier on, clinging to the memory of its glory days. Billboards advertised a hotel that had long since shuttered its doors. The lone diner had a Visitor’s Special that no one ever ordered. The pier greeting the newcomers reeked of dead fish, the ever-present stench emanating from the dozen or so rusted fishing boats docked in the harbor.

Then there was the island itself: Eldrick’s shores were steep, rocky cliffs, with edges sharp and jagged like broken teeth. The surf stirred up debris and rotting vegetation, littering the island’s few beaches with trash from the abandoned canning factory on the island’s east side. Even the hottest days of summer were damp and chilly. Mist obscured the frigid waters. It crept onto the island, soaking through the sturdiest of coats. The few vacationers that showed up in August inevitably took one look at the dying town and turned around to book their return ticket.

Rain splattered against Jamison’s hood, echoing in his ears. Kendrick tried his pipe again to no avail. The storm lulled enough that the sound of retching was audible from within the depths of the cabin. Rasping coughs followed by the wet splatter of vomit. The downpour returned with a roar. It slipped past Jamison’s hood, soaking his neck. His shiver had nothing to do with the cold.

Kendrick abandoned his pipe and frowned, his rheumy eyes searching Jamison’s face. Jamison cleared his throat, striving to be heard over the rain and yet not loud enough for Spencer to hear. Something’s wrong, he shouted into Kendrick’s ear. We were barely on the water before the kid got sick—

Billy, you been drinking again? Kendrick asked, clasping Jamison’s shoulder with gnarled fingers. When’d you get so goddamned superstitious?

No, I haven’t been fucking drinking! I’m only saying that this whole thing feels wrong; if one of my brothers were puking like that, I’d at least go check on him. I think the kid’s got something bad—what if it’s contagious?

What, like ee-bolah? Kendrick asked, with a sharp look toward the ferry’s cabin. Naw, it couldn’t be…

You checked on him?

No.

"Well, someone ought to," Jamison said.

You do it, Kendrick said dubiously. Last time, I slipped in it and damn near broke my back.

"Go check it out. If he’s only seasick then I’ll clean it up myself, but I’m telling you, something’s very wrong with that kid."

Christ, Billy! Nag anymore and you’re gonna sound like my wife. Kendrick gave him a shove and then marched across the deck toward the cabin. Jamison caught movement in the corner of his eye and found Spencer watching them, his back against the railing. Their eyes met, and all of a sudden Jamison couldn’t hear the storm. There was nothing but the blood pounding in his ears. One corner of Spencer’s thin mouth twitched upward into a razor’s edge of a smirk. Jamison’s skin crawled. He wrenched his eyes away.

Jim, wait! Jamison shouted over the rain, but Kendrick had already knocked on the cabin door. The old sailor reached for the handle, his calloused fingers closing in on the doorknob. Jamison sucked in his breath.

Kendrick half turned around, his shoulders squared and his lips pursed, eyes narrowed beneath his bushy white brows. His hand was still on the cabin door. Jesus Christ, Billy, what now? he demanded. What in the hell’s wrong with you, you crazy son of a bitch? You’re shaking like a virgin on— He paused and glanced down. Jamison didn’t know why until Kendrick tried to take a step back. His boot remained glued to the floor.

Kendrick shoved at the door and yanked at his shoe. He stumbled as it came loose, trailing a viscous black gel behind it. More of the substance pooled out from underneath the cabin door. Lightning flashed, and a rainbow sheen coated the surface of the muck. The door creaked open.

Before Jamison shouted in warning, something darted out from the gloom. Thick and ropy, like a bundle of rotten vines, it hit Kendrick’s wrist with a wet slap, latching onto his bare skin. Kendrick sputtered, his eyes wide and his mouth hanging open in a perfect caricature of surprise—then another tentacled limb emerged and shoved itself down his gullet. Like a fish on a hook, he was yanked into the cabin.

A scream pierced the air. High-pitched and tinny, like a child’s, but it wasn’t coming from within the cabin. Only when his lungs burned for air did Jamison realize the scream was his own. Gasping for breath, the frantic thud of Kendrick’s boots against the deck echoed in his ears. He smelled the ozone of the storm, mixed with the sharp spray of the sea and the fetid odor of Kendrick’s voided bowels. The stench clung to Jamison’s tongue. Sour bile filled his mouth, and his stomach lurched.

