Death Hulk

by Matthew Sprange

  DEATH HULK

  The wounded man rose to his feet, cutlass still lodged in his shoulder. Swinging an arm in a wide arc, the man caught Bryant in the chest with a terrible strength, sending the sailor sprawling into Brooks.

  Bryant looked up in horror and disgust at the Frenchman's face. Crooked teeth leered at him from a lipless mouth, the man's skin was stretched and sallow, greying as it rotted. Just a few wisps of mangy hair graced the top of his skull but their attention was drawn to his eye sockets. One was empty, a dark pit of blackness that nevertheless seemed very aware of their presence. The remaining eye dangled by a single cord, bouncing on his sunken cheek as he moved.

  "Gods!" Struggling to his feet, Bryant eyed his cutlass, still stuck in the man's shoulder. Steeling himself he leapt forward a step and grasped the hilt of the weapon.

  An Abaddon BooksTM Publication

  www.abaddonbooks.com

  abaddon@rebellion.co.uk

  First published in 2006 by Abaddon BooksTM, Rebellion Intellectual Properties Limited, Riverside House, Osney Mead, Oxford, OX2 0ES, United Kingdom, UK.

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Editor: Jonathan Oliver

  Cover: Mark Harrison

  Design: Simon Parr & Luke Preece

  Series Advisor: Andy Boot

  Editorial Assistant (eBooks): Jennifer-Anne Hill

  Marketing and PR: Keith Richardson

  Creative Director and CEO: Jason Kingsley

  Chief Technical Officer: Chris Kingsley

  Copyright © 2006 Rebellion. All rights reserved.

  Tomes of the DeadTM, Abaddon Books and Abaddon Books logo are trademarks owned or used exclusively by Rebellion Intellectual Properties Limited. The trademarks have been registered or protection sought in all member states of the European Union and other countries around the world. All right reserved.

  ISBN (.epub format): 978-1-84997-007-5

  ISBN (.mobi format): 978-1-84997-029-7

  A CIP record for this book is available from the British Library

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

  This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

  DEATH HULK

  Matthew Sprange

  CHAPTER ONE

  The crack of rope against skin, punctuated by moans rising in volume with each stroke, ripped across the main deck. High above, a lone gull circled the furled masts of the HMS Whirlwind, oblivious to the human misery below. The entire crew of the frigate stood silent, watching their Bosun administer the Captain's discipline under the watchful eyes of the officers standing rigid on the quarterdeck.

  After another two strokes, the Bosun, a heavy set man with the weight of years at sea in his posture, gathered his rope and stood straight as he looked up at the impassive officers.

  "A dozen all done, Cap'n," he said.

  "Very well, Mr Kennedy. Cut him down and take him to the surgeon." Captain James Havelock nodded. He remained on the quarterdeck, hands behind his back, as he watched the crew file away to their duties as the flogged man was helped below decks to have his bleeding back treated. Corbin, First Lieutenant of the Whirlwind, glanced at his Captain and noticed a familiar twitch in Havelock's hawkish nose.

  "Third this week, Sir," he said quietly.

  "Indeed. The inevitable price of keeping men on ship while land is in sight. But we all have our orders and poor discipline can never be tolerated on His Majesty's ships."

  Corbin stayed silent as he looked across the calm waters of Spithead towards land. Dozens of warships lay moored between the Whirlwind and the coast, an assortment of sloops, frigates and mighty ships of the line. The pride of the King's Navy was gathered here quiet, laden with awesome potential and yet utterly useless as they awaited direction.

  "Still no word of orders?" he asked.

  Havelock shook his head. "None, Mr Corbin. And I fear Bonaparte will not dare face us openly at sea." He gave a small grin. "I always thought the man a lion on land but a coward on the ocean."

  "We may still have our day, Sir."

  "I hope and pray." Havelock glanced down the main deck at the crew of the Whirlwind. Most had dispersed but a score remained above deck to go about the dozens of tasks required to merely keep a warship afloat and ready for battle. "Have a word with Mr Kennedy. He needs to keep a tighter grip on the crew. It does us no good to go through this display for every minor infraction that gets reported."

