by James Axler
Krysty didn’t like that answer, but she knew it to be true.
A quartet of pirates marched down the slope from the freighter solemnly carrying the body of the man she had killed, evidently some kind of officer. They bore the corpse back to the beach where a funeral pyre had been constructed. The bodies of the Matachìn fallen were laid out in a pyramid on top of stacks of unburned wood scavenged from the ville. With great care they set the corpse among the others.
An explosion rolled over the island, a distant boom from the southwest. The companions couldn’t see what it was, but they recognized the sound. There were smiles all around.
“Guess old Tom found some use for that C-4,” J.B. said. The Armorer was in a bad way. His face was twisted in pain, and it looked pale and drawn. The CS gas hadn’t helped his breathing, and the paroxysms of vomiting hadn’t helped his ribs.
“Our intrepid captain,” Doc said. “I wish him godspeed.”
“Hope he kicked their asses good,” Mildred said.
“Mebbe you’d better wait before you light that pyre,” Ryan told one of the pirates. “From that sound, it’s my guess there’s some more of you bastards in need of ceremonial burning.”
The man said something back, something fast and singsong. From his expression it was a threat.
“What language are they talking?” Krysty said.
“Spanish, kind of,” Mildred said.
“Definitely a variation of the loving tongue,” Doc said. “But not Castillian.”
“You understand it?” Ryan asked them.
“Some of it,” Mildred said.
Doc nodded.
“It would be better not to let them know that,” Ryan said. “We might be able to pick up something useful.”
“¡Silencio, esclavos!” the pirate snarled.
“Does the last bit mean what I think it means?” Krysty whispered.
“Unpaid labor unto death, I am afraid,” Doc said. “We have joined the ranks of the terminally employed.”
Along with the handful of other survivors from the freighter, the companions and Garwood were forced to climb into the rafts and then row themselves to the waiting tugs. The Matachìn commander rode in the bow of the companions’ dinghy, making notes in pencil in a crumpled little book. Daniel sat at his feet. Two of his underlings guarded the rowers with leveled submachine guns.
The tugs’ engines were silent. As they approached the vessels, long oars in a row dipped lightly into the water, holding position. In the skinny shadow of the awnings, gaunt sunburned faces stared back at them.
Hopeless faces.
As Mildred leaned into her oar she said, “I’m getting a premonition of what our job is going to be.”
When they came alongside the pirate flagship, after the commander and Daniel had debarked, they were forced to board in a clinking, clanking, clumsy conga line, then they were herded together on the stern deck.
Ryan looked closely at the people sitting under the awning: shirtless men and boys, a few women, also shirtless. Their manacles were chained to the oars so they couldn’t let go. There were lash marks on their bare backs and arms.
Some looked to be at death’s door, living skeletons with blistered, peeling skin. They were breathing hard though they weren’t exerting themselves. Their whip wounds were inflamed and leaking green pus.
It occurred to Ryan that the prisoners from Padre Island were replacements. But for those already chilled or the weak?
When the pirates disconnected the newcomers, pulling the length of chain out of the loops of their ankle cuffs, Garwood sprang away like a tiger. In three great hops he was behind Daniel and had flipped his manacles over his head and down over his neck. Crossing the cuffs behind the startled man’s head, the boy twisted his arms, tightening the chain-link garrote.
Daniel’s eyes bulged and his tongue protruded. He tried to shift out of the choke hold, but the teenager wouldn’t allow it.
Before the boy could break his neck or strangle him, one of the pirates drew his machete and whacked him with the flat of it on top of the head. The stunning blow drove the boy to his knees, taking Daniel down with him. Before he could recover his grip, the Fire Talker disengaged himself and moved well out of range.
The Matachìn raised the heavy blade, winding up to use its long edge to take off Garwood’s head at the shoulders. Before he struck the fatal blow, he looked over at his leader.
The commander waved him off impatiently. “Chico es muy fuerte, necessito no le matar,” he said.
