Death Hulk

by Matthew Sprange

  "Come, Dubois. I no longer fear you." Havelock's voice was calm and even, now certain in what he had to do. There was now nothing left but to play the final part of the act.

  "You have doomed your ship by your own actions, Havelock!" the hateful thing spat. "Your crew lies in tatters and those escaping will not get far, I promise you. Now all that remains is for me to claim your own, worthless, pathetic life."

  "Claim it then." Havelock's smile seemed to enrage Dubois. The zombie's lipless mouth gaped open as he howled in anger, while his entire body shook with rage.

  "Worm!" Dubois exclaimed, as he lunged forward with his blade, straight for Havelock's heart.

  Ready for the opening move, Havelock sidestepped the strike, cutting with a back swing aimed at Dubois' skull. The zombie reacted with equal speed, cocking his head to one side to let the blade pass harmlessly above him. Havelock felt his sword bite for just an instant as it sliced Dubois' ragged ear clean from his head.

  White eyes blazing, Dubois advanced, swinging his sword wildly but with great accuracy. Knowing he could not hope to match the zombie Captain's raw strength, Havelock hopped from foot to foot as he dodged most of the blows, attempting to parry only the keenest of attacks, and then just angling his blade so Dubois' weapon would slide away, rather than be held fast. During the assault, Havelock was careful to keep half an eye on any obstructions behind as he was forced to give ground, lest he find his foot caught in a rope or jagged hole punched through the deck. He had little doubt that Dubois was no longer toying with him, that this was, indeed, the end.

  Though he seemed to have endless reserves of stamina, Dubois checked his attack for an instant, perhaps wanting to re-examine his opponent to find a point of weakness in the swordplay. Havelock saw his chance and stepped forward to initiate his own series of attacks. Doing his best to avoid meeting Dubois' sword with his own, he made several feints that forced the zombie to manoeuvre in order to avoid being flanked and caught out of position. Their blades clashed twice but Havelock checked his swing each time, knowing that to use his full strength against Dubois would give him nothing more than a numb arm or, worse, a broken blade.

  Dubois checked one of Havelock's attacks and then hacked downwards in a powerful blow intended to split him in two. Havelock twisted at the last moment and then lunged with all the skill the dead Frenchmen had shown in the past. Dubois, caught by surprise at the sudden strike, backed off two steps, arching backwards as the point of the sword came close to his desiccated face. He tried to knock the blade away, but Havelock had already withdrawn it and the parry went wide, leaving Dubois open.

  With any living opponent, Havelock might have ended the fight right there by delivering another lunge to the heart or stomach, or perhaps sweeping his blade in from the side to dig into Dubois' neck. Knowing such attacks would do little to this creature, Havelock instead cut downwards at Dubois' left hand, which was outstretched and flailing as the zombie tried to keep balance. Using two hands to drive the stroke down with as much speed as he could muster, Havelock again felt his sword bite, a moment of resistance, before it carried on downwards to splinter the deck.

  White-clouded eyes looking a little dumb, Dubois watched as his hand, severed at the wrist, flopped to one side before lying still. He hissed as his attention went back to Havelock, their eyes locking, one with loathing, and the other with something approaching amusement. Screaming, Dubois raced forward once more to attack Havelock with three lightning fast lunges aimed at heart, head and stomach. Ready for the maddened zombie, Havelock once again gave ground, staying out of reach of the sword. His smile bubbled over and he began to laugh.

  "Why do you laugh, Englishman?" Dubois said, demanding a response. "You think these pinpricks you have dealt mean anything to me, to one who has spent decades on the seabed waiting for a chance of rightful vengeance?"

  "You cannot defeat me, Dubois," Havelock said, still chuckling.

  "Your crew are already dead men. And I think you will tire before me in this fight!"

  Havelock shook his head with a sad smile. "You have already lost. Victory, today, will be mine."

