by Amy Cross
Turning to look across at the gathered crowd, the alderman saw that they were all watching with rapt attention. Truly, it was as if they hung on his every word, and it was clear that many of them were absolutely terrified. They had come to witness the final burial of the dreaded creature that had tormented them for so long. As far as they were concerned, Edgar had begun to show signs of returning to life, while his sister Madeleine remained dead in her grave. They waited patiently for the alderman to perform his usual heroics and save their town.
They were not to be disappointed. Not today.
"Bring me the ceremonial brick," the alderman said calmly to one of his deputies.
As the deputy approached, and as the crowd watched with hushed concern, the alderman took hold of Edgar's face and forced his jaw open to reveal a pair of sharp fangs. Staring straight into the mouth of the vampire, Alderman Petrov was momentarily stunned by such a horrific sight. He felt as if he was face to face with one of the Devil's own, and he had to summon every last ounce of courage in order to keep from dropping to his knees and begging for God's intervention.
"Place the brick between the beast's jaws," he said, stepping back and waiting as his deputy inserted the brick as best he could. The beast's mouth was too small, of course, for the brick to really go all the way inside, and the deputy eventually stood back and waited to see what would happen next.
"Sometimes," the alderman said, taking a hammer from the ground, "we must do things that seem so horrific, we wonder why God puts us to such tests. Nevertheless, on this occasion, I feel the spirit of the Lord moving through my body." Raising the hammer, he paused for a moment before finally swinging it down, driving the brick so deep into Edgar's mouth that the foul creature's jaw was cracked open.
"This beast shall not rise!" the alderman shouted, slamming the hammer against the brick once again. This time, to his shock, he saw that Edgar's eyes flicked open. Without a moment's hesitation, the alderman continued to hammer the brick into the vampire's mouth until, finally, it was firmly ensconced. The beast's jaw had been shattered, and blood trickled from the sides of his head. It was by far the most hideous vision that the alderman had ever seen.
"Next, we must place the head between the creature's legs," the alderman said, reaching into the coffin and taking hold of the head before moving it down to a spot just below the knees. "This will ensure that even if the beast is able to regain consciousness, there will be no way for it to reattach its mind to its body," he explained. "Finally, we shall fill the space with herbs that deter the creature from waking. Garlic and rosemary, primarily, but also a little bergamot and Rose of Hay."
Standing back, he watched as a group of women hurried forward and threw a collection of herbs into the coffin. It seemed to be such a futile gesture, yet the alderman had been assured by Madeleine Le Compte that this precise ritual would indeed deter Edgar from climbing back out of his coffin. Although Edgar's body was now mutilated to the point where it was almost unrecognizable, and although it pained the alderman to have these women see such a gruesome sight, these were still prices worth paying if they meant that the town would be forever free of the vampire curse.
"Enough!" the alderman shouted, causing the women to scurry back to the crowd. Stepping back over to the coffin, the alderman looked down one final time at Edgar's corpse. "You will terrorize us no more," he said quietly, "and this town will be free again. Our crops will grow and our children shall be raised free of fear. Never again shall your kind run amok in our community, and never again shall we look to the heavens and wonder why the Lord has forsaken us. We have driven evil from this land, and in doing so we have proven ourselves to God."
Once the ceremony was over and the deputies had sealed the coffin, Alderman Petrov made his way solemnly to his wife and daughter, who were waiting at the edge of the crowd. Many of the locals had decided to stay and watch the coffin being buried, but the alderman chose to steer his family away from the scene. He knew that there was no way for Edgar Le Compte to return from the grave, although he was not able to explain to anyone else how he knew. Still, he trusted Madeleine Le Compte. Although she was a godless creature, he felt that she would honor that bargain that had been struck. And while he felt certain that one day, some idiot would end up exhuming Edgar's grave and bringing the beast back to life, he knew that such a day would not come for many, many years.
Glancing over at the horizon, he saw a figure watching from afar. Moments later, Madeleine Le Compte turned and walked away, leaving her brother - and the town - far behind.
"Everyone says you're a hero, father," said his daughter, staring at him with wide-eyed wonder. "They say there might be a ceremony held every year to honor your fight against evil!"
