Sarcophagus

by Ben Hammott

  Coleman climbed down from the cab and joined Greyson by the caged creature. “That worked surprisingly well.”

  Greyson stared at the trapped monster that shot worried glances at the gold bars and hate-filled glares at them. “It truly is a vicious creature.

  “I wonder how the gold affects it,” asked Coleman, keeper his distance.

  Greyson shrugged. “Does it matter as long as it does?”

  “I suppose not. What’s the next step?”

  “We kill it, I hope. Let’s slip out the tarpaulin to clear the net and see what happens when it can’t avoid touching the gold.”

  Fearful of what they would do now they had it trapped, the monster observed the two humans. When they tugged on the cover beneath its feet, it realized their intent. Terrified, it dug claws in the canvas to try and prevent them, but when its talons touched the gold net pain shot through its body, forcing it to let it go. Inch by inch its refuge grew smaller, and there was nothing it could do to stop it.

  When there was only a small slither of tarpaulin left for the monster to stand on, it attempted a last chance at survival. It slammed its body against the cage and screamed when its flesh burnt on contact. The cage tipped, lifting one edge a few inches. Experiencing hope, it ignored the pain and crashed against the bars again. The bottom edge of the cage lifted a little higher than its first attempt. Screaming in agony from its burning flesh, it kept its shoulder pressed against the bars and pushed.

  Surprised by the monster’s actions, Greyson and Coleman hesitated for a moment. They quickly came to their senses when the cage began to tip, threatening to set the monster free. They gave the tarp a strong, hard jerk.

  When the cover was yanked from beneath its feet, the monster toppled back, smashed into the cage and fell to its knees. It screeched on contact with the gold net. Its skin smoldered and melted. Blood poured from its cracking flesh and sizzled when it dripped onto the gold. Its agony-filled shrieks sent shivers down the men’s spines as they witnessed its demise. The monster collapsed on its side and convulsed as its body slumped into a slimy, bubbling mass of blood and melted flesh until there was nothing left except for charred bones and a dark stain on the deck.

  Coleman placed a hand on Greyson’s shoulder. “Tell me it’s over and the monster really is dead this time.”

  Greyson shook his head worriedly. “Though I find it impossible to believe anything could live or come back to life after what we just witnessed, I’m not confident it can’t happen. We’ve been caught out before, so we need to make certain this time. Let’s drag the net and any remains onto the tarpaulin, add some weights, tie it all together and drop it into the sea.”

  “Sounds good to me. The sooner it’s off the ship, the better I’ll feel.” Coleman headed for the crane cab and raised the cage, leaving it to swing in the breeze while they carried out their gruesome task.

  While the two humans parceled up the remains it had been separated from, the claw crawled away unseen. It fell into the cargo hold and concealed itself in the shadows. Though it only had a basic sense of intelligence present, its instinct to survive was overpowering and commanded it to seek out a dark secluded place to regenerate. It would be a slow process.

  The two men dragged the chain-wrapped tarp with the monster’s remains securely sealed inside over to the side of the ship and rolled it overboard. It splashed into the sea and was dragged beneath by the weights they had added, the gold net and an iron chain wrapped around it. Satisfied they had dispatched the monster to the depths of the sea, never to return, Greyson and Coleman turned away from the rail.

  Wondering how much it was worth, Coleman stroked a hand down one of the cage’s gold bars. “I guess we had better get this back in the cargo hold.”

  “And then I’m going to have a rest and a strong drink,” said Greyson.

  Coleman smiled. The man certainly deserved one after what he had just been through.

  A distant rumble signaled bad weather was on the way.

  The two men looked at the distant dark grey clouds rolling ever nearer.

  “A storm is on the way,” stated Coleman. “And it looks like a fierce one. Once we’ve finished here, I’ll have to go steer the ship to ensure we stay on course.”

  “And I’ll inform the others the danger is definitely past this time.”

