by Jason Beech
Then he saw the guy dressed in historical captain’s clothes, just like himself. Captain Meth-Mouth had mixed feelings about this one. While he liked the style and recognized a kindred spirit, he knew he would have no trouble kicking his ass. The captain looked wiry, so there might be hidden toughness—-and maybe he was even a sudden bastard—-but Captain Meth-Mouth knew how a one-on-one fight would end.
“Sir.”
Captain Meth-Mouth turned and saw Claudio standing by, armed with a shotgun. “What’s up?”
“Should we shoot first and ask questions later?”
If anyone else had said this, Captain Meth-Mouth would have slapped the teeth from his mouth. His first mate, on the other hand, was too valuable. Tough in a fight. Merciless after.
“There’s no fun in that,” Captain Meth-Mouth said. “First, we parlay. Then, we kill them.”
Claudio shrugged. “Sure thing, boss.”
“Tell Markus to pull up beside them on the starboard side. We’ll talk for a bit, and when I get bored, I’ll fire the cannon at them. Make sure it’s loaded.”
“Aye, aye.”
Claudio retreated, and Captain Meth-Mouth felt his heart flutter again. On the other ship, he saw they were pretty well armed. Assault rifles, shotguns, pistols. The guy on the mast had a sniper rifle, but he didn’t look like he knew how to use it. It seemed like he scoped down on Captain Meth-Mouth, and it took him a while to find his mark through the eye piece.
Captain Meth-Mouth smiled and waved at him, knowing that he had better weapons and well-trained men. This wouldn’t be like an old pirate battle, but it would be close enough. He thought their ship would look nice in his dock, so he promised himself not to hurt their vessel too much.
The people? They were fucked. He’d keep the women for his harem, and everyone else would either be put to the sword or thrown into the zombie gladiator pit he kept at Soldier Field.
The captain, though? He’d keep that guy alive. It had been a while since he made someone walk the plank over the shark tank at the Shedd Aquarium. It only seemed fitting that he’d do that to a real pirate captain.
Dwight stood at the bow—-West at his right hand and Hector at his left—-as he watched the other ship come closer. It tried to turn its side to the S.S. Stevenson several times, but Dwight had made it clear to Ellis, who had the wheel, to keep them face to face. Every time Captain Meth-Mouth tried to move to the side, Ellis countered perfectly.
The other boat finally gave up this maneuver, and the two ships floated bow to bow. Everyone remained silent until Captain Meth-Mouth made his way to the front and said, “Ahoy, cap’n!”
Dwight couldn’t believe the size of this guy. He could probably fit two of West in there and still have room left for scrawny Dandy Jim. Even worse was the mouthful of jagged, blackened teeth. If he bit anyone, the victim would probably need a tetanus shot. As it was, he could smell the captain’s rancid breath over the ten yards of lake between them.
“Hey,” Dwight said. “How’s it going?”
Captain Meth-Mouth thought even less of his opponent now that he could see him up close. He was just a wispy kid, the kind Captain Meth-Mouth used to mug for lunch money back in junior high. He also didn’t approve of the cavalier way this guy conducted himself.
Fuck it. The shark tank, for sure.
“What’s up, friend?”
Dwight cleared his throat. This Captain Meth-Mouth didn’t sound too bad. He seemed laid back, in fact, not like the crazed warrior he’d been expecting. Still, he looked too dangerous to be trusted. “Wanna’ trade?”
Captain Meth-Mouth touched his chin in the universal let’s-see-here gesture. It struck Dwight as a pose, but he didn’t want to jump at shadows yet. Why not give him the benefit of the doubt?
“We have some good shit,” Dwight continued. “Are you in need of anything?”
“What have you got?”
It felt like a natural question, but the tone threw Dwight off. Captain Meth-Mouth had to be bullshitting him, but he wanted to pretend that it had been genuine curiosity. The alternative was too scary to consider.
“We have a lot of batteries,” Dwight said. “More than we could use for quite some time.”
“Cool. What else?”
“Well.” He scratched his head. Then, he remembered what he’d sent Hector to get. “You strike me as a rum guy. Do you like Captain Morgan’s Special Reserve?”
He elbowed Hector gently, and his friend held up the bottle.