Jamison slipped across the deck, once again moving on instinct. There was a deflated raft on the starboard side strapped into a cubby with the other emergency supplies. He ran for it, tugging the quick release knot free before tossing the useless, flattened raft aside. The plastic first aid kit soon followed. It bounced off the deck and sent its contents into the wind. Jamison wrenched the gun case free with a clang. His fingers trembled on the clasps.

He shouldn’t have been able to hear the clasps click. Not over Kendrick’s struggling. Jamison listened, but there was nothing but the soft patter of rain upon the deck. He glanced over his shoulder, his numbed fingers searching blindly for the cartridge while the monstrous vines snaked across the deck.

The thin tendrils latched themselves to the floor like strangler figs, growing into a meaty, pulsating carpet shimmering with slime. The muscular, serpentine tentacles soon followed. Now finished with Kendrick, they searched for another victim. Jamison nearly dropped the cartridge. Hot urine seeped into his trousers and warmed his legs. He pinched his fingers as he shoved the flare into the Heckler and Koch. The gun had a single shot and nothing more. Jamison aimed the flare gun toward the cabin and squeezed the trigger.

Recoil jerked the barrel upward and the brilliant red flare, his only chance at survival, disappeared under limbs that fought each other like rabid dogs. Jamison felt sick. He staggered backward, each empty click of the trigger another nail in his coffin. In desperation he chucked the gun at the nearest mass of rubbery tissue. Next went the gun case itself. All useless. He regretted not taking the raft. Why hadn’t he fled? He could have at least tried to inflate it.

Jamison cast about for another weapon when his attention landed on Spencer. The mainlander was close to the fire extinguisher, or the emergency oars strapped to the rails. Had he already grabbed a weapon? Would he help him? No, the yuppie was checking his watch, frowning as though everything were an inconvenience. There would be no help coming from that direction.

A shriek erupted from within the cabin. It reminded Jamison of screaming elk and buzzing insects. It hit him like shards of glass; he clasped his hands over his ears and wondered if they were bleeding. Greasy black smoke billowed out from the cabin, and he choked on the odor of burnt flesh. It was his flare. It hadn’t gone out after all.

The entire ferry shuddered. The tentacles flailed, ripping boards from the deck as the creature tried to distance itself from the flames. The limbs that couldn’t detach themselves fast enough writhed in agony, illuminated by the most beautiful orange, burning glow Jamison had ever seen.

Kendrick lay unmoving on the cabin floor, his face engulfed by a spongy mass of alien flesh. A testament to Jamison’s fate if he stayed. Swearing, Jamison dove over the railing. He broke the water’s surface headfirst. The ocean was bitterly cold, and the jolt sent shock waves throughout his body. He could only hope that the sharks would get him first.

Chapter Two

1300 hours

September 4th, 2015

Eldrick Public School

JACK, HAVE YOU been drinking?

What? I’m not… he started, but his eyelids felt sluggish and his teacher noticed. Mrs. Ashford’s lips thinned, her frown more disappointed than angry. Somehow, that was worse than any yelling. Jack trailed off before he finished his lie.

I’m going to ask you again, and I want you to give me an honest answer, Mrs. Ashford said quietly. Have you been drinking? She put a gentle hand on Jack’s shoulder, but he flinched and pulled away. Her frown deepened as he guarded the injury. Jack, what’s wrong? Show me your shoulder.

I’m fine. Jack leaned against the wall to steady himself. His shoulder throbbed, especially when he moved it, and the bruises had burned like fire the second his teacher touched them. Really, I’m fine. Are you gonna send me to the office?

Despite the alcohol, panic rose from the depths of his stomach. His pleasant buzz had turned into an obscuring fog. It reminded him of a reoccurring nightmare: the one where he couldn’t see clearly or his legs didn’t work, but he had to be somewhere else fast. Now it was real, and he was beginning to feel nauseous.

Of course I am. You shouldn’t have— Mrs. Ashford broke off, pursing her lips. Jack, let me see your shoulder.

Jack shook his head. The room spun, so he stopped and rested against the wall. Sour spit gathered in his mouth, and he swallowed it down thickly. When he tried to focus on his teacher, she was nothing but a blur of brown. Send me to the office already.

Show me your shoulder, she said. I won’t tell anyone.

