Children Of Fiends - Part 4 The Dark Heart: An Of Sudden Origin Novella

by Harwood, C. Chase

  CONTENTS

  Dedication

  Chapter One - Mines

  Chapter Two - Slavery

  Chapter Three - Interogation

  Chapter Four - Rescue

  Chapter Five - Captive

  Chapter Six - Crosses

  Chapter Seven - Gallagher

  Chapter Eight - Infinity

  Chapter Nine - Bluefields

  Thank you to my B-Readers, Mom, Leslie, Jane, and many others who don’t necessarily seek out genre fiction for the beach. Having the opinions of people who aren’t beholden to the genre helps make the work that much stronger. Richard Pine at Inkwell, gets a shout out for timeless and thoughtful advice that has helped make me a better writer.

  I am most especially grateful to my copy editors, Chance, Peter and Tony. Your insight is invaluable. You keep me from looking the fool.

  Children of Fiends - Part 4 The Dark Heart

  Copyright © 2014 Christopher Harwood / Fate & Fortune Press

  cchaseharwood.com

  mail@cchaseharwood.com

  3627 Buena Park Drive

  Studio City, CA 91604

  All rights reserved. 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 written prior permission of the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Mines

  They heard the scraping bass tone of contact all the way on the command deck of the Delfshaven. The barge way out front had struck something, running its shallow hull across what was likely the superstructure of a submerged vessel. The screeching echo of rending steel reverberated through the water and off the surrounding boats, buildings, trees and walls. The speed of the Lyndon Johnson fell from a walk to a crawl as the helmsman of that boat made a fruitless effort to steer around the sunken obstacle, the sound of its own hull coming into contact next. The keel screamed in protest as the port side scraped by, setting everyone’s teeth on edge. Then it was the Delfshaven’s turn. The deeper hull immediately caught on something unshakeable and the lines between the ships tightened further with the strain, drawing all three boats to a halt. From his post at the bow, with Wen as a second pair of eyes, Dean yelled through his hailer for the Shoremen to stop. The strain eased as the Lyndon Johnson’s engines fell into neutral, the rubber band effect drawing the two boats together until they touched with a hollow thunk.

  Dean could clearly make out the sunken ship below; it’s ghostly shape reaching up to seemingly take them down with it. He absently calculated that it had been either a victim of a mine or just as easily a decade of harsh weather. He called out to the drone that stood at attention, anticipating his words. “You’ll have to reverse. Any pulling forward is liable to either snap the lines or tear our hull.”

  Thompson’s voice came back, “We’ll give it a go. Try and pull you in a bit of an arc when we go forward.”

  “You need to put a man on the bow of that barge rather than a camera. Your camera sees the mines, but it’s not going to see into the water.”

  “I’ll repeat. We don’t have a man to spare. You have plenty.”

  Dean would be damned if he was going to risk letting one of his people fall hostage so instead he simply grinned and said, “We’ll leave it to you to get blown up first.”

  They spent nearly an hour, gently pushing and pulling, backing, turning, steel screaming out in protest until the three ships fell into the shape of a crescent while the Lyndon Johnson backed up once more. It was Green this time who screamed from the stern for them to stop. A mine was gently being pulled in their direction and only its anchor chain kept it from doing its worse. An agonizing groan came up from below as the Lyndon Johnson pulled forward and passed once more over the sunken vessel, finally breaking free. As they slowly passed under the rusting hulk of the huge suspension bridge, nerves easing, an explosion sent the bow of the barge high enough into the air that when it came back down its stern badly crumpled the once sharp bow of the destroyer. Hundreds of birds that had been nesting on the bridge broke into the air at once and within seconds the barge was taking on vast amounts of water, its sinking threatening the pull the destroyer down with it. Dean saw four men run forward with axes in hand, hacking at the tow lines with frantic vigor. The bow of the Lyndon Johnson tipped heavily toward the water while the stern lifted and scraped along the bow of the Delfshaven until Dean could nearly walk between the two. In a sudden burst of energy, the barge was cut free, righting the destroyer and plunging its stern back down with such force as to yank the bow of the Delfshaven down, throwing Dean and Blakely hard to the deck. The towropes snapped with a deafening crack and the two ships started drifting apart.

  “Oh shit,” said Wen as he spied another mine in the path of their drift. The tide was moving out and the current quickly grabbed ahold of them. They had minutes at best.