  Stepping forward to renew his attack, Dubois quickly checked himself, stopping as if he were trying to puzzle out just why this enemy, who had already lost his ship and could not possibly win in a straight duel, was so confident. Havelock had no intention of giving him the time to guess and swung loosely with his sword, aiming for Dubois' own weapon. The zombie parried solidly as Havelock had expected and he made a brief show of trying to strain against Dubois' strength. He then took a step forward to place himself under his opponent's guard and, hooking a foot behind Dubois' leg, pushed forward with his shoulder, throwing his whole weight behind the move.

  Too late, Dubois saw what Havelock was trying to do and though he back-pedalled to keep balance, his foot locked with Havelock's and he fell to the deck, sword clattering from his deathly grasp. He screamed, a wrenching cry mixing frustration and anger as he hit the deck heavily, clawing upwards with his remaining hand to ward off Havelock's inevitable follow through.

  It never came. Dubois hoisted himself on his elbows and looked up at Havelock, his rotting skin wrinkling in surprise.

  "Why did you not try to finish me?" he said. "Even if you cannot kill me, you might try to hinder me further. Is this some foolish pretence of honour?"

  Havelock took a step back, though he kept the point of his sword towards the prone zombie. "I told you, Dubois. I have already won. Now, pick up your sword and continue, if that is your wish. I am quite ready to play this out to the end."

  A bone cracked as Dubois got to his feet, then turned to bend down to retrieve his sword.

  "You are foolish, Captain," said Dubois. "Now your soul will be claimed for the deep."

  "That may be true, but it will not be at your hand, accursed creature!"

  Still side on to Havelock, Dubois bowed his head for a moment, enough to make the Englishman wonder what the creature was doing. Then Dubois whipped round, his sword following the line as it split the air with an audible whistle, its blade sailing true for Havelock's throat with all of his supernatural strength. He raised his own weapon to parry the attack and caught the force of the blow completely, staggering backwards several steps from its momentum. Havelock's sword arm fell to his side limply, numb from having taken much of the blow's force.

  Dubois did not relent and he stalked forward, shoulders hunched like some predator poised to strike. Havelock took another step back and tried vainly to raise his sword to ward off another heavy blow. Then his world turned black and deafening as his body was blasted into the sky. Before he faded into unfeeling darkness, Havelock heard Dubois' cry, a long, mournful lament of a man who had striven for decades to complete but a single goal, only to find it snatched away at the last moment. His last thought was one of gratitude, to Corbin, for having followed his orders faithfully in setting a fuse to the ship's magazine. Then he thought no more.

  The explosion blasted the bottom out of the Elita, shredding its hull, before boiling upwards to throw the deck and masts yards into the air. Fuelled by methane created in the filthy hold, fire incinerated the lower decks, gutting the ship utterly. Zombies and dead sailors alike were catapulted skywards before falling into the sea, some at great distance from the floundering ship, raining down into the sea like clumsy blackened gulls diving for fish.

  The remains of the Elita began to take on water rapidly and it listed heavily, its stern already beneath the water. Its shattered prow locked into the Deja, it dragged the hulk with it, the larger ship pulled heavily to one side. The sea flooded into its open gun ports, racing through the lower decks in an inexorable tide that swept the remaining zombies with it, their arms and legs flailing uselessly as they tried to stop themselves being slammed into bulkheads. As the hulk began to fill with water, it listed even more, rolling almost completely onto its side. The sea, now able to flood through the open main hatch on its exposed deck, soon filled the rest of the ship a
nd the Deja, robbed of all buoyancy and still locked in the Elita's death grip, sank downwards rapidly, returning to its original grave on the seabed.

  Within a minute, all that remained of Havelock's last battle was a mass of bubbles where the ships had been as the last vestiges of air was squeezed out of them by the ocean. For a hundred yards in every direction, debris floated to the surface, a mix of wood, canvas, rope and bodies, those recently killed carried on the gentle waves alongside those long since dead.

  The feel of cold water surrounding him, making his clothes sodden and heavy, roused Havelock to a sense of semi-consciousness. His thoughts disjointed and not entirely of this world, he began to dream, of battles at sea in an age before his own, of French armies sweeping across the globe to threaten his beloved British Empire, and a future dominated by Napoleon's imperial court.

