by Ledger,John
But he wouldn’t. No, he wouldn’t turn back, he would keep going. Each foot smashing into that strange ground as he could feel the distress around him, other men and women on high alert, fearful. Perhaps they could hear those phantom notes as well, perhaps not. They could all see the blanket of death around them, the hellsmouth awaiting them.
Above the sounds of the soft, cacophonic notes, a new chorus arose. This music, Sam could hear with his natural ears; screams, a variety of them, from deep within the cave. The distance made the screams sound nearly faint, but they were dishearteningly loud for their proximity. Each welp and agonizing shriek shared an unspeakable pain hidden by the darkness and depth of that cave, crying more for mercy than for help.
Sam was not the only one to hear these things.
“They’re getting slaughtered in there!” one pirate shouted. “Damn this madness. I’m heading back!”
As the pirate began to turn, Sam saw one of the other pirates, a captain, turn his head in the departing man’s direction. Sam would recognize the captain anywhere, his fellow brother of the seas, Captain Manny “Devil Boy” Wilcox.
“Ye’ll be going nowhere, matey,” Devil Boy announced, his pupils filled with some ethereal, maleficent red. “The alliance cannot be stopped.”
What caused his eyes to glow that way? The angle reflecting redness from the skies and surrounding earth? No, this came from inside of the man, a disturbing radiance of destructive crimson, and Sam suddenly realized that Manny was not human.
The departing pirate was punished immediately. Sharp extensions of long bone, resembling the incisors of some oversized, demonic animal, shot from the ground, impaling him through the stomach, chest, and groin. The poor man began to gargle blood, moaning in pain and agony as other pirates around him screamed as well.
Other pirates turned as well, their weapons drawn. More sharp bones shot from the earth, impaling others. Entrails wrapped around people’s ankles, tripping them, as other long collections of intestines swirled around the bodies of pirates, also taking them down, making them slam against hard bone and crystallized earth, soft, blood gushing surfaces.
More screams. More running panic and pandemonium. Sharp, jagged bone stabbed out of other gory patches. New blood joined old blood, new guts spilling over archaic gore. Shrieks amplified.
Other captains and even a number of subordinate pirates turned their heads, seemingly not like the others. Devilish red eyes glowed, their faces grimacing with unspeakable hatred.
“No one told you to turn around!” they shouted. “Keep walking!”
“Walk, damn you,” shouted another.
But they would be damned if anyone obeyed their commands now. Damned if they went in the cave or ran back. Pirates were slashing with swords at one another, shooting their guns, attempting to run back. Stampedes were forming, many packs of pirates cut short by the rising bones and entrails attempting to stop them.
Sam couldn’t ignore the turn of events. His pistol was out, and he fired the already prepared gunpowder at one enemy before pulling out his saber. Either way, he was going to fight out of this with all of his might. He was going to get free.
Possessed pirates with evil red eyes assaulted normal ones. People screamed for mercy and help. The sounds of those ethereal flutes grew louder, and Sam only focused on cutting his way through the crowd like an overgrown forest, keeping no mind for possessed pirate or human. Freedom. Salvation. His mind stayed focus on survival and escape.
The land attacked without mercy. Reaching limbs, stabbing bones, choking lengths of intestines and patched skin.
“Get back from me!” Sam heard one pirate shout. Others delivered expletives and frantic shouts. Swords slashed through rising flesh, bone edges ripped through people. The dead land around them continued to morph and sway in a variety of directions. Some fell into the parting flesh, engulfed, others sunk into bloody pockets like quicksand, desperate arms reaching up, stiff in post mortem, as their corpses were obscured beneath the wet mass. Dead, dead, dead. Old death rearing its ugly head and many new dead to join along.
