by Kip Nelson
He found Flint standing with his men, chatting. They all stopped talking when they saw Mack approach. Flint turned when he noticed their gazes. He greeted Mack with a smile, but Mack was in no mood for pleasantries.
“I need to talk with you. In private,” he said. The sailors had been given one of the empty buildings to live in while they remained guests and were scattered all about the premises. Flint and Mack walked inside, where they had some privacy.
“What the hell are you doing?” Mack asked in rushed tones.
“I don't know what you're talking about.”
“I'm talking about Oliver having bruises all over his face.”
“He fell,” Flint said, his face like stone, with no humor, and no trace of any emotion. Mack grunted.
“So, you are in on it as well. I was hoping it was just your men, and that you wouldn't stoop to such things. I've already talked to you about this, and you don't seem to be doing a thing about it. I want to help you, Flint, but you must meet me halfway, and the safety of New Haven is a priority. If you want to stay here, you must abide by our rules. I cannot in any way condone you beating your own men. If things carry on the way they are, I will have no choice but to exile you.”
“Like I said, he fell,” Flint replied impassively, then added, “I will deal with my crew in my own manner. That is how I have always done it. That's the way it's done on the sea.”
“You're not on the sea anymore,” Mack said, and walked away from Flint with anger burning in his heart.
He knew there was something deeper going on, and hated that Flint wasn't being forthcoming with him. It put Mack in direct opposition with the captain, and Flint would be a formidable foe. However, now that Mack was on his guard, and knew there was definitely something up with the sailors, he was even more concerned with the people he had left on the ship.
Tristan felt as though he was losing his mind. He would fall asleep in the chair, then wake up moments later, wishing this was just a dream and would wake up. Without a way to trace the days, he had no idea if he had been held captive for days or weeks or months. He was groggy and sometimes heard voices, but he couldn't tell what they were saying. He ate his food and drank the water not because he wanted to, but because his body craved it. He was barely conscious for most of the time, and these moments were only broken by short bursts of lucidity. Thoughts of Maggie and Sharon rolled around in his mind. He felt guilty about the way he had treated both of them, especially Sharon. Then he thought about Peter, and his father. His mind was awash with memories and feelings and reminders of what he had done, of what he had lived through, and this seemed like penance to him. Perhaps he deserved this fate, and this was just karma exerting its influence.
The twine bit into his wrists, chafing his skin. Sometimes his hands went numb, and he wondered if they had fallen off. Other times he moved them just because he could, hoping that by chance he would be able somehow to break free of his bindings, even though it seemed impossible. He heard groans and wailing from somewhere nearby, and knew that it was from his companions, who were suffering the same fate. It was good to know they still were alive, but for how long? Death seemed inevitable. The only company he had were the guards who came in. They said few words, and Tristan didn't have the strength to reply.
After tying him up, the guards never checked the twine that bound him, and all the stretching and wriggling that Tristan had done slowly and finally worked away at the twine. To him, it didn't feel as though he was making any progress, especially because he could not see his wrists, but in one glorious moment he felt the twine loosen. He stopped, wondering if he just was dreaming again. The line between reality and fantasy had blurred, and he wasn't sure of anything anymore, but when he tested again he felt his wrists shift. His heart began racing with hope as he wriggled free of his restraints and felt a wave of emotion rush over him. He was free! His aching wrists escaped the twine and he drew his hands away, rubbing them together. The release was so painful that tears welled in his eyes, and he sobbed softly. He had the chance to escape now, but would he be able to take it?
Chapter Seven
Tristan had to bite his lip to keep from crying out loudly. The last thing he wanted in that moment was for the guards to come to check on him and find had escaped his restraints. From what he knew of them they just would tighten them even more, so much so it probably would cut off the blood circulation to his hands. The pain in his arms as he moved them was almost unbearable. They had been locked in the same position for days, and only had been loosened a couple of times when a guard allowed him to relieve himself using a bucket left by the door. Although, as far as Tristan knew, it could have been far longer, and now it was hard to move. His muscles screamed in agony as he moved them tentatively, holding them carefully, almost afraid to move them in case they would explode. His hands, wrists, and arms tingled, and sweat beaded on his forehead. He kept glancing at the door, so afraid a guard would come in and ruin his moment of triumph. Surely, they would punish him as well as tying him up again. Perhaps it would have been better if had he put the twine back around his wrists and stayed there, not making a move. At least then he wouldn't be punished.
No.
He couldn't do that. His mother would have been ashamed. She wouldn't have put up with this situation. She would have fought, and Tristan was her son. Somewhere inside him he had that quality as well, that little voice that said he never was going to give up. He just wasn't sure how to hear it. A small moan escaped his lips as he stretched out his fingers. The feeling was beginning to return to them and he gasped, slowly getting used to moving them again. The young boy still had a million thoughts echoing around in his head. Some of them were telling him to stay put. Others were telling him to run. But where was he going to run to? He was on a ship docked at the pier. If he leaped over the side, the sailors surely would see him, and still there were other people who needed to be saved.