  He saw legions of zombies decimating a fleet led by Lord Nelson, who fought long and hard against impossible odds as the French invaded England. He saw King George fighting alongside Pitt the Younger in the streets of London, both surrounded by townsfolk as they desperately sought to defend the palace against blue-coated French soldiers. Visions of the old American colonies flashed through his mind, begging for aid from a friendless world as the French swarmed across the Atlantic to claim their territory in recompense for aiding their cause of freedom before everything started fading to blackness once again.

  Havelock jerked, violently, as he fought for life. His actions seemed slow and inaccurate, as if he were moving in soup. Fighting for breath, he opened his mouth and found himself swallowing the sea. Panicking, he opened his eyes and discovered himself under water. Dimly aware of light to one side of him, he struck out, limbs flailing as he desperately sought the surface. Throat constricting and lungs bursting, he seemed no closer to open air and, at that point, he almost gave up, ready to let the sea claim his body as he slowly spiralled downwards into the darkness. Then, he heard the echoes of Dubois' mocking voice and he swam with renewed vigour, ignoring the crushing pain in his chest.

  Surfacing with a splash, Havelock drew in a huge lungful of air and then started choking. Trying to catch his breath, he cast about the surface of the quiet sea through watering eyes, he saw the dark mass of the Deja roll over and quickly disappear between the waves and felt utter relief. Completely drained, he lay on his back, allowing the sea to carry him where it wished as he slowly began to recover.

  It took him only a few seconds more to realise that he was not alone in the water, as three of Dubois' remaining crew clawed hungrily through the sea towards him, their sightless eyes fixed on his living flesh. With no more fight in him, with no strength left to give, Havelock took one last look at them and then closed his eyes, beginning to laugh as he waited for the end.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The small boat bobbed gently on the vast expanse of sea, the waves carrying it up and down on the low crests in a continuous rolling motion. Only three men were carried inside, the only survivors of the desperate flight from the doomed Elita and, though thoroughly exhausted, they had returned to the scene of the battle in the vain hope of finding more of their shipmates alive and praying for rescue.

  At the prow of the boat, Murphy sat, his chin resting on his arms which were folded on the hull. He kept half an eye open for any stranded sailors but, not seriously expecting to find any, he lulled on the border of sleep. Behind him, Bryant pulled weakly at the oars, his shirt in tatters as his torso bled from dozens of scratches from claws and flying wood splinters. Brooks was curled up at the back, nursing a leg injury that was bound with cloth ripped form his trousers. Having been in the frontline against the zombies as they closed in around the mob of sailors on the centre of the main deck, he had fought well but had taken a swipe from a cutlass for his trouble.

  "So, where you plannin' on takin' us after this, Bryant?" Murphy said sleepily.

  "Back to the island."

  Murphy raised his head wearily and scanned the horizon around them, seeing nothing but the endless ocean.

  "Can't see no island," he said before sinking back down.

  "Think we go southwest from here," said Bryant. "Won't be too long before we see it. We didn't travel far before that ship caught us."

  "An' 'ow do you know which way southwest is?"

  "It's that way," said Bryant, nodding slightly ahead of them, though Murphy did not bother turning round to see the gesture. However, the Irishman frowned.

  "You got a compass tucked away somewhere?"

  Bryant sighed. "How did you get to join my gun crew, Murphy? Look at the sun. It is still morning, so take your bearings from that."

  "Only morning?" said Brooks. "I feel like I have been fightin' for a year."

  "Aye, you fought well, lad," said Bryant. "How's the leg?"

  "Still bleedin'. Stopped most of it though. Think I'll get gangrene?"

  "Not if we get you to the island quick enough. We'll take a proper look at it then."

  "Could still be zombies on the island," said Murphy. "I 'eard they were chasin' our men through the jungle."

  "Yeah, but we also got our own men on the beach," said Bryant as he paused in his rowing for a moment. He gave a short laugh. "We even have some of the French to help us there!"

  "It was the damn Froggies that got us into this," said Murphy.