“I’ll get you!” the boy howled at Daniel as he jumped back up. “I’ll get you, yet. You wait and see…”
The Fire Talker rubbed his throat. The chain links had left angry welts from ear to ear.
“I’m afraid that’s not likely,” the commander said.
Daniel looked from the livid boy to a pirate bent over the stern deck. His expression fell as the man opened an inset hatch about four feet by four feet. A pair of pirates swooped in and grabbed hold of Daniel under the arms. They carried him bodily to the opening and threw him in, feet-first. The hatch slammed shut with a thud. One of the pirates twisted shut the latch, locking him inside.
“So the turncoat is a prisoner, too,” Doc said.
“That’s strange,” Mildred said. “It’s not like he could swim and get away.”
“Don’t like the look of that,” Ryan said, nodding toward the awnings.
The Matachìn were unchaining some of the slaves from the oars and making them shuffle to the stern.
The weakest ones.
Those who could barely stand were separated from the rest. They were so exhausted they couldn’t resist. One by one they were bent over the stern rail and dispatched with single machete blows across the backs of their necks. Their bodies were dumped over the side.
It was a horrible spectacle, barbaric.
Some of the victims shut their eyes tight as the blades whistled down. Others looked off into space. A few looked back to the other slaves. Their expressions said, “Make them pay for this.”
Those who had been spared beheading stood huddled in a corner of the stern while the commander took stock of the new arrivals. He felt their muscles, poked their ribs, examined their backs. When he touched J.B., the Armorer grimaced in pain. It was clear he was not in top shape.
At the commander’s order, one of the pirates pulled up the hem of J.B.’s shirt, exposing the multicolored bruising over his ribs.
He waved J.B. to one side.
The side with the other weaklings.
“Are they going to chill J.B.?” Krysty said.
The pirates quickly moved the fresh slaves forward, forcing them to take the newly emptied places behind the oars. The rowers sat three across on crude wooden platforms, all pulling on the same shaft. The seats were unpadded; there were no backrests to lean against. Ryan watched in silent fury as both his manacles were chained to the oar. Mildred sat on his right, closest to the gunwhale.
Ryan laid his hands on the highly polished shaft. Polished by human skin.
The commander climbed the stairs to the pilothouse deck. From that vantage point, he shouted a curt order.
What he wanted them to do was obvious.
Row.
A pirate on the stern deck started pounding a steel drum with rag-wrapped hammers, setting the stroke rhythm. From behind there were the cracks of whips as the overseers urged the slaves to pull harder, pull faster.
It was difficult to get the timing at first. Everyone on the oar had to pull together, and all the oars on the side of the tug had to pull together, as well.
As Ryan was struggling to make it all work, a lash struck him across the shoulders. It felt like a red-hot wire. It made him sit up straight.
He turned and glared up at the man who had just struck him. Dirty face. Dirty hands. Nasty matted hair. He smelled like a bear pit. The pirate grinned as he coiled his short, braided whip for another blow. He clearly enjoyed this part of his work.
Once
they had acquired some momentum, the rowing was a little easier. Ryan and Mildred fell into the rhythm of it.
The tugboats headed south, away from the island, to what had to be a prearranged rendezvous point. Three of the pursuit sailboats were waiting for them offshore. Two of the pirate vessels were damaged, one badly. And one of the ships was missing.
“Tom did good,” Mildred said.
The commander was not at all pleased. After yelling at the sailboat crews, he gave the order to resume rowing.
Under threat of the lash, the slaves leaned on their oars, once again working up momentum. Facing the rear, Ryan had a view of the still-burning freighter. He also saw some of the pirates lounging at the stern rail. They were laughing. Trinkets were on display. Gold trinkets. It looked like they were making bets.
Then they started dividing the weaklings into pairs and standing them side by side. Short and tall. Skinny and skinnier. Old and young. Male and female. This was the source of more laughter and backslapping among the pirates.