  It was Palmer who leapt to action, running for the lifeboat, followed by Jamesbonds, Mr. Kile and Cinders. Palmer yelled over his shoulder, “We got it, Cap!” The men swiftly jumped aboard and released the lines. The boat hit the water so hard it knocked them all to the deck. Jamesbonds heaved off the hook for the bow hoist and scrambled to dig out the anchor while Palmer unhooked the stern hoist and grabbed the rudder. Kile and Cinders pulled out the emergency oars and, with the practiced ease of whale men on the hunt, pulled the boat in the direction of the mine, picking up speed with each synchronized stroke.

  Everyone on the Delfshaven could only watch in astonishment as the four men headed directly for the bomb, the oarsmen facing to watch the Delfshaven recede, its crew watching from the rail. From the deck of the Delfshaven, Jamesbonds could be heard calling out minor adjustments to their angle and in no time they were thirty yards from the menacing spiky steel ball. Jamesbonds lifted the anchor with practiced ease and yelled out. “Twenty-five. I’m throwing!” He heaved the anchor with all his might, the angle of the throw perfect. “Dive!” he screamed and the men jumped overboard just as the anchor hit the mine and glanced off, causing nothing but a dull thunk to travel across the water.

  The four men’s heads rose from the surface and they felt along with everyone else the disappointment of no detonation. The Delfshaven continued to bear down on both the mine and the men in the water. Then the lifeboat drifted into the bomb, its weight and speed just great enough to depress one of the dozens of plungers on its urchin-like body. The explosion was instantaneous, scrambling the swimming sailors into chum.

  It was the spider drone that ultimately reassembled the towing arrangement. It had shot its grappling hook from the stern of the destroyer, hooking the Delfshaven’s bow and then, while cleated in place, slowly hauled the two ships close enough that yet another set of towlines could be tossed. Dean’s crew moved with the mechanical motions of shock. The sudden loss of four beloved men had reduced their total number to 17 (if they included the soldiers and the pucks). Eleven of them had either died or been lost at sea since leaving Nantucket. Losing Jamesbonds was a particular blow. The man was not just an important part of the crew but loved in an almost lucky mascot sort of way. His easy demeanor and ability to face any situation with smile a had made them all feel lucky. Losing a warrior like Kile... and the bosun... and even Cinders. It
was heartbreaking.

  The deaths of the brave men who had risked all, altered the equation, bringing the disparate groups together. Major Thompson decided that the crew on the Delfshaven was diminished enough that he could take a risk with his drone. He sent the Sentinel to take a position on the destroyer’s bow, the mined waters taking on greater weight than the chance that the Northerners might try something. Dean also had a change of heart, asking that they let one or two of his own people volunteer to be there too. Thompson wouldn’t risk more life. The Sentinel was capable of detecting explosive signatures. The drone would be have to be sufficient.

  Once they were under way, Dean gathered everyone to the bow under the pretext that he needed this many eyes to look out for more mines, but it was really an opportunity for him to speak. He began by reminding them to look for dark shapes, that mines could be drifting just below the surface. While trying to sort out some words of encouragement, a thick lump filled his throat and he found that he couldn’t start. Nothing that came to mind seemed adequate to the magnitude of the loss. Then another explosion.

  A long second passed for Dean to register that they were suddenly being showered with lethal debris and those who weren’t knocked flat saw a huge geyser of water fly up over the bow of the Lyndon Johnson. The front decking of the ship instantly buckled and the drone was simply gone. As Dean lifted himself from the deck, he noted that one of the machine’s sharp black legs had slammed against one of the braces that held a section of wind turbine. Then another explosion and the deck of the Delfshaven heaved up, slamming everyone to the floor. Naoto Kitta and Abler Lee had been at the rail and were thrown overboard and sucked under the keel of the still moving vessel. Dean’s first instinct was to seek out Eliza. She was huddled with Hansel and Gretel, the three clinging to one another. Bill Wall’s head was gone, his heart still pumping his blood out in a gusher from his severed neck. Tom Murphy screamed in agony, his stomach laid open, his intestines spilled on the deck. Maggie Tender was crawling to him her eyes wide in horror. Wen Blakely worked his jaw like he’d been hit with a round house. And the three soldiers already on their feet, their weapons at ready but in shock, searched pointlessly for a nonexistent enemy.

  Dean weakly got to his feet and saw Cookie, Alice Pike, and Sanders doing the same. Only Bishop seemed unfazed as he moved to the still screaming, disemboweled Tom Murphy who abruptly stopped, jerked his head back in an agonizing spasm, and died.