  While Coleman climbed into the crane’s operator’s cab, Greyson walked over to the yawning cargo bay doors set in the deck. Below, the cage’s empty crate waited to again receive its precious cargo. The crane’s diesel engine coughed out a cloud of dirty grey smoke when it spluttered to life. Coleman peered out through the cab’s window and slowly swung and extended the jib over the cargo hold. Greyson guided the gilded cage through the deck opening and used simple hand instructions to direct Coleman until the cage was directly over the crate. Coleman slowly fed out the cable and gently lowered the cage into the crate. When Greyson nipped down to the cargo hold, rain began pattering on the deck as the edge of the storm arrived.

  Coleman glanced worriedly at the rising swells that started rolling the ship. They would need to increase speed to plow through them.

  Driven by instinct and vague memories, the claw scuttled through the gloom shrouding much of the cargo hold toward the sarcophagus that had long been its home.

  When Greyson entered and crossed to the cage, his heart jumped at the sound of scampering a short distance away, evidence his nerves were still on edge. He caught a glimpse of movement before something disappeared behind some crates. Believing it to be a rat, he ignored it and released the straps connected to the crane’s hook that swung with the increasing rolls of the ship.

  Rain splattered Greyson’s face when he tilted his head to the large opening where Coleman waited. “Okay, all done. Pull it up and I’ll replace the lid.”

  Coleman nodded. “After I’ve closed the hatches, I’m going to the wheelhouse.”

  Greyson raised a thumb in acknowledgement and re-nailed the crate lid in place. With the aid of a hand-operated pallet truck, he pushed the crate back to the stacks of museum crates.

  Sensing the human close by, the claw climbed the side of the crate, dropped into the sarcophagus and burrowed beneath the beetle husks.

  Greyson turned toward the rustling coming from the crate, walked over and peered into the sarcophagus. Though he thought a breeze must have disturbed the dead insect carcasses, causing them to shift, after what happened recently he wasn’t going to assume anything. He picked up the pry bar the thief had used to open the crate and cautiously poked amongst the husks until he was certain nothing hid within. He manhandled the stone cover back into place, sealing the sarcophagus once again, and re-nailed the lid.

  The soft moonlight driving away the gloom below the opening shrunk to darkness when Coleman closed the deck hatch.

  Greyson glanced at the crates of treasure and artifacts. The images of the amazing display they would make was overshadowed by the recent suffering and deaths one of them had caused. He turned his back on them and left the cargo hold.

  CHAPTER 12

  Journey’s End

  Larry Greene removed the coffee he had been sipping from his lips and stared at the blip on his radar screen that had just appeared. He placed the caffeine-stained cup on the console and observed the blip until it had moved enough to confirm its speed and heading. He spun in his chair and clicked his fingers, attracting the attention of William Roper. “Bill, come and see what you make of this.”

  William joined Larry staring at the blip heading toward land. “It’s moving damn fast so close to shore.”

  “That’s what I thought.” Larry placed a finger on the blip and ran it to the shoreline permanently marked on the screen. “If it carries on its present heading, it’s going to miss the port by half a mile.”

  William picked up the clipboard with the list of expected ships. It was a bit early, but it could be the Amazongas from South America. They had already reported they had trouble onboard. He glanced out
the large glass window at the storm-tossed waves. “Maybe it’s in distress. Hail them.”

  Larry pressed the talk button on the radio mic and leaned closer. “This is Portsmouth Port Authority contacting the unknown vessel half a mile out to sea on a bearing of 34 degrees east.”

  He released the button and waited.

  After no reply, William said, “Try again.”

  “This is Portsmouth contacting the vessel on a bearing of 34 degrees. You need to reduce your speed and change course to a bearing of 58 degrees to reach Portsmouth harbor.”

  Again, the radio remained silent.

  Both men stared at the blip moving ever closer to shore.

  “Keep trying on all frequencies. If it doesn’t alter its speed and course in the next few minutes, it won’t have time to avoid the inevitable. I’ll alert the coastguard in case the worst happens.”

  Larry repeated the message.

  Greyson watched the few surviving crew coax the passengers out of the dry store. Some still didn’t believe the monster was dead. They had been told the very same thing before, and it had returned to kill more of them. It had taken all of Greyson’s powers of persuasion to convince the disbelievers.