Captain Meth-Mouth’s tongue felt saturated with saliva, and he had to swallow repeatedly to stop himself from drooling. The Reserve was his favorite, and he’d run out of it a long time ago. He never thought he’d see another bottle in his life.
Dwight saw the look on his adversary’s face and smiled. “Tell you what. This bottle’s free. As a gesture of good faith.”
Captain Meth-Mouth ran the back of his hand across his lips and then wiped it on his shirt. “Toss it here.”
Hector glanced at Dwight, eyebrows raised. Dwight nodded. “Go ahead.”
“What if I miss?” Hector asked.
“Don’t you worry,” Captain Meth-Mouth said. “I’ll catch it.”
Hector stepped back and slowly underhanded the bottle. It sailed across to the other vessel, where Captain Meth-Mouth caught it one-handed. He admired the bottle for a while, running his thumb across the label. “Got more of these?”
“Hector?” Dwight asked.
“A few,” Hector said. “We also have some Sailor Jerry. Some Bacardi, if you’re desperate. We have more whiskey, though.”
“I’ll take the lot,” Captain Meth-Mouth said.
“That’s great!” Dwight said. “Listen, I was hoping we could trade the booze for some food. We’re running low on ...” He trailed off when he saw Captain Meth-Mouth shaking his head.
“Come on,” Dwight continued. “You’re on land. You’ve got to have food to trade. We’re so desperate we’ll take Ramen, if you’ve got it.”
“I’m not in the barter business,” Captain Meth-Mouth said. “In case you can’t tell, I’m in the taking business.”
Dwight felt that familiar fear creep back into his belly. West tensed next to him, his finger slipping inside the trigger guard of his assault rifle. Hector shrank back, trying to hide behind his captain.
“I take it, then, that there’s no peaceful way out of this?” Dwight asked.
Captain Meth-Mouth stepped up to the very brink of the bow. “Son, I’ve waited my whole life to get in a pirate battle at sea. There’s no way out for you at all.”
West whipped up his gun and took aim at Captain Meth-Mouth, ready to send a short burst through his torso. Claudio expected this and fired his shotgun at the lieutenant. West saw the shotgun barrel turn toward him just in time and ducked down, dragging Dwight with him. Buckshot turned the helm into a cheese grater. West caught a light peppering high on his shoulder, and two bits had furrowed into his jaw and neck. Nothing serious, but it burned fiercely. He gritted his teeth against the pain, neglecting himself to make sure that Dwight was fine.
The captain hadn’t even been winged. Hector, on the other hand, hadn’t been so lucky. He stood in silent shock, his blackened face more bone than skin, his windpipe and upper ribs open for the world to see. One eye stared out in horror while the other slipped down into his sinuses in a yellowish, viscous form.
“Cap! You okay?”
Dwight barely heard West’s question. All of his attention fixated on Hector’s body as it folded in on itself and slumped onto the deck. The death-blind eye met Dwight’s gaze, and he couldn’t look away. Firearms exploded all around him, bullets strafing the world, and he didn’t even flinch.
“Dammit, Cap! Don’t do this to me!” West jerked his hand up and down in front of Dwight’s face. Dwight turned and watched as Ellis crouched behind the wheel, trying to keep the boats head to head and still not get shot. Kelly used the mast as cover while she took pot shots with her pistol. Grafton du
cked down behind the edge of the rail, and he fired his shotgun without looking.
West briskly slapped Dwight’s cheek, and the captain blinked, coming back to himself. The gunfire and screams suddenly seemed louder.
“We need you, Cap. You ready to kick some ass?”
Dumbly, Dwight nodded. He glanced down at Hector—-his oldest friend on the ship—-and realized he didn’t even have time to mourn. He remembered pretending to do battle with Hector every day in Miami for the amusement of hundreds of kids. The script dictated that Hector die each and every time. Now, he was dead for real.
Suddenly, he hated Captain Meth-Mouth, and anger boiled in his guts, simmering in his head. Why had he refused the assault rifle earlier? He wanted to murder every single one of his enemies.
Something on his face must have changed, because West smiled and clapped him on the shoulder. “Good to have you back.”
“How fucked are we?” Dwight asked.
A chunk of the bow splintered away and flew by West’s face. He jerked his head back and tried to hunch lower. “We have a chance.”
