“You can be sure of that,” replied Sullivan.
The captain left the cabin and the two men fell silent, each deep in their own thoughts. A few moments later, the door burst open. Sullivan drew his Colt revolver and pointed it at the man in the doorway. It was Dyson, holding a bottle of alcohol. He stood motionless with his mouth open and a smile vanishing from his lips.
“W-w-wait,” Dyson stuttered. “All right, I’ll share it.”
“Come in, man,” ordered Sullivan, lowering his gun. “And close that damn door.”
Confused, Dyson obeyed. “Sarge, what’s going on?”
“I don’t know. People are missing—”
“It’s the devil’s work!” said Woods.
“Enough! That’s crazy talk.”
“Is it? Where is everyone? I’ll never see Alabama again.”
“What’s he talking about, Sarge?” asked Dyson.
“Williams is not the only person missing. There are others. Where’s the colonel?”
“I don’t know. He left earlier, right after you. Me and Smithy just happened to find ourselves a card game with a few sailors…these Englishmen don’t know how to gamble—”
“Where’s Smith now?”
“He was just taking a piss. He can’t be too far behind me.”
After ten minutes, Smith still hadn’t return to the cabin, making Sullivan nervous. Where is he? Dyson and Woods didn’t appear concerned and passed the alcohol between them, drinking straight from the bottle.
“Stop drinking and stay alert,” said Sullivan.
“If the devil comes for me, I want to be drunk,” replied Woods as he took the bottle from Dyson.
Not a good idea.
“I’m going to find the colonel,” said Sullivan. “Keep your wits about you and don’t drink too much.”
“Yes, sir.”
Outside, Sullivan was surprised to see the sun just starting to dip below the horizon. He had lost track of time, and it would be night soon. Three of their company were missing now, and he felt an urgency to find them before dark.
Salt water sprayed over him, wetting his clothes as he made his way along the deck toward the ship’s bow. The wind howled through the rigging above, forcing him to pull his hat down firmly or lose it overboard. The ocean looked like it was getting rougher and he wished he had stayed with the men.
Great. A storm is coming!
Unsteadily, he moved with the rhythm of the rocking ship, thankful there were many things to grab onto as he made his way along the deck. If he fell overboard, he would be lost in seconds in the growing darkness.
This is wilder than a bucking bronco!
Ahead, there was a dark shape silhouetted against the last ray of sunlight. Someone was also out in this weather.
It’s Colonel Burke.
“Colonel?” The man didn’t respond as Sullivan’s voice was whipped away by the wind. With the aid of the railing, he staggered closer, reaching out and touching the man’s shoulder. The man spun, facing Sullivan.
Shit!
White sightless eyes stared back at the Texan and he staggered back.
The pale-skinned man leapt forward, latching cold hard hands around his neck. Grabbing the man’s wrists, Sullivan tried to break his grip without success. The man’s hands were like iron. Looking into his attacker’s rotting face, Sullivan realized it was Williams, but the man looked like a week-old corpse.
What the?!
The Texan laid into his attacker’s stomach with his big fists, but the punches didn’t even make Williams flinch. Sullivan wheezed as he fought for air, spots appearing before his eyes. He could feel his own blood trickling down his neck where Williams’ nails dug into his flesh.
I’m sorry...
Boom!
Williams’ body jerked as a .44 slug thumped into his stomach, but the man held his grip. Sullivan palmed his Colt’s hammer, firing two more shots in rapid succession into his assailant.
Boom! Boom!
Williams’ cold blood sprayed onto Sullivan’s hands and clothes. The creature that was once Williams released its grip on his neck and staggered back before raising its dead hands and leaping forward again.
What the hell?!
“Shoot the head!” someone shouted.
Sullivan raised his revolver, squeezing the trigger. Boom! A hole appeared in his friend’s forehead and exploded out the back of his head. Williams crumpled to the ground and lay motionless on the timber deck. No blood flowed from the dead man’s wounds.