Jack grimaced but then reluctantly unzipped his jacket. He winced as he tugged at the collar of his T-shirt. Mrs. Ashford made an obvious show of ignoring the ace bandages, but she inhaled sharply as her gaze fell on his shoulder. There were five finger-sized purple-brown marks above his armpit, fading into a deep yellow.

It’s nothing, Jack said, zipping up his clothes. He pulled up his hood for good measure. I fell… On some old machine parts out in the shed, he added.

Mrs. Ashford’s steely frown melted into pity. Jack—

Stop it, I’m fine! he snapped. Mrs. Ashford flinched. Jack hunched his shoulders, ashamed of his own tone. A twinge of pain shot down his right arm. He couldn’t bear to look his teacher in the eyes. At least she no longer pitied him. Send me to the office.

Mrs. Ashford chewed at her bottom lip. Finally, she sighed again and laid a hand on his good shoulder. Jack started to pull away, but her hand only laid there, neither squeezing nor slapping. A wave of warmth flooded through him, but then his stomach lurched, and he tasted bile.

It was only the second week of class; what the hell was he doing drinking?

"Jack—oh, shit!" Mrs. Ashford grabbed him and hauled her student over to the nearest trash bin. Thanks to a pregnant classmate, the building had several cans strategically placed around the upperclassmen’s section of the building. Jack held onto the sides of the bin as the remains of a peanut butter sandwich—soaked in Banana Red MD 20/20—erupted from his esophagus. His teacher stood by, rubbing his back. Jack wished he could crawl inside the trash can and die.

Let’s go to the nurse, Mrs. Ashford said.

No, I’m fine. Jack wiped his mouth on his sleeve. His stomach purged, he felt better. I’m gonna go home.

I think you should see the nurse.

I’m okay now, really.

Jack returned to his backpack lying outside the classroom door and slung it over his good shoulder. He was glad he had brought it out with him instead of having to suffer through another walk of shame back into the classroom. He didn’t need to hear Kelly and Mary whispering about him, or risk tripping over Jesse’s outstretched feet. He certainly didn’t want to see Trevor’s empty desk.

"All right, fine. Mrs. Ashford shook her head. Go home. Sober up. We’ll talk about this tomorrow."

Or never, Jack thought, escaping through the double doors.

Instead of heading east for home, he went north up the road toward the old Dodson House. Jack turned off at the cliffs overlooking the sea, dumping his backpack beside the rusty barrier. He squatted beside it and dug around, pushing aside a battered Clive Barker novel and his unfinished homework. He fished out the MD 20/20 and twisted off the cap, savoring the last drop.

Jack glowered at the empty bottle in his hands. He didn’t even like ‘Banana Red,’ and what was more, he discovered he now associated the taste with guilt. Drinking usually made him feel more relaxed, but now he felt stupid and sluggish. He leaned against the flimsy railing, swaying along with it and gazing down at the water below. At the base of the cliffs were enormous boulders worn smooth by the clashing tide. They smelled of the Deep, of something wet and foul that did little to help his stomach.

Jack drummed the empty bottle against the rail, chipping off flecks of paint. He looked down at the bottle again, his thoughts elsewhere. His parents would have been furious had Mrs. Ashford sent him to the principal. Not because he was drinking, of course, but because he had stolen alcohol from them. Jack turned the bottle about in his hands, wondering if he should put it back in the pantry-turned-liquor cabinet and hope for the best.

He changed his mind at the last second and tossed the bottle over the side instead. The glass reached the ocean, only for the tide to deliver it back toward the rocks. He didn’t hear it smash, but he imagined it well enough.

Are you going to jump? asked a voice from behind.

Startled, Jack did jump—right into the railing. The metal let out a worrisome groan as one of the posts came free from its concrete anchoring. A few rocks tumbled over the cliffside, but in the end, the railing held. Jack clung to it, staring down at the foaming waters below. When he imagined the crack of his bones as his body shattered on the rocks, it sounded like the bottle. Jack looked over his shoulder. He didn’t recognize the voice, and in a town with only sixty-one residents, that meant something.

The mainlander watching him reminded Jack of a Victorian ghost. He had large eyes framed by an angular face and dark hair. The boy was around his own height or slightly taller, though Jack was thinner. Even in the sunlight the other teen’s eyes were a dull brown. They made his pasty complexion seem all the more anemic.