  "I always had the impression you find flogging distasteful, Sir," said Corbin.

  "It is not a case of that though, in truth, I find it a necessary barbarism," said Havelock. "It is as much a part of discipline as the drills we put our men through or the constant work required to keep this ship clean and hygienic. A warship without discipline is a liability to the Crown and its Captain not worthy of the title. But crews have their own mechanisms for dealing with minor crimes and a good bosun knows all of them. I can live with the odd scuffle below deck but a flogging each day will begin to work against the morale of the crew. Instead of the even-handed rule of authority and justice, it becomes something else. The Captain turns into a bully, or worse, a tyrant. No, inform Mr Kennedy that he is to deal with matters where he can and only bring the worst offenders to our attention."

  "As you say, Sir."

  Corbin left to descend the stairs to the main deck where he quickly disappeared below to find the Bosun. Havelock walked to the railings and stared at the other vessels moored close to his own, knowing each Captain was facing the same problems he had. The Whirlwind had been moored at Spithead for less than two weeks and he knew some ships had been here much longer. He did not envy the disciplinary problems they might be facing. Up to now, the Admiralty had seen fit to keep the entire fleet in a state of constant readiness as rumours of a French attempt at invasion rolled across the channel as regularly as the waves. It was plain to every Captain here that the fleet could not remain in this state indefinitely but Havelock was not entirely sure that the decision makers within the Mad House were completely aware of what was happening at Spithead.

  Only one remedy could solve the ills of the fleet. Officers and men alike required action. As Havelock had said to his Lieutenant, he could only hope and pray that orders would arrive soon. Either that or Bonaparte decide to invade.

  "I swear it's true, right as I'm standin' 'ere!"

  "Murphy, you're full of it." The two sailors were shrouded in the darkness of the Whirlwind's interior, both slouched across the gun carriage they had been tasked with cleaning. Brush in hand, Bryant leaned over the cannon he and his crew had christened 'Blow Hard' and grinned a toothless smile. "Just how come you heard this anyway?"

  "I over 'eard the marines talkin' last night," Murphy said with some conviction, scratching at his thinning hair.

  "You trust the words of a lobster? Lord, man, they have less to do than us right now - their mouths are running away with themselves."

  "Nah, not this one. 'E's just come on board, not more than a week ago. An' 'e's been talkin' to others in 'is regiment - they've just come back from Spain, see?"

  Bryant sighed. "Well, that plain just doesn't make sense in itself. If Boney is on the attack, why are they bringing soldiers back to England?"

  "Hey, I don't pretend to know what 'appens in the army. They're odd enough as it is. They gotta come back sometime, right? Like a ship goes back to port for refittin' and stuff."

  Pausing, Bryant thought for a moment. "No, you can just send supplies to an army, wherever you are."

&
nbsp; "Whatever," Murphy said, refusing to be waylaid. "I 'eard 'em talkin'. Boney has raised the dead and they now fight in 'is army. Our boys are facin' walkin' corpses, sweepin' across Spain, if ya please!"

  The two men worked in silence for a few minutes as they laboured over the cannon, each casting a look out of the open gunport towards land from time to time. Murphy caught Bryant's eye as the taller man turned back towards the gun carriage.

  "So how long d'ya think they'll keep us 'ere?" he asked.

  Bryant shrugged. "All depends on the Lords that run the war. And the French." He smiled. "Still, if you are right about the fighting dead, maybe they'll send us along to the Spanish coast to root them out!"

  "Hey, don't joke about it!" Murphy said as he crossed himself. "Them things are real, I swear. I ain't fightin' 'em. Ya can't kill somethin' that is already dead."

  Glancing around, Bryant noticed that the conversations of the other gun crews were becoming subdued and he gave Murphy a warning stare. "Keep it quiet, man. You know the Captain doesn't like this talk."

  Murphy was ready to argue his point but had the sense to lean forward and whisper. "Okay, look at it this way," he said. "S'pose we get our orders tomorrow and then set sail for Spain, as you say. What are ya goin' to do when we see a French frigate, close to board with 'er and then see a bunch of zombies swingin' over the rails, cutlass and knife in hand? Ya goin' to stand an' fight?"

