by J. L. Foster
"You'll have to pay for that,” Captain Hills announced without a flinch.
"Once this steel crate is open, Captain, I'll be able to buy you a whole fleet of these horrible ships."
"This horrible ship is my life, Professor, and I don't much like you insulting it.” This time, Captain Hills’ face showed heavy expression—something closely resembling anger. It was the second time he had been insulted by this man, and he would not tolerate a third.
"I'll have your ship repaired once we get to land,” Bishop grumbled cowardly. Then, snapping his attention back to Hills’ crewmen, he shouted, “Can't we get this open already? It's been onboard nearly two minutes already!"
Hills shook his head and sighed. Yet, he had to admit to himself that, from the looks of the monstrosity, it was sealed air tight. Whatever was inside was most likely perfectly unharmed from the elements of the ocean. If there were indeed treasures within this crate, they could have consisted of anything from original maps and documents from Spain to the New World to countless other treasures of unknown immense worth.
Captain James Hills decided then that he would wait until the crate was open and the treasures were revealed before he killed Professor Bishop.
Hills and his men felt that it was about time their ship came in.
Harold Bishop watched with uncanny eyes through his thick, obtrusive glasses as all of Hills’ seven crewmen gathered around the warped steel crate, each carrying crowbars to pry the gigantic, heavy door open. Bishop's glowing future awaited him within, and he knew that if they didn't open the door soon, he would surely wet himself in anticipation.
Taking a step forward, he no longer had the strong young captain of the ship in his vision, and Hills watched him with a grim smile. He held a crowbar—just as the rest of his men did. Only, the crowbars were not just for opening the steel crate. Each man on this ship would have a turn at the torturous death of Professor Harold Bishop.
"Come on!” Bishop demanded, hoisting his clenched fist into the air. “Come on!"
The men worked painstakingly hard for the next several moments while Bishop watched impatiently—not lifting a finger to help. Finally, silence took over the entire ship—and perhaps the entire ocean—as one single click from the steel crate's door sounded.
"If what's inside is what I think it is, our lives will be changed forever, men,” the old professor mumbled as visions of gold danced in his head.
"You don't know how right you are,” replied Hills from directly behind him. His crowbar was raised high in the air, ready to strike down hard on Bishop's head at the first sight of the treasure.
Carefully, as if in rehearsed slow-motion, each crewman backed away from the steel crate. They stared at the door for quite some time, as if deciding who should be the one to open it. Finally, growing frustrated and further impatient, Bishop pushed his way to the front of the crowd, leaving Captain Hills and his crowbar behind.
"If none of you pussies are man enough to open it, by all means, let the old man do it!” Bishop shouted ruthlessly as he stepped up to the crate. “I'll show you how we used to do it in Egypt when seeking out lost Pharaohs. It's the job for a man with brains—not a wimp with brawn."
With each word he spoke, each man readied himself more to partake in his demise.
Clamping his thin, withered fingers around the thick steel of the door, Bishop grunted heavily, clenched his eyes shut, and pulled with all the force that his small frame held. Yet, somehow, it had been enough. The crewmen watched in amazement as the door slowly began to budge open, allowing glistening dust particles to escape for the first time in over five centuries.
"This is it, men!” he shouted, pulling even harder on the door. “This is what we've been waiting for!"
Captain Hills stared with inquisitive eyes. He wondered where the frail old man had come up with the strength to do what would have otherwise taken each of his men to accomplish. Adrenalin, he assumed, nodding his head. It gave men unknown strength, and he knew that Bishop had to have been full of the chemical. He'd been waiting for this his entire greedy, pathetic life.
Bitterly, Hills spat on the deck and wiped the remaining strand of saliva from the corner of his mouth.
As Bishop persisted to pull the door, finally opening it wide, he stepped back and wiped a palm of sweat from his face. He thought it was peculiar that none of the crewmen had so much as breathed a word as it opened, and he thought it even stranger that none of them had yet attempted to kill him, like he knew they had planned.
