The Black Lung Captain

by Chris Wooding

  He called out Crake's name, but he got only silence.

  Answer me, you bastard.

  'Er, Cap'n, should you really be yelling like that when there's a gigantic horror out there wanting to tear out your kidneys?' Jez asked.

  Frey reluctantly conceded the logic of that. 'Can you see anything?' he asked. 'You've got better eyes than the rest of us.'

  'Not much,' Jez replied. 'Rain and trees.'

  'We should—' he began, but then something lunged across their path in a flurry- of leaves. Pinn, who was standing behind Frey, fired reflexively. They caught a glimpse of something furry and fat, the size of a large dog, burrowing into the undergrowth.

  Frey looked down at himself. There were two holes in the armpit of his coat, where the bullet had gone in and out. He looked back at Pinn, who grinned sheepishly.

  'I'm pretty sure that wasn't the thing that did for Gimble,' Frey said. 'Now that we've established there are other creatures and people in this forest, let's all think about aiming before we fire, shall we?'

  'Sorry, Cap'n,' Pinn said.

  'Well, I reckon we solved the mystery of how Tarworth got shot,' Jez said.

  'That wasn't me!' said Pinn. Then he thought for a moment and a guilty expression crossed his face. 'Or maybe it was,' he added.

  'Let's keep that between us, eh?' Frey said. 'And you'd better hope that poor bloke isn't dead.'

  'No, I reckon I only shot him in the leg,' said Pinn cheerily.

  Frey was about to reply when Jez seized his arm. 'Cap'n!' she whispered.

  The urgency in her voice made him freeze. She was looking off to their left. Slowly she raised her hand and pointed. 'Over there.'

  Silo moved around the side of them, crouching, shotgun held in both hands. He was staring at the same point as Jez. Frey peered into the forest, following Silo's line of sight.

  The leaves swayed under the pounding of the rain, but nothing moved except the shadows. At first, he couldn't see anything. But then he saw what was not moving.

  Eyes. Eyes, set half a metre apart. The eyes of something huge.

  It burst out of the foliage with a roar. Massive and shaggy, a monstrous approximation of a bear, but much larger than any Frey had ever heard of. Short tusks thrust forward on either side of a mouth that was all fangs and no lips. There was no snout to be seen, just that pair of eyes. Shark's eyes, round and dead and soulless.

  Its sheer, unstoppable size panicked them. Frey heard Silo's shotgun, but they were already scattering out of the way of its charge. Frey flailed through branches, slipped and went face-down in the mud, landing chest-first on a tree root. Gasping at the pain, he rolled on to his back.

  The creature had reared on its hind legs, pawing the air, twice Frey's height or more. To his right, he could see Pinn behind a tree, taking aim with his pistol. The creature screeched as the bullet found its mark. It thumped down on to its forepaws, shook itself, then lifted its head and fixed Frey with a glare of terrible intent.

  'It wasn't bloody me!' Frey protested. Then he got to his feet and ran.

  He could hear the creature pounding after him, and he sprinted with all the strength in his body. 'Cap'n!' someone shouted, but it sounded like it came from kloms away. Rain-lashed boughs flashed past. His boots skidded on ground that was alternately slick and sucking. The creature came crashing in his wake with a rattling growl. It had its sights on prey now, and it wasn't going to give him up.

  Pinn, you bastard, I'm gonna get you for this!

  He stuck his revolver out behind him, glanced over his shoulder. and took a potshot at the monstrous shadow surging through the sodden dark. If it hit, it had little effect. He turned back just in time to catch a branch across his forehead. Stars exploded before his eyes. He staggered back from the surprise impact, dazed and blinking.

  The creature smashed through the foliage behind him. He spun to face it. It came to a halt with a roar. Close enough to smell its bad-meat breath and the musky, wet stench of its fur. He flung himself through a screen of leaves as a massive paw swiped at him. He scrambled to his feet on the other side, his revolver lost somewhere in the mud. He didn't stop to collect it.

  'Cap'n! Cap'n!' Jez, Pinn and the others. Too distant to be any help. He was on his own now. Just him and the creature.