Standing over the body, Sullivan aimed his weapon at the man for several long seconds, but he didn’t move. The Texan’s breath came in ragged gulps and his free hand touched the puncture wounds at his throat, coming away with fresh blood. “Son of a bitch!” he muttered softly, not believing what he just witnessed.
Like all who had survived war as long as him, Sullivan’s sensors were heightened to danger. He sensed someone was near and pivoted to face the new threat, prepared to fire his last two bullets into whomever or whatever he faced.
His revolver stopped level with the dark-skinned Egyptian woman, standing several yards away. In the gathering darkness, her eyes met his defiantly, almost daring him to pull the trigger. Her exterior was calm, showing no concern for the gun pointed at her.
“So, this is how you Yankees reward someone who saves your life.” Her thick accented tones purred in his ears.
I ain’t a…“Sorry, ma’am.” He lowered his gun, glancing at Williams’ corpse. It still hadn’t moved. When he looked back, the beautiful Egyptian woman had silently covered the distance between them and was standing right in front of him. Startled, he stepped back.
“Shit!”
“It is dark,” she said, ignoring his nervousness. “We must go.” She turned without waiting for a response and walked away, his eyes following her curves as they moved under her tight white dress.
“Ma’am, what’s going on?”
The Egyptian woman kept walking.
“I just know I’m going to regret this.” He followed after her, reloading his gun as his long legs ate up the distance between them.
It was good to be out of the wind and sea spray, although the air in the woman’s cabin was filled with unfamiliar fragrances to Sullivan. It was not unpleasant, but the room smelled like burnt wood. The cabin was a similar size to theirs, but contained only one bed. A large chest and a dressing table sat against a wall and a small table was located near the door.
“What the hell was that thing out there?” demanded Sullivan.
The woman stood beside the small table, giving the Texan a look. He felt a little uncomfortable under her scrutiny before he realized he still carried his Colt. “Begging your pardon, ma’am.” He holstered his weapon. “Do you know what happened to Williams? The man…I just shot?”
“Your countryman was possessed.”
Sullivan waited for more, but the Egyptian had obviously finished speaking. “Like, possessed by evil spirits?”
“A demon.”
“What? Demons? Are you kidding?”
“I do not understand this word ‘kidding’.”
“I’m sorry, it means joking.”
“I never joke.”
Sullivan removed his damp hat and ran his fingers through his thick hair. He needed time to think. The woman watched him, waiting for his reaction. He glanced at her and they made eye contact for a moment before he looked away. Walking to the door, the Texan put on his hat before turning back to face her.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t ask your name.”
“I am called Merneith.”
“I’m Sullivan, Sergeant Harris Sullivan of the Confederate States of America.” He extended his hand, but she didn’t shake it.
“You are not permitted to touch me,” she said coolly, her sight not leaving his face. “Your name is too long. I call you Sollivon.”
“Yeah, that’s fine.” He lowered his hand. “Where’s that little brat?”
“What is ‘bra
t’?”
“What’s his name? Ahmed.”
“He becomes a man,” said Merneith.
“A man? What’s he doing?”
“It is his duty to defend me.”
“How?”
“He will fight the demons.”
“What the hell! He’s only a boy.”
“No. He is a devoted servant.”
“That’s not how we treat our children. Where is he now?”
“He went to the…” she hesitated, searching for a word in English. “Where boxes are.”
“The cargo hull?”
Merneith nodded. Outwardly, she didn’t seem too concerned for her young companion’s safety.
Shit.
Sullivan left Merneith, telling her to lock the door, and made his way back to his cabin. Dyson and Woods had finished the bottle and were in no condition to help.
“Fools,” he said to the drunk men. “Has the colonel or Smith returned?”
Dyson didn’t respond, he lay on a bunk with his eyes closed, muttering to himself. Woods murmured a slurred, ‘no.’
The Texan grabbed more ammunition from his pack and headed for the door. “Woods, lock this door and don’t open it for anyone.”
“Yeesss, ssirr.”
“Ahoy, Yankee!” said a voice from the dark.