Sam continued to slash, continued to run. Like Lot, he dared not to look back at that horrid mound, that gaping tunnel. He only saw ahead of him, past the panicking, stampeding pirates and savage dead land, to the gore littered shoreline. He watched as bone edges rose in unfathomable lengths through pirate ships, hulls punctured, desk shattered, masts falling down as sails descended to bloody waters. In his drunken panic, the scene sent Sam’s own blood racing, his mind groping for something sensible. This reality Sam had stumbled into was beyond any comprehension, any love. Never had he felt so helpless, and seen the pirates seem so disconnected, so selfish as they all scrambled for survival, for a refuge.
Boats were mashing one by one, destroyed beyond repair with few refuges left. Sam watched in horror as his own Royale Mermaid was impaled with rising bony tusks, antediluvian in nature, leagues larger than the skeletal remains of a main. Those strong extensions shattered his boats, and his dreams.
From that moment, Scallywag Sam died. Not less than thirty seconds later when the demonically possessed Manny “Devil Boy” Wilcox slammed his cruel sword into the unsuspecting Sam’s back with a cruel chortle, but when he saw that ship crushed and demolished by rising bone and body matter. His past, his life’s purpose, his dreams, everything was gone as soon as that ship was destroyed. Dead events flashed through his mind as he watched that ship go down to the blood and gore, memories of father, of buccaneer life and the military, of being a rogue in a family of proud villains, thieves, and marauders. All gone, gone like the last remnants of whiskey that spilled out his flask as it fell and shattered on the crystallized flesh made ground beneath him.
Blood splashed on the sides of the flesh island, spilling through the crevices, forming rivulets and miniature deluges that washed new dead matter and screaming pirates back and forth. Ships sank to oblivion. A dark sky reigned overhead, and far beyond the ashen horizon, many a bright star was ignored.
***
Edward “Blackbeard” Thatch died on November 22, 1718, a tragic day for a dying pirate community. Possibly the most intimidating and feared pirate in history, Blackbeard had united various roguish sailors more than once, threatening many a kingdom and government’s naval pursuits, disrupting trade and military operations. The outlaw inspired many other thieves and lawless seamen, becoming a symbol of defiance and rebellion for the underclass. Some believed that with his death came the end of a golden age for Caribbean and American piracy. Though the practice never ended, piracy in the Caribbean became more of a memory and less rampant. Young boys played under the assumed alias of Captain Kidd and Black Bart, while their sisters secretly imagined themselves as Anne Bonny, away from the scrutinizing eyes of their mothers, near harbors and on plantation grounds throughout the Americas. Despite the many famous names and personas both children and adults could become fascinated with through the histories of piracy, none could compare to the legend that was Blackbeard.
Blackbeard. There was no doubt in Mr. Hayward’s mind that they had to get rid of him, and set an example. Not only was Blackbeard’s death a great warning for other pirates, but the other pirates they had trapped served well in his other plans.
Hayward overlooked his plantation grounds from the windows of his study. On the bookshelves were many volumes that laymen certainly didn’t involve themselves with: books of the occult and astronomy, ancient practices, distant places. Many obscure tools hung on the walls and sat on tables under glass covers, but there weren’t many tools he was as proud of as his flutes.
“I always keep one here,” Hayward explained, “though three are with me at present. Three of the nine flutes in total. Whether created in Syria or Babylon, magicians still debate from this day on.”
“And the necromancers you trust with these tools,” Dr. Goodman responded. “Can you trust them?”
Hayward turned to his guests with an amused smirk. There was Dr. Goodman, one of the
medical professionals he had hired years ago to help him with his more biological affairs, and Edward Bennett, who secretly liked to be called Edward the Scoundrel, one of Hayward’s most beloved necromancers.
And the one that alerted me about my successful trap, Hayward had never forgotten. Do you really want to insult my necromancers with him present?
