by Ben Brown
Finally, the doldrums passed, but without a crew to operate each station, we were just as dead in the water. Our only hope lay in the cure of our fallen men. The good doctor worked day and night, nursing the sick admirably. But to no avail. He finally determined that all we could do was wait to see if any recovered from their stupor. Exhausted, I ordered him to get some rest, and I would watch over my ill-fated crew.
For five days, we took it in turns to watch over the sick, and with each day that passed the stricken seemed to worsen. The doctor and I grew more and more down heartened, but one morning a miracle happened. The crew began to waken. The doctor fetched me from my cabin and we watched as the crew started to open their eyes. However, our joy was short lived. Whilst our shipmates were wakening, it was not back to any semblance of normality they woke.
They were mere shadows of the men they had been. They seemed to have lost all intellect and more resembled mindless beasts than men. With fixed yellow eyes, they lie groaning in their bunks. None had more than a rudimentary likeness to whom they had once been. The doctor decided their quasi-human state might be only the first step in their recovery, and we should not abandon all hope.
He set about the task of feeding them, but they seemed uninterested in our dried foods and salted meat. The doctor thought fresh air would serve as a potent aid to their well-being. Between us, we managed to herd our former crewmates above decks, and then we walked them in circles. Though to say they walked would be an overstatement. They did no more than shuffle.
We coaxed this mass of groaning flesh around the deck for hours, but they seemed completely oblivious to their surroundings. Finally, the doctor dropped to his knees and cradled his head in his hands. I could see the poor man had reached his wits end. He had tried everything he could to help those under his care, but to no avail.
I pitied him, and suggested he take a brief break away from the sun and the circling yellow-eyed throng. He agreed, and headed to his cabin. I remained above deck watching the catatonic mass circle endlessly, and began to think we should have thrown them overboard when we had the chance.
That night, clouds started to form, and I could smell a storm on the breeze. I left the doctor as long as I could, but finally I had to call for his aid. The seas were growing, and we needed to prepare for the squall. We also had to get our wards back below. With the seas roughening and the wind rising, we tried to herd our crewmates belowdecks. Waves had started to crash around us, but our yellow-eyed friends seemed unconcerned by the impending danger.
The doctor spotted one of our sick crewmates heading in the wrong direction, so he moved to guide the stray back towards the rest of the sick. At just that moment, a mountainous wave slammed into the deck washing the stray overboard. The doctor grabbed a rope and hung on for dear life, but his luck was about to fail him. His legs hung perilously close to the taffrail, and as another wave pounded the ship, the rail gave way. With a loud crack, the wood of the rail shattered and it came crashing down, trapping his leg beneath. I dashed to the poor man’s aid, and instantly saw he had sustained a compound fracture. His tibia, now clear for all to see, protruded through his flesh. His blood began to mix with the seawater, forming a crimson foam that quickly covered the deck. I tried to lift the rail from his shattered limb, but the constant pounding of the waves made the act impossible. His screams, which had been ear piercing at first, began to abate as he slipped into unconsciousness.
Apart from the sounds of the ever-increasing storm, I now worked in silence. It was then I became aware of a change in our stricken fellows. Their low groans had turned to growls, and on noting the change in their guttural sounds, I turned to look at them. While being herded about the deck, they had seemed bewildered and completely harmless. Now, they seemed menacing and hunger filled their faces. I returned my attention to the doctor and doubled my efforts to free him. However, before I could do much more, powerful hands pulled me away from my injured friend. I stumbled back and watched on in horror as the once docile and disease filled crew turned into wild animals.
They tore at his flesh with terrifying savagery. I jumped to my feet and tried to intervene, but a particularly large fellow blocked my way. The person before me had once been Petty Officer Jack Meadows, but now he looked more like a deranged beast of the jungle. He lunged for me and sunk his teeth into my neck. I grabbed for the knife that hung from my belt, and plunged it up to the hilt into his chest. Meadows seemed unaware of my attack, and came in for another bite. Four more times my blade found his chest, but only with my fifth attempt, did I fell him.