Perhaps it was empty, he thought as he turned to face his open steel crate. Perhaps nothing but darkness would stare him in the face.
It was, indeed, darkness that stared into his face. It was the appearance of pure evil, awakening from a five hundred year slumber. Bishop's eye grew wide and horrified as he stared into the piercing blue and black orbs of a monstrous beast. Behind him, the crewmen of the ship began to awaken from their moment of shock, and carefully, they each took a step back until they were safely behind their captain. Captain Hills, however, took a step forward. He had visually studied the steel case when they brought it out of the water, and he knew from the looks of it how long it had been under there. There was no way in hell a creature could have survived inside.
But survive, it did. Placing first one and then the other of his great, white as snow hands out of the crate and onto the floor of the deck, the monster began to crawl out.
"Get my gun,” Hills ordered quietly to whoever was closest behind him, and all at once a handful of his men scattered away. To find the gun, of course—Hills was certain of it.
Harold Bishop's backwards steps were dizzying and off balance. In all of his years exploring the deepest, darkest regions of the planet, he had never witnessed anything quite like this. In his haste, he had failed to check if the seals of Columbus or his Spanish king had been on the crate's door. Now, as he eyed the embedded imprint that remained and saw the large indentions all around the door, he knew that this monster had not been sealed inside by Columbus or by Spanish royalty. The monster had opened the already closed crate and sealed itself inside.
Captain Hills eyed the monster and the emergence of his head—a face as white as snow, eyes the color of blue ice and black coal, a white beard and mustache that concealed all but the fangs of his mouth, the red stained hat that rested upon his large, round head.
This was not simply a beast. This was a man.
Hills swallowed hard and noticed that—despite the bitterly cold temperature—he was sweating. This man-beast breathed deep, heavy, growling breaths as he pulled his body out from within the crate. Nearly as round and wide as he was tall, the monster stood with tremendous effort, and the sounds of his joints popping echoed loudly across the ship. It was now that he was out and standing that Hills could see fully inside of the crate. It was completely emptied of any treasures, and oddly enough, the entire surface was covered in ice.
Looking down to the spot of deck where the beast's hands had rested as he crawled out into the open, Hills saw more ice patches, all in the shape of handprints.
"What on God's earth is happening here?” he questioned lowly under his breath so that none of his men could hear. He knew that they would not have an answer.
All thoughts of ancient treasure were far from Professor Bishop's mind as he stared at the true size of his ocean find. The beast towered high above him and was equally as round. Dressed in a red and white coat and with coal black feet that showed nails nearly as long as those on his hands, the monster stared down at the professor with nothing but evil in his soul. Nicholas Von Barron then howled a growl that echoed deep into the wintry ocean, cascading off of the winds and circling throughout the ship. Bishop stood in his place unable to move, shaking with terrible quickness. He shook not for the cold, but for the terror of doom that faced him.
Bending over so that he was at a face-to-face level with the shrunken man, Nicholas smiled his fang-filled black grin and winked one of his icy eyes. Then,
after having breathed in slightly, he blew out a cloud of crystallized air, turning Professor Bishop into nothing more than a cold, blue ice sculpture.
Now, the men remaining behind Captain Hills began to scream and scattered, hurrying as far away from the beast as they could. Sadly enough, they knew that they were far from land and this ship was their only hiding place. Hills wondered for the first time where the man with his gun was, and realizing that he was without any means of defense, he, too, began to flee. The ice monster took notice of the rushing captain and began to follow. As Hills reached the door to his cabin, he turned to proudly find that not all of his men had abandoned him. Three of his crewmen had come out of their shadowed hiding places and were creeping up behind the beast with a large fishing net. He watched their lips as they quietly counted to three, and on their heave, he watched the net sail over the monster. However, the moment the net came in contact with Nicholas's flesh it formed into ice and shattered into thousands of splintering fragments. These fragments shot through the airs, piercing the flesh of the three crewmen who had thrown the net.