All he knew was that he had to free himself first. He told himself to take things step by step. Moment by moment. Everything was going to be okay if he just remembered to breathe and keep calm. He lowered his body and put his trembling hands against the twine around his ankles. Sweat dripped onto his hands and the floor. He was weak and starving and thirsty and exhausted. He tried to blink to focus himself, but every time he closed his eyes all he wanted to do was fall asleep.
No.
He gingerly moved his fingers, cursing them when they wouldn't react in the way he wanted. It felt as though they had a mind of their own, and he barely could undo the knot. The light was dim, and he had to go mostly by feeling, only catching a glimpse of his ankles when the oil lantern swung in a certain way. For a time, he thought he never would be able to undo the knot. What fresh torture that would have been, to have his arms free, but be unable to leave, his legs tied to the chair, with no way to escape except dragging the chair behind him. He started to laugh at the thought of the sailors watching him as he scraped through the ship attached to the chair. The exhaustion had made his mind weak, and he couldn't stop the laughs from coming. His entire body shook, which made undoing the knots even more difficult.
Eventually though, they gave way, and soon his ankles were free. He felt the same pain rush to them as the blood was free to flow, and he began using the muscles that had remained in the same place for days. He doubled over and tried massaging the back of his legs and his thighs, weeping freely at the pain and joy from finally being able to move. He lost his balance and fell off the chair, landing on the floor with a thud. For a terrible moment, he was convinced someone had heard him and would come rushing in, ready to lash him for even daring to leave his chair. Yet nobody came, and he started believing it was possible to escape. He pushed himself up and staggered to the door, slowly getting used to using the full range of his body again. He had to use the wall for support, though.
However, as he drew closer to the door the adrenaline started flowing through his body and helped his cause, spurring him on. He grabbed a
hold of the door handle and took a moment to compose himself before turning it. The handle turned easily. The guards hadn't bothered to lock it because they had been so sure he could not escape. Tristan was in a hall with metal walls and a low ceiling. The ship swayed calmly. He couldn't hear anything, but he knew his companions were near. He moved slowly to the next door and peered through the round window, seeing another dim room. The oil lantern swung and illuminated one of the men from New Haven. Tristan opened the door and rushed in as quickly as he could.
“It's going to be okay,” he said.
The man shook his head. “No, save yourself. You need to get back to New Haven and warn them as soon as possible. I'm too weak to move. Let them know what's happened,” he said.
Tristan was struggling with the knots and was adamant that he wasn't going to leave anyone behind, but then they heard voices approaching in the distance. It was almost time for their food.
“You must go now,” the man urged through gritted teeth, almost kicking Tristan away.
Tristan was torn, but the voices were getting louder and, in the end, he took the man's advice and walked away, slipping through the door and around the corner, away from the approaching voices. Fear flowed through Tristan's body, and he felt more alive than ever. It was intoxicating, the cocktail of fear and adrenaline and excitement. He breathed deeply, trying to be as quiet as possible as he started thinking of what he should do next. He wished his mother, or Mack, or anyone else was in this position, because they surely would know what to do, without any doubts, but he was alone.
The safety of New Haven could depend on his young shoulders. All he knew was that he had to find some way to get off the ship and back to shore. He couldn't take on the sailors himself, and it was too risky to save everyone at that moment. By himself he stood a chance at escaping. He should try getting a weapon. Then if he made it off the ship, he could swim to shore and make it back to New Haven. He was a good swimmer, he could make it back. He tried to remember if any of the sailors had guns. At first, he was confident. Then he remembered they would have taken guns from the people they had captured.
All these thoughts ran through his head as he made his way through the ship, not knowing where he was going. His footsteps clanged against the metal floors, and he kept his ears peeled for the sounds of anyone else approaching. He was aware of his own breathing as well. To him it sounded as loud as a hurricane, and he was surprised all the sailors hadn't descended upon him already. With every moment that passed he grew more confident. He hadn't been caught yet, but was afraid he was getting closer to the point when they would discover he had escaped, and would send men roving through the ship to find him. They knew it better than him. To him it was a labyrinth, where every corridor and every corner he turned looked the same. Sometimes he went up or down stairs, but it felt as if he was running in circles. At first, he tried having a plan, but in the end, he just picked a direction and ran as quickly as he could, hoping it would lead him to fresh air, and freedom.
Whenever he passed a door he peered through the window to try gathering more information about where he could be on the ship, but the vast amount of them were empty rooms. He wondered what had happened to all the crew. Math never had been his strong point, but he was sure the ship could hold more sailors than they had met. Then he found a set of huge double doors. He sneaked up to them and raised himself onto his tiptoes to look through the windows. The light was dim, as it was throughout most of the ship, and he found it difficult to tell what lay beyond the doors, although it seemed to be a large room.
Suddenly, he heard voices behind him. He held his breath just to make sure, although the beating of his heart was strong in his ears, too. He looked around, wondering if there was another place to run, but he was scared that if he turned back on himself, he only would get lost again, or worse, run into those who were pursuing him. He pushed open the doors and went into the room, hoping he could find a sanctuary inside.