Jack’s face reddened with the realization that he had been observed. He ran a hand through his own honey-brown hair, trying in vain to tame it. Then there was the mud on his elbow, and his oversized jacket was fraying on the left sleeve. He wiped his rust-stained hands off on his second-hand jeans.

What’d you say? Jack asked, scowling.

I asked if you were going to jump, the other replied. He had a hint of an accent that Jack couldn’t place. Are you?

What’s it to you?

Nothing, but you should pick a different spot. The mainlander approached Jack’s side and rested his arms lightly against the railing. He was apparently unafraid of falling. "You’d only break your legs from this distance, and I’ve heard drowning is an awful way to go…"

"Yeah, I know, Jack said, taking a step backward. His mouth felt dry, and he didn’t like how close the stranger stood. Plus, there was something about the boy’s matter-of-fact tone that grated against his nerves. I wasn’t gonna jump, but if you were trying to stop me then you’re doing a shitty job."

Am I? the stranger asked, unperturbed. It wasn’t cold, not by Eldrick Isle standards, but he wore a wool peacoat with a scarf wrapped around his neck.

What are you doing here? Jack asked. His brush with the cliffside had sobered him. The cottony feeling in his head had morphed into the dull pound of a burgeoning hangover. He craved a cup of coffee. Jack licked his lips, and his mouth tasted acidic. He kept the stranger at a distance lest he smell vomit on his breath.

Is this private property?

Not anymore, Jack replied. The Dodson family are all dead.

Is that their house over there? The boy waited until Jack nodded. Have you been inside it?

Loads of times. It’s condemned. Are you here visiting someone?

No, we just moved into the house on Carrow Street.

The Whaley House? Up on the hill?

"It’s the only house on the hill," the other said, smirking. He had the sort of perfect teeth that dentists only dreamed about.

"I know. I didn’t think anyone in their right mind would want to live there," Jack said without thinking. He would have been insulted had someone said that about his home—which in truth was as much of a dump as the Dodson House—but the stranger only smiled.

He had an odd sort of smile, rising only on the right side. Jack stared at him, trying to decide if he should apologize or not. The longer he looked, the weirder the stranger’s mouth was. How hadn’t he spotted it immediately? It stretched across the mainlander’s face, wide enough to be disfiguring.

Thunder echoed in the distance. They glanced up in unison at the heavy clouds, and a fat drop of rain hit Jack square in the eye. He blinked it off and pulled up his hood. The mainlander frowned. Suddenly his mouth didn’t seem so strange. He looked normal, handsome even, which didn’t make sense if he had the enormous frog mouth Jack had so obviously imagined. Jack blushed and turned away before the other teen caught him gawking.

Does the sun ever shine here? the boy asked.

Not really, Jack said.

Wonderful…

Where did you move from?

Nowhere interesting. I’m Lucien, by the way, he said, offering his hand.

Jack Ives.

Jack hesitated. He didn’t want to touch him, but it didn’t feel right to ignore him either. He clasped Lucien’s hand. His skin was hot and dry, and when Jack let go, Lucien trailed his fingertips across the sensitive skin of Jack’s wrist. Startled, Jack yanked his hand free.

Lucien smirked. So, Jack. He dragged out the j and ended on a hard, click of a k. Tell me about the island.

What’s there to tell? Jack replied, wiping his hand on his jeans. Lucien was unabashedly studying him, so Jack crossed his arms. You’ve probably already seen everything.

Actually, I’ve only seen Main Street.

Yeah, well, welcome to Eldrick Isle. Jack tried to wave his arms in a dramatic flourish but stumbled instead. He caught himself, and then, since Lucien hadn’t immediately mocked him, simply pretended it hadn’t happened. If I were you, I’d get back on that ferry.

Really? I think I’ll enjoy it here, Lucien said, smiling his crooked grin. What are you doing out here if you’re not going to jump?

You almost sound like you wanted me to jump, Jack accused, but the mainlander only laughed.

Not anymore, Lucien said. Do you attend school?

"Yeah, I go to school. I’m a senior. What about you?"

I start on Monday.

Good luck. Jack snorted. Everyone there’s an asshole.

Even you?

Yep.

I think I’ll reserve judgment for now.

Suit yourself, Jack replied. Without another word, he hefted his backpack—with his good shoulder—and started off down the road. Lucien followed him all the way to the pier, craning his neck to take in the sights. There wasn’t much to