“But not much of one, right?”
West shrugged. “We need better cover. I’m going to pop up and strafe as many of those bastards as I can. When I do, take Grafton and make for the anchor crank. If you get there, give me some cover fire so I can get behind the life boat. Got it?”
Dwight nodded, even though he didn’t like the sound of “if.” Still, he motioned to Grafton, who seemed to understand the pantomimed plan. Then, West stood, blasting away at full auto. Dwight saw from the corner of his eye as men on Captain Meth-Mouth’s ship dropped dead in their boots.
Dwight pushed Grafton down behind the thick, metal crank and started firing back the way they’d come. West retreated from the bow, shuffling back and to the side, keeping his eye on his adversaries.
He almost made it. About a yard away from the life boat, he roared, dropping to his knees. Blood sprouted from his calf and pooled quickly on the deck. Growling like a beast, he muscled his way to cover, but when he did, his foot flopped back and forth like a dying fish.
Grafton cursed and held up his empty shotgun. “I’m out, Cap.”
Someone from above screamed, and Dwight looked up just in time to see Dandy Jim, riddled with bullets, flailing as he fell to the deck, his thin body snapping like popped bubble wrap.
Bullets pinged and whizzed off the crank, but Dwight barely noticed. All he could see were his shipmates—-his friends—-crying and yelling, sending as many bullets as they could into Captain Meth-Mouth’s ship and men. A surprising amount of Captain Meth-Mouth’s pirates poured their hot blood onto the deck, but he still had so many more standing and pouring hot lead into the S.S. Stevenson.
Captain Meth-Mouth saw something different. He saw scared people, and some of them were even women, as they tried to pitifully strike back against certain death. So much for the epic pirate battle he’d hoped for. These wannabes were ready for the end. Time to oblige them.
He ordered his men to break out their grappling hooks.
Dwight saw Dandy Jim’s sniper rifle nearby. He tried to kick out and snag the strap, but it was just out of reach. He had plenty of ammo for himself, but he needed Grafton to be armed with something. Dwight tried with his foot again, but this time a bullet nearly found him. Instead, it tinged against the scope, obliterating it.
Well. Grafton didn’t need the scope. He needed a loaded gun. Dwight took a deep breath and charged out from behind cover, gun at the ready, reaching for the sniper rifle.
Captain Meth-Mouth and a half-dozen of his men swung across the gap and thumped down on the deck of the S.S. Stevenson. Two of them shot down Gillian and Riggs right away. Both of them, lovers Dwight had found in Atlantic City, the former a school teacher and the latter a cab driver, jerked and heaved and died before they even hit the boards.
Dwight felt his balls shrivel as he saw the pirates split up. Two of them tried to get to Kelly behind the mast. Two of them went for Ellis. Just as Dwight scooped up the rifle, Captain Meth-Mouth found him and smiled.
An assault rifle chattered, and Dwight saw muzzle fire from behind the life boat. Two of Captain Meth-Mouth’s men went down, but he just looked annoyed.
“Corner that weasel!” he yelled. “Smoke ‘im out!”
Dwight scurried back as all of Captain Meth-Mouth’s men focused on the life boat. Grafton grabbed the sniper rifle and moved to jack a round into the chamber.
Captain Meth-Mouth drew down on him and fired, blasting Grafton’s brains out the back of his head just as casually as if he’d used a remote control to change the channel.
“You son of a bitch,” Dwight said.
“Fuck ‘im. He wasn’t invited to this little dance. Now, I see you got yourself a sword, too. That real, or is it as phony as the rest of this outfit?”
Dwight saw in his mind—-just as clearly as he’d just seen some of his closest friends die—-a vision of Captain Meth-Mouth cutting him to pieces with his rapier. Again, his belly chilled, and he felt worms crawling beneath the skin at the back of his neck.
But then, he remembered the look on Hector’s face. The scream Dandy Jim had made. Even West’s pained grimace as he struggled for cover.
Dwight would be damned if he was going to let this motherfucker win so easily. He drew his sword and held it out, ready to meet his maker standing up.
Captain Meth-Mouth whistled. “You got some steel there, son.” And then he unsheathed his own sword, aiming the point at the spot between Dwight’s eyes.