"Oh, I'm not a hero," he replied, putting an arm around her shoulder and leading her back toward their house. "I'm just a man of God who was fortunate to have the strength required to do face down the beast." The alderman knew that he would burn in Hell for having agreed to make a pact with Madeleine. He also knew that, by sacrificing his soul, he had ensured that his family, and the town, would be spared from any more visits by the vampires. While he could tell no-one of this pact, he was at least able to console himself by looking down at his daughter's carefree smile and knowing that he had saved her, and all like her, from any further torment.
Dark Voyage
One
"Dear Lord," Saffron whispered, with his eyes closed and his hands clasped together. "I beseech you to watch over your children and deliver us from this tempest. Guide us safely to shore, Lord, that we might humbly carry out our work and..."
He paused for a moment.
"That we might humbly carry out our work," he continued hesitantly, "and that we might, um... That we might..."
He paused again.
"Oh, fuck it," he muttered, opening his eyes. "Fuck everything."
Seconds later, the boat hit ploughed head-on into another huge wave, pitching first one way and then the other. High up at the very top of the vessel, perched in a bare metal lookout tower, Saffron was sent slamming into the railings. The chain around his waist was pulled tight for a moment, before Saffron grabbed hold of the handrail and steadied himself. When it came to a choice between God or a sturdy railing, Saffron chose the railing every time.
He looked up at the dark and stormy sky. The thick black clouds were so close, Saffron was convinced he could almost touch them if he reached up.
It was getting late, well past midnight, and Saffron had definitely pulled the short straw again. Although the Demeter V was equipped with a couple of rudimentary radar systems, the boat was basically an old Soviet-era tug that had been dragged back into service and given little more than a quick spit and polish. Most of the crew felt that the damn thing was liable to break in two at any moment, and that was before they came upon the worst storm Saffron had ever encountered. The captain, a Swede by the name of Mathias Efferson, had decided that someone needed to keep watch from the lookout tower. It seemed like an archaic practice, but Saffron was just a lowly engineer and therefore couldn't really argue. Tonight, it was Saffron's turn to be up on lookout, so there he was, chained to the railings as he sat up high in the rain.
Below him in the darkness, picked out by a few lights that still shone in the driving rain, the huge deck of the Demeter V was decorated with large shipping containers bound for port in Albania. In the distance, the stormy horizon betrayed the curve of the planet.
"Shoulda stayed home," Saffron muttered, as the boat briefly tipped toward the starboard side before righting itself. Even the slightest of pitches down at deck-level resulted in the top of the boat swinging wildly through the rain, and Saffron couldn't help but grab the railing, just in case the chain should slip and send him plummeting down to the deck below. Railing before God, every time.
After a moment, his radio crackled into life.
"Bridge to Saffron," said a static-filled voice. "Checking in. All good up there? Copy."
"All go
od," Saffron replied with a sigh, as rain ran down his face. "As good as it's gonna get, anyway. But did we slow down a while ago?"
"We've got a problem with the breach pump," the voice said wearily. "I'm going down to check it in a minute, but we're probably gonna have to take a slower pace until we get to port. We might have to add a day and a half to the journey time."
"Figures. Do we get paid more?"
"You know the answer to that question."
Saffron sighed.
"Someone'll be up to relieve you at 6am," the voice added. "Try not to get washed overboard until then, okay?"
"I'll try," Saffron said, giving the chain a quick yank just to make sure he was still firmly attached to the railing. "If I go down, though, you'll know soon enough. It'll mean the whole fucking boat's underwater."
"Over," barked the voice, before the radio fell silent.
"Over," Saffron muttered, setting the radio back in his pocket just as a huge wave rocked the boat. Instinctively, he reached out and grabbed the handrail, just as the force of the impact unseated him and sent him sprawling toward the edge of the steps. The chain rain taut for a moment, and Saffron was easily able to get himself back in position. "Nice try," he muttered darkly, looking up at the stormy sky.