  His pursuer was slow to pick up the chase again, giving him a precious few seconds' lead. His lungs burned and his skin felt red-hot. He looked around desperately for some route of escape. A ravine too narrow for the creature, a stream that might carry him away, anything like that. But the trees blocked his view on all sides, reducing his world to a flurry of rain and bark and leaves.

  Damn trees, he thought. Then, a moment later, realisation struck. Trees were high. He could climb one. He felt a bit stupid for not having thought of it before, actually.

  Spotting a likely candidate, he leaped up and grabbed a sturdy branch. Fear lent him assistance. He clambered on to the branch and reached up for the next. Cold hands gripped wet bark. Leaves cascaded rainwater down on to his face as he disturbed them. He pulled himself up, and blundered through a spiderweb so thick it felt like it was made of rope. Something heavy and leggy dropped on to his shoulder; he let out an involuntary squeal. The unseen thing scrabbled for purchase and then slipped off his back. He got his legs up on to the branch, felt for another, and climbed higher.

  By the time the creature arrived at the foot of the tree, he felt relatively safe. It snarled up at him through the branches, and reared up on its hind legs. But he was out of reach.

  'Let's see you get me up here!' Frey taunted, drunk with the thrill of his escape.

  The beast tottered back on its hind legs, balanced itself, and shoulder-charged the tree. Frey frantically grabbed on as his perch trembled violently. Some unidentified small animal plunged past him with a squeak and bounced off a lower branch.

  'Er . . .' said Frey. 'Don't do that.'

  The creature smashed into the tree again, with more force this time. Now there was an ominous splintering noise, and an unpleasant sensation of tipping.

  'Shit,' Frey murmured.

  The next few seconds were a mayhem of whipping and hissing branches, and the sickening anticipation of impact. Something smacked the back of his head. He felt himself jolted, thrown, rolling. Suddenly the leaves weren't there any more. He ended up on the ground, in the open, gazing at the nodding canopy overhead. His whole body felt like one big bruise.

  He lay there for a moment, relieved to be alive, before he remembered the creature.

  He staggered to his feet, drew his cutlass and looked around wildly. The fallen tree was nearby, but he saw no sign of his enemy. His head was still spinning from the tumble. He shook it, but that only made things worse. His eyes kept trying to double everything.

  A thrashing of leaves behind him. He turned and saw the creature rearing, one huge paw drawn back for a swipe that would take his head off.

  Then his cutlass moved, pulling his hand with it. The blade flashed in the rain and there was a shiver of impact. The paw splashed into the mud, detached from its owner.

  The creature shrieked and flailed backwards in clumsy retreat, the remains of its forelimb tucked against its shaggy chest. Blood spewed from the severed stump as it turned and fled.

  And then Frey was alone in the forest. Soaked, covered in mud and blood. He stood there, breathing in and out, just because he could.

  'Not bad,' he said to himself. 'Not bad.'

  Distantly, he heard his crew calling his name. 'I'm here!' he called. 'I'm okay!' Then his eyes fell on the monstrous paw lying next to him, and he grinned. 'Better than that,' he said to himself. 'I'm a bloody hero!'

  Frey dumped the paw in front of his amazed audience and then sat down by the fire, feigning nonchalance. They gathered beneath the tarpaulin, out of the rain. Grist was working on a fresh cigar. Hodd was wide-eyed with awe.

  'That,' said Grist, 'is a big paw.'

  'You . . .' Hodd gaped. 'You . . . That's tremendous!'
>
  'I wouldn't go that far,' said Malvery, eyeing the paw. 'It would have been tremendous if he killed the rest of it.'

  'Ah, clam it, Malvery,' said Jez. beaming. 'The Cap'n just slaved his first monster!'

  'It's probably not even dead!' Malvery protested, but nobody listened.

  'How's your man?' Frey asked Grist.

  'He'll live. Flesh wound. Bled a lot, but no real harm.'

  'That's good news, at least,' he said. He got to his feet. 'Speaking of crew, I'd better go see to mine.'

  'He's over here,' said Jez. She led him to the far side of the shelter; Malvery and Silo came trailing after. Hidden among the packs, trussed up in a sleeping bag, was Crake. Snoring. No one had seen him in the confusion.

  Frey leaned close. The stink of rum was on his breath. He pulled open the neck of the bag and saw that Crake was clutching an empty bottle.