Nicholas turned from the impact and faced his attackers. His eyes promised pain, and his fanged grin vowed even more.
"How dare ye attempt to attack me?” he questioned in a voice more demonic than his very appearance and mixed with a Spanish accent, even though he somehow spoke English—albeit with a dialect centuries old. “For this, ye shall parish."
The three seamen began to run, but ancient Nicholas was much too swift. He snagged one by his t-shirt, causing the man to turn into an icy version of his former self. His frozen expression cried out in terror, and his running position seemed almost animated. The second of the three men was caught almost in the same fashion. But through his anger, Nicholas shattered this one's skull after the freezing.
As Nicholas closed in on the third crewmen, two more attached from behind, leaping atop the giant beast's body. When they touched upon his flesh, they too became ice and were thrown from him, sent plummeting into the cold ocean water. Nicholas then his attention back to the prey at hand and watched the man scurry up the post that would lead him to the crow's nest, high above the ship. When the man had reached the half-way mark, Nicholas reached out and grabbed the pole with both hands, causing it to quickly transform into ice. The icy current soared up the length of the post, and when it reached the point where it touched against the crewman climbing it, he too turned to ice and fell from the pole. When he reached the deck, he shattered into nothing but minuscule fragments of his sculptured self.
Captain Hills had never witnessed such horror. He'd experienced many terrible moments at sea—ravaging storms and pillaging pirates—but he had never encountered something as frightening as this.
A splash from behind him stormed his attention, and jerking his head back he saw several of his remaining crewmen swimming out into the ocean—far away from the ship and the monster on board.
"Smart men,” he whispered to himself and turned his vision back to the horrible beast with the icy powers.
Nicholas stared down at him from just a few feet away.
"What the hell are you?” Hills questioned the monstrous man, attempting his best to keep his voice from quivering. He and the monster were alone on the ship now—all of his crewmen were either dead or floating in the water as shark bait. He had to know his opponent if he ever wanted to escape him. Still ... something whispered to him that it was likely escape would never come.
"Me name be Nicholas Von Barron,” growled the devilish voice. “I have wondered the lands of earth an’ sea for millennia, feasting off the flesh o’ the youth an’ sipping from the blood o’ the damned. An’ then one night—a night as cold as the waters o’ this sea—I was captured an’ beaten by a mob o’ angry villagers. They left me for dead in the bitter cold, unconscious but not defeated. Ye cannot kill what be immortal. But as me blood poured into the snow an’ earth an’ dripped down to the pits of Hell, I was given vengeance for me suffering."
Somehow, this giant man's words were like the songs of the watery Sirens, and Captain James Hills’ vision began to blur. The beast released a slow, controlled breath and the captain's vision went black. Then, a glowing light of red and orange surrounded him. His mind had been overcome by the monster's voice and words, and without warning, Hills had been transported into the evil story.
He was, in fact, in Hell.
The soul of the Spanish monster stood many feet away from him and appeared just as bruiting and evil as ever. The man stood before an even larger creature—powerful, mighty, and devilishly handsome. Then, the captain realized that it was, indeed, the devil and he had no choice but to listen and watch.
"Yon villagers,” the monster explained to his master, “have weakened me, beaten me, an’ left me for dead."
"I see ye have been left in yon snow to parish,” echoed his boss in the most frightening tone Hills had ever witnessed. “Yon villagers hope the death of the frost will chill ye an’ take ye away."
"Aye,” agreed Nicholas through clenched fangs.
After a moment of quiet consideration, the devil spoke again. “Ye have done me a long an’ fine service, Nicholas Von Barron. Ye have delivered me countless souls of countless children, an’ ye have asked me nothing in return but yer long, miserable life. I will offer ye something even greater, Von Barron."
Captain Hills swallowed hard as he listened through tense ears. All around the two visions was blackness, engulfed with glowing red and orange. There was not fire as he had imagined, but the smoke was thick—as was the horrible stench of burning—and it blurred the demonic creatures in his vision.