“Dr. Goodman,” Bennett spoke, well equipped to defend himself, “I respect your profession in the medical field. But let me explain something to you. I am a magician. Magic is a very queer profession, and one that eludes one of your expertise. You deal with corporeal science. I am schooled and well practiced in esoteric science. Not a dabbler, not a dreamer, but a real practitioner. I have worked at this trade for over three decades, and have worked with not only Hayward Junior here, but Senior as well, before he died. I am the main one that schooled Mr. Hayward in his secret occult education. The work has always been ever present in my life, as well as my allegiance to the Hayward family. I have helped them find other skilled necromancers, and they have been faithful to our cause. That said, I would thank you to not insult me by questioning my loyalty to either Mr. Hayward or his mission. You were not there with us in the location of our most prized project, nor were you there when Hayward Senior literally came back from the dead, so I would advise you to respect my purpose and hold your damned tongue.”
The doctor looked absolutely appalled at Edward the Scoundrel before turning to his employer. “Mr. Hayward!”
“We should respect each other, Doctor,” Hayward demanded, concurring with Edward’s statements. “It’s quite rude of us to assume the worst of each other, or of my judgments. Mr. Bennett helped preserve my father’s will after he nearly lost everything, and now I prosper in the present. Because of this man, because of the apt magicians he has supplied me with, my father’s dream and his father’s dream will be realized through me.” Hayward turned back to the window, overlooking his many acres, his slaves and farm hands, horses and mules. “I possess all of those flutes now. All those grand saturnine instruments, each attuned to the different mixed planetary relationships that Saturn has.” The boss pointed to the flute held in Edward’s own hands. “Edward has the flute that most aligns Saturn with Venus.” Then, he pointed to the glass case with the three he kept in his study at the moment. “There, you can see the Saturn flute combined with Martial connections. The second instrument is Saturn-Sun. The third, Saturn Moon.”
“And they all awaken and control the dead?” the doctor asked innocently.
Hayward could hear the empirical doubt in the doctor’s voice, but the plantation owner didn’t pay the man to believe anything. “Yes. And other things as well. Each flute has its own properties. And like all magic, there are certain rules to different tasks and operations that affect everything. The time, the day, the weather conditions, the location-”
“The magician’s intention and will,” Edward added. “His energy level, the preparation of the space chosen for work.”
“And the corpses you’ve delivered to me,” the doctor interjected, “I know you want me and my team to catalogue them, to analyze them, but how does that help you with your ‘magical’ work?”
“Everyone’s input counts, doctor. The magic we deal with is magic of the dead, and magic is a science. But all sciences are limited. Your medical expertise is quite necessary in my plans.”
“The corpses we are collecting,” Hayward said, “will be used in different purposes. You know of the flesh ship we’re building, doctor. It’s the first of its kind- an entire vessel of flesh, bone, and carnage made with the help of the astral magic I’ve educated myself in, as well as the Haitian and African vodun practices that my father’s, and grandfather’s, slaves have gifted us with. By understanding the practices various cultures have used to animate non living and dead objects, we have made many things possible that once seemed impossible. Is that not the nature of what science is supposed to be?”
Dr. Goodman laughed nervously. “To think you’ve found so many useful purposes for corpses.”
“The power of a necromancer cannot be underestimated. Death is an inevitable part of our world, doctor, and the powers we can use to cultivate it are endless. When my father died, do you know how he was revived? Well, let me tell you! He retained his life essence through the discarded hand of a woman.”
“A woman?”
“A woman’s hand,” Edward interjected, pointing at one of the flutes in the glass case. “With that flute right there.”
“The flute he was armed with when he was attacked on a distant land. The flute possessed with the solar properties of Saturn. Through my father’s expertise, he survived.”
“An innocent woman found the hand and the flute on a beach.”
“My father was able to possess her through her idle curiosity. Using her body, he came back to claim his plantation. He used various parts to create a new body and-”
“Please, sirs,” the doctor pleaded. “This is enough, I... I truly have no desire to hear more.”
“Fair enough,” Hayward remarked, shrugging. “Either way, you understand the importance the dead have for me now. And why I value them for my work.”
“Yes, sir. We’ll continue to conduct the experiments and analytical work you ask of us to do.”
“As long as the payments keep coming.”
“We’re eternally grateful for your contributions. And they help greatly with our more public work, and medical supplies. But, sir, why pirates? Why outlaws? Why... why dead slaves and servants as well?”