The wind whipped at Sullivan’s coat as he turned to face the speaker, his revolver already in his hand. It was the ship’s captain walking toward him carrying a hooded oil lamp.
“Steady on, lad,” said the captain, raising his free hand. “Don’t shoot.”
“There’s something strange going on here,” said Sullivan. “I just saw…I’m not sure what. I have to go down into the hull. Do you have anyone who can assist?”
“With what?”
“There is…hell, I don’t know what’s going on, but the little Egyptian boy has gone into the hull and I fear for his life.”
“Sorry, my men are scared. They have seen things as well. They are barricaded in the galley or gone up there.” The captain pointed into the sails and rigging. It was too dark for Sullivan to see anyone among the billowing sails. “They won’t come down until sunrise, when this trouble is over.”
“What about you? Will you help me find the boy?”
The captain rubbed the stubble on his chin. “On my wages? Not likely.”
They’re all cowards—
Just then a bestial howl cut through the wind, sending a shiver up the Texan’s spine.
“By Jove,” said the captain. “What was that?”
Sullivan scanned the darkness, searching for any movement. “Sounds like a wolf.”
“In the middle of the Atlantic?”
The wolf, or whatever it was, didn’t call again. There was no sound except the ship splashing through the waves and the wind roaring through the sails and rigging. Sullivan fought to keep his fear at bay. Terrified men couldn’t think straight and were always the first to die in battle, and the Texan didn’t want to die here tonight, in the middle of this god-cursed ocean.
The captain turned to go, but Sullivan’s big hand stopped him. “Where are you going?”
“To hide in my cabin until morning. You should do the same.”
“Leave me the lamp and go. I will find the boy myself.”
The captain thrust the lamp toward the Texan and then hurried off, disappearing into the darkness.
“So be it.”
Cautiously, Sullivan climbed down the ladder into the dark cargo hull. At the bottom, he opened the lamp’s hood, flooding the immediate area in yellow light. Nothing moved nearby.
That’s odd. Even the rats have gone.
He placed the lamp on a waist-high box and drew his revolver—feeling a little less apprehensive with the weapon in his hand. Sullivan scanned the darkness, moving the barrel of the gun in a sweeping motion that matched his sight. All was quiet. Too quiet. Above it was blowing a gale, but down here he couldn’t hear a thing. Even the waves hitting the hull sounded muffled.
“Ahmed.” His voice sounded weak to his own ears. I’m being silly. He cleared his throat. “Ahmed.”
There was no reply.
Unsure of his next move, Sullivan waited for several long moments. He didn’t want to, but he knew he had to search the cargo area just in case the boy was lying down here injured or dead. Releasing his breath, the Texan picked up the lamp and moved slowly forward, holding the light high.
Sullivan travelled halfway along the storage area when the edge of the lamplight illuminated someone up ahead. He froze. It wasn’t the boy, it was man-sized. Quietly, he placed the lamp on a barrel and eased back the Colt’s hammer.
“You there! Put your hands up, and turn real slow.”
The man started to turn—
“Hands up!” yelled Sullivan, his revolver aiming at the center of the man’s chest.
The light illuminated the man’s face and the Texan gasped. It was the colonel, and he looked similar to Williams. His flesh was pale and even at that distance Sullivan could see the colonel’s eyes were colorless.
“In heaven’s name…”
The colonel was stationary for a few seconds, his head on a slight angle, homing in on the speaker. Suddenly, the colonel lurched forward—his movements came in an odd stop-start motion.
“Stop.”
The old man kept coming, step after step.
“Shit! Colonel, don’t make me do it.”
BOOM!
The shot rang out, sounding loud in the confines of the hull. The bullet caught the colonel in the thigh, splashing a small amount of blood onto the timber floor.
Without hesitation, the colonel took a step forward, then another.
“Colonel Burke, stop or I’ll shoot again.”
Another step.
BOOM!
Sparks flew from the gun barrel as the bullet slammed into the center of the colonel’s chest. It didn’t stop him, but it should have.