  The crew led the passengers into the lounge and set about making refreshments for the weary travelers. All looked forward to reaching port, getting off the hellish ship and seeing the end of their nightmare cruise. Some had threatened to sue the company. Greyson couldn’t blame them for that. He expected, when the cause was discovered, the blame would fall on him and, by association, the Museum. It didn’t bode well for his career prospects. Strangely enough, he realized, the prospect of dismissal now caused him little concern.

  A forceful shudder rippled through the hull, toppling some people off their feet and cups and plates to the floor. The smashing crockery brought the memories of the monster’s killing spree to the forethought of the survivors’ minds. A woman screamed hysterically. Panic threatened to take hold again as frightened eyes searched for the monster they believed had returned. Bangs, screeches and scrapes continued to install fear into the already anxious passengers as all wondered what was happening.

  It was obvious to Greyson and the crew that the ship had crashed into something. As the crew tried to calm the passengers, Greyson dashed into the atrium and flew up the stairs. Windborne rain pounded him when he rushed outside and crossed to the rail. He stared in disbelief at the pieces of wreckage scraping along the hull until they were disgorged in the ship’s wake.

  Bartholomew Quinton Smythe swiveled the chilled bottle of champagne to sink it further into ice that almost overflowed from the walnut and chrome ice bucket that matched the decor of his newly acquired and very expensive yacht. The six-berth Seafarer had cost him an arm and a leg, a kidney and a lung, but he thought it would be worth it if the next few hours turned out as fruitful as he hoped they would. Much of the cost for the boat had been unwittingly contributed by investors in his lately under performing stocks and shares portfolio.

  Smythe had once been a successful investment banker and had given his many clients a reasonable return on their investments. Keen to increase his profits, he had made some risky investments that drastically failed to perform as expected. To keep the luxurious lifestyle he had become accustomed to and was loath to abandon, he had started siphoning off some of his clients’ money into a secret account, which due to his recent purchase of the Seafarer, was now empty. He was confident he could soon top it up again, as he now picked his clients carefully; if they were stock market savvy, he treated them with respect and invested wisely. Only the ill-informed and the gullible received his special attention and profit-inflated stock portfolio to reel them in.

  Smythe glanced around the luxurious cabin and smiled. When he brought Elizabeth Grace Frobisher aboard, she couldn’t help but be impressed with this show of opulence. Though she wasn’t particularly good-looking, she had a figure any man would ogle when she passed them by. More importantly, Elizabeth came from a rich family and her personal wealth was rumored to be many millions. Smythe had been pursuing her for months in the hope of getting his hands on her wealth. Tonight, he would propose and he was sure she would readily agree; she had been sitting on the shelf for far too long.

  Smythe rubbed his hands together greedily as he thought of the increased luxurious lifestyle he would soon lead. As long as Elizabeth or her interfering lawyers didn’t insist on a prenup, an unfortunate accident would befall the ‘love of his life’ when he deemed the time was right. He had already worked out what he believed to be the perfect murder. When they were out cruising on the yacht, he would knock her overboard and sail away. Either she would drown or the sharks would get her, it made no difference to him. He would tearfully explain to the authorities that he had retired to bed early with a headache and left his beloved…sob, sob…on the deck drinking gin. Sob, sob. She had already been a bit tipsy, but she insisted on staying a little longer to gaze at the stars. She must have…sob, sob…had one too many gins and fallen overboard. In the morning when he awoke and found her nowhere on the boat, he searched for her, but…sob, sob…she was nowhere to be found, and that’s when he alerted the coastguard.

  Smythe grinned evilly at his brilliance. It was perfect. No blood or sign of foul play—and hopefully no body—but even if they found her corpse, an autopsy would detect the copious amounts of gin he would ensure she drank before he pushed her overboard. Such findings would back up his story. He would then be free to spend, spend, spend her money on whatever he wanted. He sighed happily at the thought.