"Ye have already been a fine master,” Nicholas grunted, offering a slight bow of the head.
"What I offer is this, Von Barron—eternal an’ instant vengeance on all that ye seek."
Both Nicholas's and the captain's ears perked at the announcement.
"Yon villagers wished to kill thee with ice an’ snow—ye shall offer the same in return."
All was silent as the devil paused once more and Nicholas took in what he was hearing.
"I offer ye the power of ice,” the devil continued. “By yer touch an’ by yer breath—ye shall transform all ye wish into ice."
"Very kind of ye, master!” Nicholas cheered humbly and offered a minute smile.
"An’ now, Von Barron, comes the price of yer punishment."
Captain Hills felt every muscle in his body clench as he heard these words. Even the devil's own minions didn't receive kindness from the ultimate evil. What had Nicholas done to betray him?
"Punishment?” Nicholas questioned with an uneasy tone.
"Ye be sloppy, Nicholas,” the echoing, violent voice persisted. “Ye allowed two children to escape an’ expose ye to the villagers. This be not the first time of yer sloppy ignorance, minion. For this, ye must be punished."
Hills watched as the devil—which had been in the form of a bruiting, fierce man—transformed into a jackal. Then, the blackness began to open, and from the earth above, snow and ice folded into the smoldering heat of Hell. The ice and snow fell upon the jackal's body, soaking into him until he was as white and crystallized as the crewmen Nicholas had killed. Then, when all the snow and ice and melded away, the hole in the blackness sealed up and Hell was once again closed.
"What I am about to do,” the devilish jackal growled, “will give ye the powers I mentioned. It will also inflict yer punishment."
Slowly, angrily, violently, the jackal began to approach his slave. At this moment, Captain Hills suspected that he was just as fearful as Nicholas, who had actually begun to whimper.
"Take it easy now,” the jackal spat with a howling laugh. “This will be over shortly."
With a speed quicker than light, the jackal was in the air and upon Nicholas's body. Fiercely, the animalistic devil tore at his minion's flesh, ripping a deep wound into his neck. There, the jackal held his bite and a chilly glow overtook both their bodies. Like liquid being drained fr
om a bottle, the snow and ice left the jackal's body and seeped completely into Nicholas's. When the jackal was fully black again, he released his bite from the monster's neck and let the man tumble hard to the black ground. Nicholas cried and shrieked in loud agony as the cold overtook his body. His chilled trembles sent vibrations all throughout this region of Hell—even to where the captain stood watching. Nicholas's coloring began to change from pale pink to pure white. His eyes—which had been brown—burned black before an eerie blue glow overtook them. He gasped loudly like he was trying to breathe but could not, and his body thrashed all over the ground.
Finally, after several long moments of this freezing torture, Nicholas Von Barron fell still.
Hills wondered if, perhaps, the devil had killed his minion, but he knew that to be impossible. It had been Nicholas who had brought him to this place—who was making him witness all that he was seeing.
"Yer punishment,” the devil began, transforming back into his manlike form, “an’ yer vengeance have been delivered."
Captain Hills held his breath as he watched Nicholas begin to move and jerk about. And then, quite suddenly, the monstrous man lifted up and stood tall. He held a new glow to him—a powerful glow—and as he took his first steps, he breathed hard and long into the black pit of Hell. His breath, despite the outrageous surrounding heat, formed immediately into crystals and sent a chill throughout the pit.
"I be cold,” he announced in his crude, deep voice.
"Yer punishment be yer vengeance,” the devil reminded him. “Be it by yer breath or by yer touch, ye shall render instant vengeance onto anyone ye chose. In return, ye shall spend the remainder o’ yer countless days as cold as ice, never to find warmth again."
"Even here in Hell,” Nicholas growled through a chattering mouth, “it be cold."
"I guess ye could say it be colder than Hell in here,” the devil chuckled madly. Then, his expression and tone turned deathly serious. “Do not disappoint me again, Von Barron. Next time, I might not be so cool with yer punishment."