Ryan watched as J.B. was forced to stand next to a much bigger man, older, with a mat of gray hair on his chest. All the body fat had been worked off him. His face was haggard and grim.
From the pilothouse deck, the commander gave another order to his crew.
“What did he say?” Ryan asked Mildred.
“Whoever wins, lives.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Daniel groaned when the pirates hoisted him up by the armpits. He had been hoping for a few more hours, even a day or two of freedom above deck. There was no reason for him to be thrown into the hold so soon. They were offshore and would remain offshore for the entire voyage back home. Casacampo didn’t question orders; he followed them, to the letter. By order of the Lords of Death and Atapul X, enanos were to be kept in solitary confinement en route to their missions and after their missions were completed. It was supposed to be a safeguard, to keep the plague from spreading to the crew and slaves, and to other unintended targets. The dengue weapon had no antidote. Once it was released in a population, there was no stopping it. It burned through lives like wildfire. If it wasn’t used with great caution, it could destroy everything the Lords had built.
Still, and this was what stuck in Daniel’s craw, everyone knew that mosquitos didn’t fly miles out to sea.
And mosquitos were the only way the plague was spread.
The pirates dumped him through the open hatch, into a chamber just big enough for one person. When the hatch slammed down, he knew to duck his head. He was plunged in darkness. It took a few moments for his eyes to adjust. The cell had a vent at the back, near the ceiling, about six inches high by a foot long. It was covered with a fine mesh screen to keep mosquitos out. The vent let in a little light and a little fresh air. If he pressed his cheek against the inside of the hatch and twisted his head just right, he could look out at the boat wake.
He didn’t feel much like twisting his head at that moment. His neck still ached, and he could almost feel the chain the islander boy had tried to choke him with.
The narrow chamber was furnished with a fiber mat on the floor for sleeping, a plastic water jug, and a covered bucket for excrement and urine.
Cozy was not the word for it.
Daniel shuddered to think how much of his life since his resurrection had been spent in a foul stifling cage just like this.
They only let him out to spread the plague.
And there was no telling when that would happen again.
Daniel slumped to the mat and hung his head in his hands. He knew what the redhead thought of him. What Eye Patch and the others thought of him. But he didn’t consider himself evil at heart. The Matachìn, now they were evil. They had a choice in their behavior. They were volunteers in the service of the Lords. They signed on to commit excesses in the name of a greater authority. The Lords, they were even more evil. As in the Mayan myths, they commanded human suffering, sickness and death on a colossal scale. And they reveled in their power, always seeking to expand their territory. If anything, Daniel considered himself a victim of circumstance and his own naïveté.
Was there ever a pat on the head and a “Good job, Daniel?”
Nope.
Was there ever a reward for his diligent service?
Nope again.
His only reward was occasionally being let loose on the world. That was also his punishment. His freedom meant other people’s horrible deathes, which he had to watch over and over again.
He couldn’t understand why the carriers were always kept apart. They couldn’t infect one another. And they could provide each other with companionship, a sense of shared humanity. That might have made the condition more bearable.
In a self-pitying mood, he fell back on a familiar replay: how it had all come down to this. He recalled the day of his arrival on Devil’s Island in a kaleidoscope of image and sensation. The heat. The jungle. The screaming of the howler monkeys. Crocs. Wild dogs. Snakes. The overgrown concrete prison. Moldy outside, inside spotless. He flashed back to a spartanly furnished, white-painted cell. To the experiments. All very clinical. Sterile. Injections of serum by little brown nurses in starched white uniforms.
In the preliminary interviews back in the States, no one had said anything about mosquitos.
Or bioweapons.
They hadn’t mentioned it was a military research program.