Glancing down at the port cargo deck, Saffron frowned as he noticed something moving between two of the shipping containers. Knowing that only a madman would venture up on deck in this kind of weather, he narrowed his eyes a little, hoping to see better. Sure enough, he realized there was definitely a dark silhouette moving across the deck, but the figure quickly disappeared behind one of the containers.
"Hey!" Saffron called out, but he knew there was no way anyone would be able to hear him above the storm. He reached down for his radio, figuring he should probably check with the bridge, but finally he decided it was probably nothing. Considering how tired he was feeling, he couldn't discount the possibility that he was imagining things. Anyway, even if there was someone, he reckoned it wasn't any of his business. If Efferson or one of the others felt like going for a suicidal stroll across the deck in the middle of a force nine gale, that was their problem, not his.
As the boat was rocked by yet another wave, Saffron looked up again at the stormy sky. There was no God up there, of that he was sure. There were just dark clouds, twisting and curling into one another as they sent down wave upon wave of torrential rain. At least the lightning seemed far away. Saffron wouldn't be surprised, though, if it came directly over the boat. The way this night was going, a lightning strike seemed just about par for the course. If he were a god-fearing man, he'd have asked the Lord for forgiveness for his many sins, but all he could do in the circumstances was hope for the best.
"I'll be alright," he muttered, as the boat pitched again. "I don't need no stupid God to get me through a storm."
Two
"Jesus Christ, it's worse than I imagined"
Ducking down as he entered the engine room, Efferson shone a torch through the darkness of the boat's innards. He'd never seen such a rundown vessel. There was rust everywhere, along with a disturbing stink of motor oil mixed with rat droppings. It was, by far, the most disgusting place Efferson had ever stood, and he would have been worried standing in this neglected old hulk in the safety of a harbor, let alone out at sea in force nine winds. Beneath his feet, the vessel's floor let out an ominous groan as the Demeter V was rocked by yet another wave. Efferson couldn't help but wonder if the whole damn vessel might break apart at any moment.
"I know, I know," said Claremont, pushing past him. "You think it was my idea to come to sea in this shit-heap? You think I didn't tell 'em it was dangerous?"
"Let me guess," Efferson said, holding onto the bulkhead as the boat was tossed yet again. "The guy who declared this thing to be seaworthy was some inexperienced little idiot who's never been to sea in his life?"
"The guy's probably sitting in some office in Southampton as we speak," Claremont replied with a resigned sigh, "checking his watch and wondering why we're taking so long to get the cargo to Durres. He probably thinks we're slacking off on some beach somewhere, having a great time."
"So what's the problem?" Efferson asked, shining the torch up at a series of compression tubes that ran across the low ceiling. Nearby, a set of pistons were making a painful-sounding grinding noise. Whatever was wrong with the boat, it sounded serious and it sounded chronic. "Sounds like the engine's giving up on us. Please tell me the engine isn't giving up on us."
"The engine's giving up on us," Claremont said, grabbing a hammer from around his waist. "There's water in the uptake valve, probably 'cause there was no plate over the inlet. It's illegal to set sail without a plate in place, but of course the company doesn't give a damn about that, does it? All they care about is that we keep costs down. It's not gonna sink us, but it's gonna slow us down. That's why I wanted to get your ass in here. You've gotta see this fucking place. It's like something from the nineteenth fucking century. I know I've got a habit of performing miracles with the guts of these tubs, but there's nothing I can do down here except see if I can keep the damn thing going. If I can't find a way to flush the valve, we're gonna have to go down to doddering speed and hope we make it to port."
As he finished speaking, there was a loud bang somewhere beneath their feet, as if the boat had hit something large and heavy. The sound of the impact reverberated through the metal bulkheads.
"Probably the wreck of the last poor bastards who tried to get through this storm," Claremont said tensely, as he and Efferson exchanged worried glances.
"You'll just have to do the best you can," Efferson replied, shining the torch across the room and shuddering as he saw the banks of archaic machinery. "Jesus, some of this equipment's old Russian stuff, isn't it?"