  'He slept through the whole thing,' said Jez.

  Frey harumphed and scratched the back of his neck. It should have been a relief to see him unhurt, but somehow it wasn't. Not like this.

  'Can you talk to him, Jez?' he said.

  'I'll talk to him,' she promised.

  'Me, too,' said Malvery. He thumbed at Jez. 'After all, what does she know about being an alcoholic?'

  'Alright,' said Frey. 'I'll leave it to you two. Fix him, or something.' He waved a hand vaguely. 'You're all better at this stuff than I am.'

  'Will do, Cap'n,' said Jez. Frey saw her exchange a glance with Silo. The Murthian nodded gravely at her.

  Something meaningful there? He didn't know. He didn't know what half his crew were thinking. Talking about feelings - real feelings - had never been something he was comfortable with.

  His hand fell to the hilt of his cutlass. Even blind drunk, the daemonist had saved his life. He desperately wanted the old Crake back. He just didn't know what to do about it. But maybe Jez and Malvery did.

  They're looking out for each other, Frey thought to himself. By damn, my crew are actually looking out for each other. Could you have ever imagined it, a year ago? I must be doing something right.

  Well, perhaps and perhaps not. He was just glad that no one had died. But there was still a good distance to go before they could count themselves safe again.

  Some things are worth riskin' everythin' for, Grist had said to him. After the close shave they'd just had, Frey was beginning to wonder if this expedition was really one of them.

  Eight

  Harkins On The Hunt — A Funeral —

  The Expedition Finds A Village — Jez's Correction

  'Here, kitty. Nice kitty.'

  The Ketty Jay's cargo hold was always gloomy. The electric lighting was pitiful and at least fifty per cent of the bulbs had burned out and never been replaced. Harkins wasn't a fan of dark places at the best of times, but tonight he was particularly on edge. Tonight, he was hunting.

  In one hand was a small wooden packing crate, open at one end. In the other was a thick blanket. He stalked through the maze of boxes and junk machinery that had occupied the back of the hold for as long as anyone could remember.

  This was the last time he'd be terrorised by a cat. By tomorrow morning, he'd be a man.

  'Come on, Slag,' he murmured. 'Nice Slag. Harkins just wants to be friends.'

  Bess was watching him curiously from the gloom. She moved back and forth to keep him in view, fascinated by his strange behaviour. Harkins did his best to ignore her, and concentrated on calming his hammering heart.

  Slag was in here somewhere. He knew it. He'd spent the night lying in wait, down here in the hold, hoping for his chance. This was Slag's territory. He was bound to emerge sooner or later. To speed things along, he'd left a bowl of food out.

  Finally the cat had appeared, slipping out of an air vent, and eaten the food. Harkins had meant to spring on him then, but he found that he couldn't. In the end, it took him half an hour to pluck up his courage, by which point the cat had long since slunk off into the labyrinth of junk.

  It was the thought of Jez that made him move in the end. Sweet, sweet Jez. He imagined her whispering encouragement in his ear, and it made him brave enough to act.

  'It's . . . well, it's nice outside,' he said soothingly. 'You don't want to spend the rest of your miserable life on an aircraft, do you? No. I mean, I'm going to set you free! All those tasty birds and mice! That'll be nice, hmm?' He lowered his voice to a mutter. 'And maybe something horrible will eat you, you vicious little slab of mange.'

  He took off his cap and rubbed sweat from his scalp. There were too many dark corners here. Forgotten things loomed over him. Frey had been promising to clear them out for years but, like so many things aboard the Ketty Jay, it somehow never happened.

  He swallowed his fear and moved steadily forward. A rustling, thumping, clanking noise attended his footsteps. He looked over his shoulder. Bess froze, caught in the act of creeping along behind him.

  'You're not helping, Bess,' he whispered.

  Bess sing-songed happily. She showed no sign of leaving, so Harkins decided she could come. He'd sacrifice stealth for some reassuring company.

  He moved further into the aisles of junk. Bess tiptoed as best she could. His eyes moved restlessly among the shadows. Could the cat be among the pipes overhead? Was he watching them from some secret corner, ready to pounce? Harkins was seized with terror. He wanted to turn and run. Jez didn't ever need to know. He could come back and try again later.