My fifth stab found his ear, and my blade skewered his head. Gruesomely, the tip of my blade suddenly appeared from his other ear, and he fell to the deck. He had bitten me a number of times, and now my blood mixed with that of the poor doctor’s. Now the rest of the maddened crew turned in my direction. Their intent was clear. I would be the next course in their nightmarish feast. I did not intend to meet the same end as the doctor, so I bolted for my cabin. Once inside, I locked and barricaded the door, then tended to my many wounds.
They bashed and pounded at my door, but English oak does not yield to mere flesh. While they clearly seemed driven to get to me, they had not the sense to look for a battering ram. Instead, hour after hour they pounded at my door.
***
The events above our now in my past and I now know I have no future. The creatures have been pounding on my door for nearly twelve hours straight, and I can feel myself weakening. Not only do I have no way of escape, but I fear Meadows has infected me with whatever foul disease they carry. I can feel it coursing through my body with the speed of a bushfire, but I will not allow myself to succumb to its evil. Therefore, I write this log not only to document our downfall, but also to warn all those who have the misfortune of wandering upon this ship.
This ship is cursed, and I along with it. It saddens me to write this, but my once loyal crew must die. All fifteen are now pounding at my door, and I now know they are not the men with whom I embarked. Those who read this may think my statement heartless, but it is not, it is merciful. Those things are no longer my crew, or men; they are monsters.
After my encounter with Meadows I believe the only way to kill them is by destroying the brain. Therefore, with that in mind, at the end of my entry in this log I will use my trusty flintlock to take off the top of my head.
I know suicide is a sin, but I am sure God will forgive me.
Captain William Matthews, Captain of The Capable.
May God have mercy on my soul.
Chapter 3
Callum closed the ship’s log and looked up. He felt shocked to see how gray his father’s lean stoic face looked. The dark black coarseness of his beard only accentuated his father’s pallor.
Everyone in their small but tightly knit community knew Jonathan Wentworth for his calm, unshakable manor. But the man Callum now looked at seemed scared. His father never allowed those around him to see him as anything but strong and trustworthy. Seeing him so shaken, scared him more than what he had just read.
“Pa, are you alright?”
Jonathan stood, and then walked slowly over to the fire. His son watched in silence as his father banged out his pipe on the fire’s stone surround. Finally, he looked back at his son, and it pleased Callum to see most of the fear had left his father’s face.
“If true, what you just read greatly disturbs me. We must assume one of two things. Either the writer of yon book was insane. Or, he was in complete control of his faculties, which means every word is the God’s honest truth.”
“So which do you think he was? Was he mad or sane?” Callum asked as he moved to his father’s side.
His father smiled at him and placed a hand on his shoulder. “I don’t know, Boy, but I intend to find out. Tonight we sleep in shifts. We’ll keep a lantern burning all night, and at daybreak, we’ll take another look at the wreck. We’ll then head into the woods and look for evidence of these creatures that he says his crew has become.
”
“What if we find them, Pa, what then?”
“We’ll do what we always do in the woods. We’ll hunt, and we’ll kill.”
***
Callum woke to find his father preparing not only their weapons, but also food to take on their hunt. He wiped the sleep from his eyes and turned his gaze to the bow, which lay beside his father’s musket. He then saw a tomahawk hanging from his father’s belt. His father had received both weapons from the Chief of a nearby Abenaki tribe. Chief Qaletaqa had given his father the weapons as thanks for his help in brokering a treaty between his people and the local farmers.
Callum knew his father could handle both the bow and the tomahawk with all the skill of an Indian brave, and he had passed those skills on to him. But what could he want with such primitive weapons? Surely, the musket had a greater range than the bow.
“Pa, are we taking our bows with us?”