Sullivan palmed the Colt’s hammer, firing again. This time the bullet caught the old man in the stomach, passing right through his body, spraying blood out of his back. The colonel was only a few yards away now and he kept coming.
The head!
Raising his revolver, Sullivan aimed at his superior’s head. He squeezed the trigger and a round hole appeared in the man’s forehead, snapping the old man’s head back and blowing out the back of his skull in a shower of blood and brains. The colonel slumped to the ground, dead.
“Shit—”
A heavy mass struck Sullivan from behind and knocked him clean off his feet. He hit the timber decking hard and someone landed on his back, knocking the wind from his lungs. His Colt revolver flew out of his hand and skidded beyond his reach and into the darkness.
Gulping down air, Sullivan reacted quickly. With the person still on him, the Texan rolled onto his back to face his attacker. It was Smith, his face pale and his eyes totally white like the others. Smith opened his mouth, exposing his teeth, and clawed at Sullivan’s face like a hungry animal. In a panic, the Texan grabbed his former companion’s wrists, fighting hard to restrain him. The man’s strength was unbelievable. By sheer luck, Sullivan unbalanced his attacker and flipped him off. In a heartbeat, the Texan regained his feet and turned to face the slower man.
“Sorry,” muttered Sullivan as he drove his boot into Smith’s face, knocking him onto his back. The man lay motionless for only a few seconds before he sat up, staring at the Texan with white, unblinking eyes.
“Stay down,” said the Texan as he reached for his gun. He gripped nothing but air. “Shit!”
“Mister, catch!” said a voice behind Sullivan. He turned to see a sword flying through the air. Fortunately, he caught the curved sword by the hilt and turned to face his old companion. Regaining his feet, Smith lurked forward as Sullivan swung the sword. The blade cut clean through one of Smith’s raised arms, but the man didn’t make a sound as blood pumped from his ruined arm. He just kept coming.
“His h
ead!”
The big Texan shouldered Smith back and swung the sword in a wide arc. The blade passed through the man’s neck, cleanly severing his head, which dropped at Sullivan’s feet. Crimson blood spurted into the air as the headless body crashed to the ground.
“What in heaven’s name is going on?” he asked, staring in disbelief at his two dead friends.
“They were possessed.”
Sullivan spun to face the speaker, raising the bloody sword in defense. He scanned the darkness as Ahmed stepped out from the shadow of a crate. The boy’s clothes was covered in blood, but he seemed unhurt.
Sullivan studied the boy and lowered the blade. Ahmed’s eyes were not white, but dark brown and his skin a healthy color. “What in tarnation is going on here?”
“They were sent to kill my mistress,” said the boy.
“They don’t know your mistress...”
“People weak of mind can be possessed by demons to do their will. These men,” he indicated the dead, “were working for the dark gods.”
“Bullshit. They were good men…demons?”
“You are out of your league here, Yankee. You should just cower and let the real warriors fight.”
“You little…”
“My scimitar.” He held out his small hand. “Give it to me.”
“No way. This is a better weapon than my Colt for close-range fighting. I’m not giving it away until we are on solid ground again. You stick with me, kid, and I won’t let these monsters hurt you.”
“The arrogance of you Americans is unbelievable—”
A massive clawed hand burst through the centre of Ahmed’s chest. The boy’s eyes went wide as he stared down in disbelief at the protrusion, his mouth working soundlessly. Blood dripped from the clawed fingers as the limp boy was lifted off the ground. A second hand grabbed Ahmed’s neck and with a sickening ripping sound, the boy was torn in two.
A hideous monster stepped into the light, holding Ahmed’s bloody remains. It was enormous. Its hairless limbs were thicker than a bear’s, and its bulbous-horned head was only inches from the ceiling. It cast the remains of Ahmed’s body aside like a ragdoll and gazed on Sullivan with black, other-worldly eyes. The Texan could feel the demon’s hatred wash over him.
The Texan and the Egyptian: The Sky Fire Chronicles Page 2