  "But we'll all be in the same boat on the island." Bryant cast a look about the small craft. "So to speak. I can't see they will be in any mood to fight."

  "Then it will just be a case of whose ship turns up first - theirs or ours," said Brooks.

  "Aye, possibly, though I imagine some passing merchant has more chance of stumbling across us. Not every vessel at sea is a warship. You see anything up ahead, Murphy?"

  "No," he replied, not even bothering to lift his head. Bryant snaked a foot forward and kicked him gently in the back before returning to his oars.

  "Oww! Okay, I'm lookin', I'm lookin'!" He made a show of stretching up and looking around the horizon, before sinking back into rest. "That 'ulk went down pretty fast," he eventually said.

  "Not surprised with the blast it took," said Brooks. "You see the Elita go? Blew men and zombies clear into the heavens!"

  "Nice of the Cap'n to warn us about that," Murphy said under his breath but his voice carried in the quiet air. He earned another kick from Bryant for the comment.

  "Don't you go talking ill of the Captain," said Bryant. "It's because of him that you, me and Brooks are still alive. And you have to give him credit for staying on board, going down with the ship. Despite the stories, there are not many Captains who would do that."

  "No, many of 'em would be the first to push their way onto the boats," said Brooks. After a moment of reflection, he added "He was alright, was the Captain."

  "Aye." Bryant continued to row slowly, careful to avoid tangling the oars in any of the debris that had started to float past them. Though fascinated at the amount of wreckage nearby, they all tried hard not to look at the various body parts that were carried on the surface.

  Bryant frowned as he squinted into the near distance. "Hey, Murphy. You see that? Over there, movement in the water."

  "Umm... " Murphy propped himself up and stared hard. "Ah, Bryant, steer away. Them's zombies, still alive an' kickin'."

  "Well, where are they going? Is it one of ours in trouble?"

  "Someone in the water. Think they're dead."

  "Zombies don't go after the dead, Murphy!" said Bryant. "Brooks, get up here, help me with the rowing - we need to get there before they do!"

  Brooks grunted with pain as he moved forward, relying on his arms for support more than his legs. He lifted his injured leg up over the plank Bryant sat upon as he moved into position, before taking an oar.

  "Put your back into it, Brooks. I don't want to lose anyone we don't have to."

  His interest now caught, Murphy sat up straighter, trying to get a good look at the body floating in the water. "Hey, Bryant. You saw the Lieutenant buy it, righ
t?"

  "Blasted by cannon before we rammed the French ship."

  "That body's wearin' a uniform - I think it's the Cap'n!"

  "Brooks..."

  "I know, I know," Brooks said, fighting back the agony of his leg as he pulled back and forth on the oar. He crooked his injured limb to one side, using his good leg to brace against a rib within the boat as he strained to propel the craft as quickly as possible.

  Working together, Brooks and Bryant gave the boat a good turn of speed and they closed rapidly on the floating body, trying to steer into a position where they were between it and the zombies clawing their way through the water. As they drew alongside, Murphy cried out aloud that they had indeed found the Captain and he leant over the side to begin dragging him on board.

  Bryant stood up and raised his oar as the first zombie lunged out of the water to scramble onto the boat. A loud crack was carried by the gentle breeze as the paddle of the oar connected with the zombie's head and it reeled backwards, stunned or finally dead, Bryant could not tell. He had already reversed the oar and was driving it downwards onto the skull of a second creature, repeatedly battering it until it stopped moving.

  Behind him, a third zombie had thrown its arms over the side of the boat and was beginning to clamber on board, its swollen tongue passing over rotting teeth as it leered at the fresh victims on board. Without thinking, Brooks reached forward and plucked a knife from Murphy's belt before turning round to confront the boarder.

  The zombie swiped wicked claw at Brooks, opening a shallow wound in his arm. Ignoring the pain from both that injury and his leg, Brooks scrambled into the back of the boat, raising the knife. He stabbed forward, driving the blade deep into one of the zombie's eye sockets. The creature twitched violently, then fell still. With a last mighty effort, Brooks shoved the creature overboard, where it started to sink immediately.