  Standing straight and rubbing his chin, Bryant considered this. "Can zombies swing from ropes? Aren't they all, like, shambling?"

  Bryant's sarcasm was not lost on Murphy and the shorter man gave him a withering stare, which was returned with a smile.

  "Look, Murphy, you and I have been on this ship for more than a year a piece. The Captain will see us right. He won't go sailing us into anything we can't handle."

  It was Murphy's turn to stop and think. "Well, that is very true, my friend. But a Cap'n is only as good as 'is officers and crew. Ain't none of us 'ere whose faced a zombie before."

  "That is because they do not exist," muttered Bryant, though Murphy either did not hear him or chose not to, and continued unabated.

  "As for the officers, you know what I think about them."

  Bryant looked up sharply. "For the love of God, Murphy, hold your tongue!"

  Instead, Murphy leaned further forward and whispered. "Corbin, that new Lieutenant? Money troubles. 'eard it from Jefferies. Signed on to get a big prize - an' ya know what officers who are after the money are like. Might risk anythin' to get it, if there is nothin' for them back at 'ome. An' ya know what..."

  A sharp clash resounded across the gun deck as Bryant brought the back of his brush down hard on the rough metal of the cannon, cutting Murphy off. A few curious glances were sent his way but Bryant ignored them.

  "Murphy," he said, very seriously. "Imagine all the zombies you want, tell me all the stories you like about the French but never, ever talk about an officer like that. Hell, man, you know what that talk costs!"

  Chastened, Murphy went back to work, taking an intense interest in a stain on the side of the gun's carriage.

  "And what are you talking to Jefferies for anyway?" Bryant asked. "The man's an out and out thief! And a liar! Take what he says with extreme caution. Better yet, stay away from him! Your life will be easier."

  "I s'pose," said Murphy. "Still, ya never answered me. What will ya do when zombies start crawlin' over our deck?"

  Bryant sighed. "Well, if that happened, I guess we fight. If the Captain tells us to fight, that's what we do. It's what we are all here for." He shook his head. "The Captain won't send us into battle unless he knows we can win. He's too canny for that. The sea is in his blood, you might say."

  "Aye, 'e came from the right family alright," Murphy agreed. "Still... hey!"

  Murphy was pitched off balance from behind as a large shadow passed through the crowded deck, sending him sprawling beside his cannon. The short man looked up into the twilight of the gun deck.

  "Ah, I'm so sorry Murphy," said a deep coarse voice that echoed from the wooden walls and ceiling. The work of the nearby gun crews came to a stop as they glanced out of the corner of their eyes towards Murphy and Bryant, anxious to see what was going on and yet not wanting to draw attention to themselves.

  "Didn't see you down there. P'raps you should take a bit more care while workin', eh?" The speaker was a large and heavy-set man who, despite the best efforts of the Bosun, looked as if he had not washed for weeks.

  "Have a care, Jessop," said Bryant, instinctively lowering his brush to his side where it would not be in immediate view.

  "You know," said the newcomer. "I find myself at a loose end. Couldn't 'elp but think that maybe Murphy 'ere would 'ave a few stories about the Frenchies 'e might like to share." He stooped low over the sprawled Murphy. "What about it, eh? What 'ave you 'eard the Frogs are up to this time? Taken over Spain yet, 'ave they? Got some new secret ship that will clobber us good 'an proper?"

  Ignoring the few quiet titters from the other gun crews, Bryant moved to the side of his cannon to get Jessop's attention away from Murphy and on to him. Resisting the impulse to push the man's shoulder to get him to turn around, knowing it would likely lead to yet another fight, Bryant instead said "You got nothing better to do, Jessop?"

  Jessop adopted a hurt expression. "Hey, no need to come the high an' mighty. I was just askin' Murphy 'ere for a few tales. Nothin' wrong with that."

  "If ya lackin' in work, Jessop, I'm certain I can find somethin' for ya to do!" The Bosun's voice lashed across the gun deck like his flogging rope, instantly returning the other gun crews to work. Bryant stood unmoving as Jessop turned round to face the Bosun.