He had gotten sick the first week. All the test subjects had gotten sick. He was one of the few who recovered, and the recovery had taken months. Only then did the scientists of Project Persephone tell him what they’d done to him. After it was too late. They told him they had created a weapon they couldn’t control. Morpholinos, anti-sense oligos, the entire genetic engineering bag of tricks, had no effect on the carriers. What had been done to their blood could not be undone. By way of an apology the scientists had offered him an alternative to termination or permanent resident status on Devil’s Island.
Daniel shuddered as he remembered the thawing, his waking up in a stainless-steel coffin. He remembered his first agonizing, lung-ripping inhalation.
When he came out of cryostasis, still on the island, he learned that the offspring of the prisoners had renamed that awful place Xibalba.
The Mayan word for hell.
Once again alone in the narrow dark with his recycling thoughts, alone for God knew how long, Daniel Desipio began to softly weep.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Ryan pulled back on the oar, studying the pirates as they argued among themselves on the stern. They were moving the five pairs of combatants around, setting the order of the upcoming fights to the death. When the order was finalized, it appeared that J.B.’s match was scheduled for last.
At the end of the line of fighters, the Armorer leaned against the stern rail, arms folded over his rib cage.
Mildred was beside herself. “J.B. can’t fight,” she said to Ryan. “Not with those ribs. Look at how big the other guy is.”
“Mebbe he can protect them,” Cawdor said. He didn’t know what else to say. He was plenty worried, too.
“The other guy saw his chest,” Mildred “He saw J.B.’s ribs when the dreadmaster lifted up his shirt. He knows where the bull’s-eye is.”
“J.B. will think of something. He always does.” Ryan sounded more confident than he felt. How he felt was pretty goddamn awful. He had been reduced to a spectator. He couldn’t help his oldest friend fight for his life and he couldn’t slip him a weapon that would tip the odds in his favor. All he could do was watch.
As the coxswain pounded out the tempo for the rowers, the pirates unmanacled the first two fighters and shoved them together in the middle of the stern deck.
The two scrawny men were evenly matched in size and reserves of strength. They both knew exactly what was at stake. They threw themselves at each other like wildcats. The strategy was obvious. They were trying to seize the advantage before their energy gave out. Punches, kicks, claw hands came in frantic flurries as the men sto
od toe-to-toe. There was no defense, just offense.
The pirates ringing the stern rails whooped and hollered, cheering for whichever man they had bet on.
Blood drops spattered the deck as the two barefoot fighters clenched and grappled. It didn’t take long for them to begin to wear down. After two minutes the punch fest became a hug fest as they hung on to each other for support, trying to regather their strength. Their body blows lost power and came in single punches instead of combinations, and at less frequent intervals.
Gasping for breath, neither could gain advantage.
The pirates’ cheers turned to boos.
It looked like the stalemate was going to continue, a round-and-round, slow shuffle dance, when one of the men suddenly collapsed to his knees. He was unable to get up, unable to stop the other guy from swinging around behind him, wrapping both hands around his neck and squeezing.
The kneeling man was too weak to fend him off. He couldn’t pry the fingers off his throat.
It was just a matter of time.
The squeezer kept up the pressure until his opponent went limp, then he let the body drop to the deck. The other guy wasn’t dead, Ryan could see him breathing. He was just choked out and unconscious.
The victor stood over the prostrate loser, hands on hips, breathing hard.
One of the pirates handed him a machete. It had a wicked gut hook at its tip and the main edge looked razor-sharp.
“Good grief!” Mildred moaned.
What happened next wasn’t clean and it wasn’t pretty. It was a hack job, start to finish. Death, when it came to the fallen man, came as a result of forty shallow chops, instead of one. The rain of blows sprayed blood in a wide fan across the deck and over the stern gunwhale. This drew cheers from the pirates. At least the guy remained unconscious throughout. When the deed was done, the machete was taken away from the man. As he was dragged to an empty place under the awning and chained to an oar, winning and losing bets were paid off.
No one bothered to wash off the deck before the next set of fighters was thrown together: a skinny man and a large woman, both naked to the waist and streaked with sweat and dirt.