“Doctor. People care little for the undesirables of our society. I have no need to conduct experiments on fellow diplomats, politicians and nobly born men, do I? The world is filled to the cusp with illborn, forgettable scraps whose lives mean little to anyone, let alone their bodies.”
Edward smirked. “And no one gives a piss about those damned pirates.”
Dr. Goodman sighed, his eyes somewhat sorrowful in Hayward’s direction. But not sorrowful enough to keep the money from piling. “Quite an understandable response, sir.”
“Are we done here?”
“Yes. Good day, gentlemen.”
Dr. Goodmen left the plantation owner and his chief necromancer behind, walking into the hall with loud, clacking polished shoes on polished floors. Outside, his carriage was waiting.
Hayward turned to Edward the Scoundrel. “And how is that ship coming?”
“Marvelous. You know, your great-grandfather must have been mighty proud when he started that project. And he only had a few of the flutes at that point.”
“Yes. My family has prospered well from our collecting. You know, my father doubted we would ever get all of them. Many a greedy bastard has gone after these fine instruments.”
“Just be careful not to let your Lydia put her hands on them, sir. She’s menstruating. Least you want to wake the Lilith’s seduction, or wrath-”
“Hush, Edward. Not your Jewish wives’ tales again-”
“My people don’t make mere wives’ tales, sir. We only live in strict adherence to the truth.”
“Say what you will, friend.”
The necromancer delivered a stern look, quite defiant. He knew he was the only one that could get away with looking at Hayward in such a way of warning. “Let only your most trusted men touch those instruments. And may they always, only, be men.”
“Good day, Edward. Give me your next report in a month or two.”
The necromancer bowed and left his boss’s quarters.
Hayward looked outside again. What a glorious spring day. He could hear the cracking of whips from his overseas, hear the giggling from the belles of his house on the porch below, and see bales of cotton stacking in piles handled by his slaves in the fields. Prosperous, forever prosperous. To think his father had almost lost it all.
He looked down to see his daughter playing in the field. His Lydia. He smiled, but sadness was always accompanied with that joy. He knew that he would never have a male
heir, not after he had become sterile. Perhaps, with his many experimentations, he would eventually execute the main operation that seemed to evade him- immortality. His father had attempted it, and nearly succeeded with transferring his life force to the Indian woman’s hand. His grandfather had attempted and completely failed, his great-grandfather, why even bother-
But he could do it. The ship was getting bigger, the experiments in reviving the dead were more successful. His knowledge of the darkest spells he had learned from those stolen, corrupted Haitian and African practices made him and his necromancer team experts in reviving and controlling the dead. If dead men could walk the earth, and dead bodies could be used to build ships animated by living magic, then living men could escape death.
In magic, all was possible.
One day, some day, Hayward told himself, science will make the impossible possible.
THE KILLING FLOOR
Justin Hunter
June watched her husband die. His body lay still on the blood spattered concrete floor of the fighting pit. The people called it the killing floor. It was ‘double-death’ week and the bent rebar railings surrounding the pit were full of screaming on-lookers. People of all ages crammed the event to capacity and over capacity. There were always two or three people crushed or trampled to death each night by the crowd. Some of the crowd cheered, drained large glasses of foul liquor and grabbed their betting wins. Others cursed their losses. Rocks, spit and fouler debris rained down on those in the pit. A small stone hit June on the left temple. It opened a small gash. Blood dripped in a small stream down her jaw-line. She hugged her child closer.
Even though her husband was dead the ritual of the kill still had to take place. The man who killed her husband wept as he picked up a long knife from the many crude weapons that were scattered around the pit floor. He had heavily muscled arms and a ponderous stomach. It made his movements slow and ungainly. The men didn’t fight as much as struggle in a torrent of tearing fingernails and desperate gnawing bites. The larger man overpowered the lithe figure of her husband and that made the difference. Her husband was dead. The big man was not.