  When shouts and screams distracted him from his pleasant contemplation, he hurried on deck to find out the cause. He froze in shock at the sight of the bow of a large cargo ship plowing through the yachts moored outside and in the marina and heading straight for him. The fiberglass hulls of the gleaming white and chrome yachts splintered when the ship rode through them. Any owners and crew unfortunate enough to be aboard dived into the water to escape being crushed beneath the hull, but Smythe wasn’t going to risk the fruition of his months-long plan being brought to an end so abruptly. Yes, the boat was insured, but it would take months to sort out the paperwork. There was also a two-year waiting list for this latest model Seafarer.

  Smythe rushed up the short ladder to the pilothouse, dropped into the captain’s chair and fumbled the key into the lock. The powerful inboard motor started on the first turn. He shoved the throttle forward to speed the boat out of the ship’s path of carnage. The boat shot forward before coming to an abrupt stop, spilling him over the console. Confused, he glanced down at the jetty and saw the ropes firmly tied to the steel mooring posts. He cursed his luck and glanced at the deafening sounds of boats being crushed, ripped apart and turned into little more than extremely expensive flotsam. Bartholomew Quinton Smythe sobbed as the ship’s bow bore down on his brand-new boat and cut it in half.

  Elizabeth Grace Frobisher joined the crowd of onlookers along the windows of the marina’s clubhouse and stared in horror at the ship plowing through the moored yachts. She recognized Bartholomew when he entered his yacht’s pilothouse and wondered why he didn’t flee from the approaching vessel. A hand went to her mouth to stifle the scream when the ship crashed into him.

  She cursed her luck. For months she had let the repugnant man woo her. Smythe was rumored to be rich, and she had set forth rumors of her own that she was worth millions. Tonight, she was sure the man was going to propose and she would have coyly accepted. She had hinted that a private yacht of their own would make for an ideal honeymoon, but secretly it would have provided an ideal opportunity to get rid of her rich, obnoxious husband when they were at sea. She sighed as she gazed around at the shocked faces observing the chaos outside. Surely there must be another suitable wealthy husband candidate somewhere amongst them.

  Greyson gripped the rail to steady himself when a succession of collisions sent jolts through the ship. He glimpsed the white bow of what seemed to be an expensive yacht bobbing by, spi
nning in the maelstrom caused by the fast-moving ship and rough sea. A man still sitting in the white leather captain’s chair looked up at Greyson.

  Bartholomew Quinton Smythe’s face was a mask of fear. His fingers gripped the chair’s armrests so hard his nails pierced the expensive leather. He glanced up the metal hull of the ship that had ruined his plans and knew he would never live the life of excessive luxury he so craved. He locked eyes with the man too far away to save him until the waves spun his wrecked yacht away and carried him to his doom.

  When Greyson directed his gaze along the side of the ship, he glimpsed weak lights through the rain slashing through the darkness and headed for the bow.

  Coleman gripped the wheel against the erratic rolling of the ship as he split his gaze between the compass and the appalling view through the windscreen. His hair and clothes were whipped by the wind and rain blasting through the hole in the glass. He glanced at the corpse when it shifted, slid off the console and slumped to the floor, before returning his worried gaze back to the compass. The cracked glass and constant wash of rain made it difficult to tell the heading with any degree of accuracy. He peered out at the gloomy, rain-lashed view. He could make out the fuzzy shape of the bow, but nothing beyond. He thought the port couldn’t be far away, but he had no idea of the distance now the controls that would have supplied that information were no longer functioning. He snatched the ship-to-shore radio from its mount above his head and pressed the talk button. If he could contact the coastguard, they should be able to tell him his position and guide him safely to port.

  “This is the Amazongas, I am heading for Portsmouth harbor but have damaged controls. Can you tell me my position and course correction to reach the harbour?”

  He waited a few moments. When there was no reply, he repeated the request. Again, he received no response. When he reached up to try a different channel, he noticed the claw marks across the radio panel and hanging wires. The radio was dead. He replaced the receiver, stared out at the storm, and prayed they would reach port safely.