Jonathan turned to his son and smiled. “Morning, Boy. I think it would be a good idea to take them along. Yours is at the foot of your bed.”
Callum lifted himself up on his elbows, and then looked towards the end of his bed.
“But ain’t our guns better than the bows?”
“For some things,” his father agreed, “but they are slow to load. At best, it takes nearly a minute to reload the powder and shot, and we may not have a minute to reload. I thought about what the good captain wrote. It seems those horrors attack all at once … like a pack of wolves. We’ll get one shot, but no time to reload. Bows will be more efficient at close range, and we can reload an arrow in seconds.”
“And the tomahawk?”
Jonathan looked down at the weapon strapped to his side. “You can never be too careful. I wanted something just in case the creatures get real close. Son, if we are to believe all the captain wrote, then this hunt may become dangerous. If I had the choice I would leave you here, but I don’t think it safe to do so. You’re my son and I love you, but the safest thing to do now is keep you at my side.
“I have taught you well, and you’re as good a hunter as any man I know. But, what we may be facing will be vicious and beyond the fears of mortal man. If we find the captain’s words to be true, then these creatures will attack without mercy. You’ll have to react fast, and without clemency. I know this is a lot to ask of anyone, let alone a twelve year old boy, but I have no other choices open to me.”
Callum rose from his bed and moved to his father. Everyone knew Jonathan Wentworth was a man of few words, and his son knew it better than most. Normally, his father would not utter more than a handful of words each day. To hear his father speak so, truly hammered home how important it was not to let him down.
Callum wrapped his arms around his father’s slender waist and hugged him tight. “I love you too, Pa, and I won’t let you down.”
Jon patted his sons back, and with a slight crack of emotion to his words, he replied, “I know you’ll do what has to be done. I’m proud of you, Callum. You will be a fine upstanding man one day.”
***
An hour later, the two Wentworths along with their hound Hector, headed back towards the wreck. On reaching it, Jonathan began combing the tree line that ran the full length of the beach. It took him only a few minutes to discover a small remnant of cloth hanging from a low branch. He called for Callum to bring Hector over; he then held the cloth close to his trusty hound’s nose. A few moments later, all three headed off into the woods at a full run.
As their dog tore off deeper into the trees, the two followed. Soon, Hector was out of sight, but they could hear his howls as he tracked their prey. It quickly became obvious they were on the right track.
Jonathan began to spot small puddles of what looked like dark treacle. After they passed several puddles, he stopped to examine one more closely. He pulled his knife and dipped the tip of the blade into the substance. He then held it to his nose and sniffed. It smelt metallic, like blood, but that was where the likeness ended.
He dug his blade into the dark rich soil and cleaned it of the filth. He then looked around.
“We need to call Hector back. Tracking these things will get easier the deeper into the woods we go. We’ll leash him and keep him close to us.”
Callum nodded and whistled loudly. A few minutes later, Hector came panting into view. His long ears and drooping face made him look constantly sad, but on seeing his owners he almost seemed to smile. As the boy moved closer to his canine, it began to whimper and then cowered. Clearly, he too sensed they were hunting something unnatural.
Callum clipped a chain to the dog’s collar, and then fed him a morsel from his pocket.
“Good, Dog,” Callum said as he tickled Hector’s ears. “You need to stay with us now, Boy.”
Callum stood and looked at his father. Jonathan Wentworth surveyed the area, and then looked back at his son.
“We’re still a goodly distance from the creatures, but we need to be on guard. I’m certain we track something ungodly. That,” he pointed at the dark treacly substance on the ground, “is blood from one of the things, but it isn’t like any blood I’ve ever seen.”
“Are you sure it’s blood?”
“It smells like it, but that’s where all similarity ends. Have you noticed anything else, Son?”
Callum nodded. “They’re heading for Hope Cove.”
His father nodded in agreement. “They have a good head start on us, so we have no chance of catching them before they reach the township.”