Ohshitohshitohshit! Over and over, the thought raced through Dwight’s mind. He felt something moving in his guts, and his legs quavered, a cold tickling sensation at the backs of his knees. He looked at Captain Meth-Mouth’s dancing gray eyes, then down to his grin. His teeth could have been broken shards of a black vase.
Dwight saw himself running. He wanted to do this so badly. But he knew the instant he turned to flee, Captain Meth-Mouth would lop his head off.
No. If he had to die, he wouldn’t go out like a bitch. Time to be the pirate he’d always pretended to be.
He sneered. “You gonna’ fight? Or are you gonna’ twiddle your sword around all day?”
Captain Meth-Mouth’s smile vanished. “It’s on now, boy.”
His sword flashed, and Dwight put his own up. The blades clashed with a spark, and Dwight felt the force of it go up his arm, kind of like hitting a line drive in baseball. He almost felt pushed back, but his strength managed to hold Captain Meth-Mouth at bay.
“Is that the best you—-“
Captain Meth-Mouth roared and turned into a dervish of slashes and thrusts. Before Dwight could think about it, his training took over. What he couldn’t dodge, he parried, and he did so with the élan of an acrobat. All of those years spent fighting in the Treasure Island Adventure Show came back at once, and he felt like a true swashbuckler again. He could almost hear the crowd’s applause.
Captain Meth-Mouth stopped. “Damn, boy. You’re living up to expectations. Too bad I’m going to kill you.”
Dwight didn’t want his opponent to see he was almost out of breath, so he slashed at Captain Meth-Mouth, catching him on the side of the head. If Captain Meth-Mouth hadn’t recoiled, he would have had his eyes cut from his face. Blood slipped down from a gash showing more than just a little bone.
Captain Meth-Mouth didn’t hesitate with banter. He came at Dwight in a fury, and when their swords crossed down to the hilt, he kicked, nailing Dwight in the chest. The air was crushed from his lungs, and he fell back. Luckily, he remembered to tuck and roll, pistoning his legs out at the right moment so he’d come back up on his feet in a flash. Gasping for air, he tensed up, ready for the next salvo of blows.
They came hard, but Dwight managed to weather them. In a distant part of his mind, he couldn’t believe this was happening. As Captain Meth-Mouth and he beat their blades together, gunfire and screams filled the air around them. Dwight barely noticed it when a bullet b
lew back his hair a little. Captain Meth-Mouth didn’t flinch when the cannon went off, taking out the mast of the S.S. Stevenson, showering him with wooden shrapnel. Blood and metallic flashes filled their world, and Dwight felt separated from it all. He didn’t even feel like he was in charge of his own body as instinct and training gave back everything Captain Meth-Mouth could throw at him.
But as his muscles flared up, and it became harder for him to lift his arms, he knew he couldn’t win. Captain Meth-Mouth was stronger, and he had more stamina. No amount of training would keep Dwight alive for much longer.
Captain Meth-Mouth couldn’t believe his luck. As blood roared through his body, driving him harder and harder against Dwight, he knew this was the battle he’d always wanted. This guy didn’t look like much, especially considering how he’d started this while wearing a hopelessly scared face, but Captain Meth-Mouth would put him up against any of the scum he’d killed in the pit. The pain just above his ear proved that. The threat of danger filled him with a rush of adrenaline, even though he knew he’d win this eventually.
Dwight’s arm couldn’t get up in time, and one of Captain Meth-Mouth’s slashes finally got through, opening Dwight’s face up from temple to chin. His flesh hung in a flap, and Captain Meth-Mouth could see Dwight’s teeth through the laceration.
The searing pain brought Dwight back to himself as he touched his cheek. Thick blood filled his palm, and when he touched the wound, pain flared up, blinding him for a moment.
A moment was all it took.
Captain Meth-Mouth used the flat side of his sword to hit the hilt of Dwight’s. It sailed from his hand, and Captain Meth-Mouth jammed his palm against Dwight’s throat, driving him back against the wheelhouse. Captain Meth-Mouth heaved and lifted Dwight up by the neck, pointing his sword against Dwight’s belly.
Panic flooded his brain, and he lashed and flailed against Captain Meth-Mouth’s grip, trying to breathe. He felt the sword cut through his tunic and sink ever so slightly into his skin.