"If only," Claremont said, having to raise his voice to be heard over a nearby steam piston that was starting to spin loudly. "It's Soviet, at best. Don't ask me where they found this shit-heap. Fucking pile of junk should be in a knacker's yard, not out here trying to carry a load of cargo across the Med, especially not with the forecasts we've been having lately. Only a crew of desperate idiots would ever have accepted such a job."
"Jesus," Efferson replied with a wry smile, shining the torch over at the far corner of the engine room and pausing as he tried to work out what, exactly, he was looking at this time. "What the hell's that?" he asked.
"Oh, that's the best part of the whole fucking thing," Claremont said, walking over to what appeared to be some kind of large black mold in the far corner. "Do you happen to know what this is?" he asked, turning back to Efferson. "Any ideas?"
"Not a clue."
"Me neither." Reaching out, he tapped his knuckles against the solid surface of the mold. "It's like some kind of dry oil. Damn stuff's just frozen to the bulkhead. I tried chipping some of it away, but whatever it is, it's stuck pretty damn fast." Leaning a little closer, he gave the mold a brief lick. "Tastes like cinnamon. What do you reckon that means?"
"It means you're a disgusting old man," Efferson replied, stepping across the room and shining the torch directly at the mold. "Didn't customs have something to say about this when we left Southampton?" he asked as he ran his hand over the hard, smooth surface. "They're always panicking about foreign objects. I'd have thought they'd have a field day about something like this."
"It wasn't there when we left Southampton," Claremont said dourly. "Whatever it is, it's grown during the voyage."
"Seriously?"
"Seriously."
Efferson stared at the strange mold, finding it hard to believe that such a huge mass of matter could have built up in barely a month's time. There were pieces of wire mesh fused into the surface, along with sections of wood and metal, as if other parts of the ship had been used to bulk up the mix. "It's almost like a nest," Efferson said after a moment.
"I was gonna mention it earlier," Claremont replied, "but I've been too busy trying to make sure the goddamn boat doesn't sink. Anyway,
it doesn't really matter, does it? A bit of mold's not gonna hurt anyone, and it's not gonna add too much to the weight. It's not even in the way. It's basically the same stuff that mushrooms are made of, right?"
Efferson turned to him.
"Isn't it?" Claremont asked innocently.
"Just don't serve it up for dinner," Efferson said with a sigh. "And see if you can get rid of it. I don't want to spend hours at Durres arguing with some antsy Albanian customs official who thinks we're bringing the Black Death to their country. We have enough trouble with them when we're just transporting spare parts. God forbid that any of those officious bastards catch sight of this stuff. They'll all have heart-attacks, and then they'll stick us in quarantine for a month."
"Yeah, but -"
"Just get rid of it," Efferson said firmly. "Damn thing gives me the creeps."
"And when would you like me to remove this huge piece of mold?" Claremont asks. "Before or after I've fixed the engine and dealt with half a dozen other problems that are bound to crop up before sunrise?" He waited for an answer. "Can you seriously believe they sent us out with just a four-man crew?"
"Just get it done," Efferson said, turning and heading over to the door. "I've got to get back up to the bridge, but I want the engine sorted before anything else breaks. The storm's set for another couple of hours at least, so no-one's getting any time off until we reach port. Got it? We're under-manned as it is, and the last thing I need is to deal with crewmen taking impromptu naps."
Efferson waited for a reply, but all he got from Claremont was a grunt of acknowledgment.
"I'm gonna take that as a sign that you understand," Efferson said bluntly.
Heading out onto the deck, Efferson shielded his eyes from the pouring rain and looked up at the main lookout tower. Sure enough, Saffron was still up there, braving the worst of the weather and keeping an eye on the boat. Smiling as he reflected upon the fact that there was at least someone else who had a worse job than him, Efferson hurried over to the door that led into the main drive-room, from where he planned to make his way up to the bridge. As he did so, however, the boat lurched to one side, almost knocking him off his feet, and when he pulled himself back up, he noted that the drive-room door was already hanging open. He was certain that he'd pushed the door shut a few minutes ago, but he knew there was no way any of the other crew would be out here in the storm. Figuring he must have made a mistake, he headed inside, and this time he made doubly certain that the door was shut behind him.