  You can do this, he told himself. You've lived through two wars. You can handle a small domestic animal.

  Then he heard a rapid scratching, coming from a small gap between some crates and the bulkhead. He stopped still, and put his finger to his lips. Bess imitated him, clinking her finger against her face-grille. The scratching came again.

  Slowly, Harkins lowered the box to the floor and took the blanket in both hands. It was Pinn's winter blanket, made of hide, thick enough to resist Slag's claws. With it, he'd smother that damned moggy, and stuff him in the box.

  He took a deep breath. Scratch scratch scratch.

  A huge black rat darted out of the gap. Harkins yelped in fright. It stared at him and scurried away.

  Harkins let his breath out. He was trembling. False alarm. He turned to Bess and managed a nervous smile.

  'That was close, eh?'

  The cat dropped from the pipes above, landing on his head in a frantic scurry of claws. Harkins shrieked in panic, wheeling away down the aisle, beating at his head as if his cap were on fire. He spun past Bess, still trying to get a grip on his yowling adversary, then tripped over his feet and smashed his head against the corner of a crate.

  The next few moments were a blur. He was lying on his back, unable to move, too stunned to work out what had happened. The cat padded over and leaned into his field of vision, peering into his eyes. Satisfied its foe was vanquished, it wandered away.

  Jez ... he thought. Jez, I failed you . . .

  The last thing he remembered was Bess squatting next to him and poking him, evidently wondering why he wasn't getting up. After that, everything went dark. It was better that way.

  It was on a damp, cold morning that they buried Gimble.

  The rain had stopped at dawn but the cloud cover was still unbroken, a low grey roof over the land. They put the dead man into the earth in the spot where they'd made last night's camp. An anonymous place among the trees and creepers, where the air was chill and fresh, rich with the scent of soil and leaf.

  Grist said a few words in Gimble's memory while the others stood around sniffling and coughing. Most of them had caught colds in the night, and several were sipping a hot remedy that Malvery had whipped up. When Grist was done, they laid on Gimble's chest the severed claw of the creature that had killed him. It seemed fitting, somehow, to show that his death had been avenged.

  Not that the poor sod'll know anything about it, Frey thought, as Gimble's crewmates began to fill in the grave.

  Last night's other casualty, the
eager young Tarworth, was in better shape. He was limping along, using a rifle as a makeshift crutch, but his spirits seemed high. Frey saw him joking with Ucke as they set out. Ucke grinned, showing his uneven mouthful of scavenged teeth.

  Pinn looked shifty all morning, but nobody said a word about his little mishap with a pistol. Frey's own pistol had been lost during his flight from the beast, so he'd taken Gimble's twin revolvers. Nobody seemed to mind, and Gimble wouldn't need them.

  Their pace was slow, for Tarworth's sake. Hodd assured them they'd be at the crash site by mid-afternoon, but even that seemed too long. Last night's attack had made them wary, and they jumped at every rusde of leaves. Yet despite the sound of animals all around them, they caught barely a glimpse of the local wildlife. The animals heard or smelled them long before they arrived, and made themselves scarce.

  'See, boys?' said Grist. 'They're more afraid of us than we are of them!'

  Speak for yourself, thought Frey. You didn't see what attacked the camp.

  At midday, they found the village.

  It was dug into a hillside, half-buried by the slope of the land. The trees had thinned out and there was little undergrowth. Sunken trenches with walls of stone blocks formed enclosures and yards. Oversized doorways led into passages, tunnelling into the hill. Scattered about were crude huts of rock and packed mud, their roofs fallen in. It was an abandoned place, empty of life.

  'Your lost tribe?' Grist asked Hodd.

  'Sadly not,' said the explorer. He blew his nose on a handkerchief. 'This is a beast-man village. Home to the savages that inhabit this island. I passed it last time I was here.' He swept the buildings with a disinterested gaze. 'They have been well documented by explorers before me. Come on. The craft isn't much further.'

  They ignored him. Several of them wandered off to investigate the huts. Frey stayed back. Dead as it was, the village was uncomfortably roomy, built for people much bigger than the average Vard. He didn't like the size of some of those doorways. 'So there are beast-men?' he asked Hodd. 'That much is true?'