  "Ah, Mr Kennedy, I was just on my way when I noticed li'l Murphy 'ere lost 'is balance." He stooped to give a hand to Murphy, who accepted it after a second's hesitation, grinning nervously around the gun deck as he stood.

  "On with ya work, Jessop!" ordered Kennedy. "I don't want any slackin' down here, the Cap'n will be down afore sunset for inspection!"

  "Right ya are, Sir!" said Jessop, raising a cocked finger to his brow in salute.

  He turned to walk calmly back to his own cannon but brushed Bryant with his shoulder as he went, leaning his weight into the blow. Bryant staggered and immediately flushed with anger. Throwing a punch, he caught Jessop in a right hook straight across the chin with his brush, but the big man instantly flicked his head back, grinning. Ignoring the Bosun's cry for order, Jessop grabbed his opponent by the shoulders and brought a knee up into his stomach, causing Bryant to exhale heavily. Winded, Bryant still managed to reach up with his left hand and grasp Jessop's throat in a tight grip. He maintained the hold as Jessop rained down a solid blow that knocked him to the floor.

  Pulling Jessop down with him, Bryant again rammed the heavy brush into the man's face who this time rolled with the hit, and the two of them scrambled for purchase on the wooden floor as each sought to gain an advantage over the over. Jessop strained his neck muscles in an attempt to keep air flowing into his lungs, a task that Bryant was having trouble enough doing himself. Jessop managed to pin Bryant's legs to the floor with one of his own but Bryant twisted again before landing another solid blow. Growling in anger, Jessop responded by heaving the full weight of his body, forcing Bryant to the ground and preparing to rain blow after blow on his opponent.

  He raised a fist but, before he could sink it into Bryant's face, his arm was gripped tightly by Kennedy, who dragged him upright and then stood between the two men, bracing them each at arm's length.

  "I said that is enough!" he roared.

  Jessop's expression was triumphant but Bryant's face showed something close to murderous intent.

  "Back to work, Jessop!" Kennedy said. "An' be thankful I don't report ya to the Capt'!" Slouching off, Jessop retreated further down the gun deck where he received a pat on the back from one of his own crew. Shaking his head, Kennedy turned back to Bryant.

  "Gods, man, why do ya l
et 'im provoke ya like that? Ya think I don't 'ave enough trouble down 'ere?"

  Rubbing his stomach, Bryant winced. "Sorry, Sir. Won't happen again, Sir."

  "Bryant, ya better than this. We all 'ave to deal with bullies like Jessop but ya never, ever throw the first punch. Never! Ya know that if this went before the Cap'n, it would be you for the flogging, not Jessop."

  Shame-faced, Bryant just nodded.

  "Right. Just reign in that temper. Oh, an' make sure ya do a good job on the gun - I wasn't kiddin' about the Cap'n comin' below later on."

  "Kennedy, a moment of your time."

  Though he had been aware of high tensions on the far end of the gun deck, Lieutenant Corbin had taken his time climbing down the stairs into the darkness before making his way forward. It was not until the Bosun had passed down the length of the ship, keeping an eye on the working gun crews as he went, that Corbin called out to him.

  "Mr Corbin, Sir, what can I do for ya?" Kennedy greeted him.

  "More trouble?" Corbin asked, cocking an eye down the gun deck.

  "Nothing serious, Sir. Just steam getting let off."

  Corbin took Kennedy's arm, drawing him closer as he lowered his voice. "Word from the Captain, Kennedy. Try to keep things running smoothly down here. All these floggings do the crew no good."

  The Bosun frowned. "With respect, I know my job well enough, Sir. A fist fight below decks is part an' parcel with ship life. I only bring the worst offenders to your attention and the Capt'n."

  "I see. Anything I should know about?" Corbin asked, gesturing down the gun deck.

  "Not this time, Sir. See, I don't mind passions spillin' over about the French, or the food, or who stole what from who. It's just the boredom talkin'. But I won't stand for no back chat or insult toward the Capt' and 'is officers. Those would be floggin' words. Ain't no other way it can be."

  "Okay, Kennedy. Keep them straight and we'll get you your action."

  "Well, they can't keep us moored here forever, right Sir?"