Breathing heavily, he pushed himself against a cupboard in a nearby corner, hiding just in case anyone came in. The voices grew louder, and then they passed. Tristan tilted his head back, leaning it against the cupboard, and blew out his cheeks in relief. He took a few moments to enjoy the sensation of evading capture before he opened his eyes again and pushed himself up to take a look around. Some light spilled in from outside, and he was glad to see the sky again, even though it was barely enough to see. He was careful where he walked, in case he bumped into anything, but his eyes adjusted quickly, and he realized he was in a kitchen, connected to the mess hall. There were pots and pans around, although the cupboards were empty. He looked in vain for a scrap of food or some water, but there was nothing to be found. Then he saw something that sent shivers down his spine.
Bones. He gulped and moved closer to them to get a better look. He reached out and touched them, picking one up. It was big, and although he wasn't much of an expert, it was clear what kind of bone it was, although he tried convincing himself that anything else was the truth. He looked at a number of them, and then when it was clear there was no other explanation, he threw them down in disgust. These were human bones, and as he explored more in the kitchen, he found the remains of other humans. Nausea twisted in his gut and he staggered back, wanting to vomit, but not being able. These sailors were cannibals, and the mystery of where the other sailors had gone was solved. But now a deep fear ran through Tristan's mind as he wondered if the same fate lay in store for him and the other people in New Haven.
He didn't have much time to dwell on those thoughts, however, for he heard voices again, and this time they were coming for him. The double doors of the kitchen opened up, and he heard the sailors shouting for him, trying to cajole him to come out. For a moment Tristan was frozen by fear. If he stayed there any longer, he would be discovered, and potentially carved up, with his bones added to the pile. The thought filled him with dread and, in the end, he did the only thing his body knew it needed to do in that moment. He ran.
He ran as fast as he could, sprinting through the mess hall and out through the doors on the other side of the room. The sailors saw him and started their pursuit, but they had to make their way around obstacles. Tristan ran without any idea where he was going. All he knew was he needed to keep running, and that if he kept running, they couldn't catch him. He heard their footsteps clattering along the floor behind him, and his own heart was beating intensely. Sweat soaked his shirt and skin as he twisted through the ship, and miraculously managed to make his way to the deck.
The air was cold and it shocked him, but it was good as he felt more alert. The adrenaline still was pouring through his system as he ran across the empty deck. He heard calls up above him, and soon a couple of shots rang out from those sailors standing guard. The bullets pinged off the crates that Tristan was ducking behind. He stopped, but only for a second. He sprinted to the side of the ship and launched himself off, the bullets still flying nearby. The other sailors almost had caught up with him, running across the deck themselves.
The water was icy-cold when Tristan hit it, and the impact stung. It filled his mouth, and he spat out the salty water, even though his instincts were telling him to drink greedily for he was so thirsty. He felt the cold water surround him, and everything went dark and silent. Then he broke through the surface and gasped in the air. The water splashed around him as he heard the sailors giving the order to shoot. Tristan looked up and saw them peering over the deck at him. He twisted his head until he saw the shore, and then swam as fast as he could toward it. Bullets were let loose, and they hit the water near him. With each one he felt the fear rise within him as he knew he was inches away from death.
The shore seemed so far away, and his arms were exhausted. Somehow, he managed to fight the instinct to give up and let the current take him away. He continued back, pushing his body to his limits, until he could see Grace. With what was left of his strength, he called out a warning to her and watched as realization came upon her face. However,
as he called out the warning the sailor standing closest to her swung a fist at her. Tristan yelled in frustration and continued barreling toward the shore, wanting to help his friends and tell them the terrible truth he had discovered.
Chapter Eight
Grace was shocked to see Tristan in the water. At first, she hadn't realized it was him, but when he started yelling there was no doubt at all. Her mind had to work quickly, and her body even more quickly. She sensed the sailor beside her was going to attack, and she ducked with great agility to avoid the blow. The sailor's fist hit nothing but air, and as Grace rose back up she punched him in the gut, and then let another punch fly across his jaw. The sailor grunted in pain, and Grace pressed her advantage, kicking and punching him until he descended to the ground.
But the other sailors had joined in as well, and not everyone had been able to react as quickly as Grace. There had been a sailor standing behind Saul, and he had managed to get off a lucky punch, which sent the big man staggering forward. Saul turned, though, and the sailor realized his mistake. Saul strode forward, his eyes wide with insanity. He reached out both hands, clamping them around the sailor's neck, lifting him up. The sailor was slapping at Saul's hands and struggling to get free. Saul freed him by tossing him to the ground, where he landed with a cracking of bones. Saul then turned and, like a human wrecking ball, battered the other sailors, helping his companions. He roared like an animal and brutally beat them into submission, yanking them from their fights, sending them to the ground. The people of New Haven gave a good account of themselves and emerged triumphant.