“What should we do?”
“We head west. Franklin Town lay that way, so we should warn them of what is happening. Once we have warned the city elders, we’ll head to Boston to find your mother and Tilly.”
“Pa, shouldn’t we at least see if we can do something to stop the creatures?”
Jon looked to the west, towards Franklin Town. He then looked back at his son.
“If we head for Hope Cove, it will add a day to our journey, and that’s as long as we encounter no trouble.”
Callum looked towards the township. “We have friends there. We should see if they need our help.” The boy looked back towards his father, and saw he was smiling. “What?”
Jon nodded. “You’re right, Boy, and you make me feel ashamed that I even thought of just turning tail to run. We’ll see if we can offer help to those at the Cove, then we’ll head west.”
The two Wentworths headed off at a run with Hector at their heels. The woodlands were particularly thick between their present location and Hope Cove, but the father and son had traversed the route many times, so they made good time. The closer they got to the Cove, the more evidence of the creatures they found. Approximately three miles from the settlement, they came across the remains of a horrendously mutilated deer carcass. Both father and son skidded to a stop to examine the remains.
They squatted down and scrutinized the bite marks on the animal’s torn flesh. They then studied the vegetation around the fly-addled remains, and saw signs that a great many had feasted on the deer. Hector whined continuously as the two inspected the ruined body of the partially eaten animal. Finally, Callum turned to the dog and scratched it behind the ear.
“Steady,” Callum said calmly as he reassured the hound with a gentle hand. “We’ll be on our way soon.”
“He can smell the creatures on this poor animal, and it scares him.” Jon said as he stood and looked around. “If this is what they can do to a deer, an animal that can outrun any human, then our neighbors who live in the Cove are truly damned.”
At that moment, the sounds of terrified screams filled the air. Jonathan spun on his heels and instantly raised his musket towards the cries. Without hesitation, but with trembling hands, Callum did the same.
“Remember, Boy, head shots, and wait for me to fire first.”
Moments later, a young girl around Callum’s age—Sally Hopkins the shopkeeper’s daughter—burst into view. Trailing her were four men, or more precisely, creatures that had once been men.
Jonathan Wentworth slowed his breathing, chose his first target, and killed a creature with his first shot. As soon as he had pulled the trigger, he flung his musket aside and pulled his bow from his back.
Callum fired, but his shot went a little wide, taking an ear off one of Sally’s pursuers. His father soon remedied his son’s error, and quickly put an arrow threw the earless pursuer’s eye.
Suddenly, Sally became aware of their presence, which only fueled her shrieks even more. Now, in a complete frenzy of fear, she started to swoon.
“Callum! To her!” Jonathan Wentworth bellowed as he pulled his tomahawk.
The boy threw his gun down and ran to the collapsing girl, and caught her just before she hit the ground. He lowered her gently, and then took a crouching position over her. He pulled his knife, and grimly set his mind to the task of protecting her.
A second after Callum had taken up his defensive position, Hector moved to his side. The dog lowered his head and bared his teeth. Hackles bristled along the hound’s back, and he began to emit a low, menacing growl.
Jonathan allowed himself a glance towards his son, and then he moved extremely quickly. The final two pursuers were only a few yards away, and he had no intensions of letting them anywhere near either his son, or Sally.
As the first of the creatures lunged for him, he bounded into the air and brought the tomahawk down in a high powerful arc. The weapons razor sharp blade split the creature’s head clean in two. As Jonathan cleaved his weapon through the creature’s head, he shifted his attention to the last pursuer, and momentarily froze.
The final creature was missing its left arm, and it had obviously gone through hell before its transformation. From the tatters of flesh hanging where its forearm should have been, he could tell the arm’s loss was the result of a scrape with the creatures. He could clearly see where the teeth had torn at the flesh and bone. However, it was not this grotesque image causing his momentary incapacitation. He knew this man, and it was that recognition which anchored him to the spot.