  The Delfshaven’s bow immediately began listing forward. The tow ropes went slack and the prow nearly rested on the destroyer’s stern. Suddenly the Lyndon Johnson’s still working propellers churned up the water and the ropes snapped tight again. Dean ran forward and fruitlessly yelled for the Shoremen to stop, that they would just sink faster. The Lyndon Johnson angled for the shore and those who noticed it, held their breath as another mine scraped along the starboard side of both ships.

  “Brace!” yelled Dean as the ruined bow of the destroyer buried itself into the thick silt of the shoreline. With rattled teeth clenched for impact, the survivors dropped to the deck as the Delfshaven plowed into the destroyer, its ruined keel quickly settling onto the shallow bottom. The ships came to rest roughly one hundred yards from an overgrown commercial dock.

  Inside the command room of the Lyndon Johnson there was silence as the badly shaken but mostly uninjured Shoremen took in their vast change in fortune. Vicar Wentworth spoke first. “God’s continued blessings on us all.”

  So much of the destroyer was operated from Command that the men, as well as young Miss St. James, were in the relatively safe confines of the hardened room at the moment of detonation. Thompson gave himself a small pat on the back for that providence at least. The abruptness and significance of what had happened only really hit home as he observed the static on the monitors that had been the feed from the drone. They had seen the submerged mine well enough, but had only seconds to react. Time to sit on the floor and offer up half a prayer.

  Plimpton stood first, brushing off his trousers and pushing his hair back. Having been the first to actually move, the others looked at him expectantly. He rubbed his tongue over his teeth, the force of the blast having caused his jaw to slam shut, and tasted a tinge of blood on his gums. He finally looked at Thompson, “Abandon ship?”

  Thompson let out a long sigh as he stood, stretching his shoulder muscles. “I suppose we see how the prize is faring.”

  As Wentworth was helped to stand by his deacons he ventured, “Would it be presumptuous to note that the balance of power has likely shifted now that the sentinel is... Not?”

  Thompson offered the man a mild look of annoyance and chose not to answer, instead saying to everyone, “We’re still heavily armed. Timbs, go and set yourself up on one of the fifties at the back of the con tower. Be certain they see you pointing it at them. The rest of us will armor up and we’ll see where we stand.

  “Yes, sir.” Timbs offered a hesitant salute and then hung by the door examining his sidearm.

  “Something else Timbs?”

  The examination of the Glock was a delaying tactic. Timbs was a drone operator. Like the other operators he had no actual combat experience. His mind was racing through the catalogue of manuals that he had digested through the years, trying to recall how to set up and operate a 50-caliber machine gun. Another part of his brain was fighting the notion of stepping outside at all. His war fighting had always been a matter of a heads-up display and an air-conditioned room. He mumbled something unintelligible.

  “Outside, Timbs. Now.” Timbs holstered his pistol and left the room. Thompson continued, “Councilman, perhaps you and Mister Hanson should remain inside for now and see to Miss St. James’ safety.” Every man in the room immediately looked at the girl who shrank at the scrutiny. Other than the pleasure of the fuck you gesture toward the Northerners, taking her in and offering her the protection of their venerable ship had been done with little forethought. The notion that they were now responsible for the young lady (now without the protection of the ironclad armament, which they had with profound hubris counted on) brought home the nature of their new predicament. Plimpton broke the spell saying, “Highly inappropriate I think, for me to remain out of sight. They have learned to negotiate with me. Hanson, look after the girl.”

  Brandy felt Hanson’s gaze. The man had been entirely too touchy-feely and she had caught him staring at her out of the corner of her eye every time that they were in the same room together. She said, “I took care of myself just fine before you or them. Give me a gun.”

  “My dear,” offered Vicar Wentworth. “Whereas Deacons Hoeg and Jones are quite capable with weapons and should act in their paramilitary capacity, I am still in need of proper protection. I would consider it an honor if you were to look after my well being while the Major and the Councilman negotiate our next steps. Major, give the girl a pistol, would you?”

  Despite the shock of the explosions, the sinking of both boats, and the gore on the deck, it was Wen Blakely who had suggested striking first, beating even Chief Hernandez to the punch. The bow of the Delfshaven had come to rest against the destroyer’s stern at such a level as to make it simple to step from one swamped ship to the other. Dean quickly agreed. Kumbaya was over. The drone was out of the picture. No time to waste.

  Sergeant Green spotted Timbs stepping out of the back of the deckhouse and watched him walk to the still covered 50-caliber gun. He shouldered his M4 and barked out, “You! Hands on your head!”

  Timbs stopped in his tracks and watched the heavily armed group jump onto the Lyndon Johnson’s stern and walk along the flight deck. Beneath their feet the Lyndon Johnson housed enough cruise missiles to wipe out most of a small city. Lot of good that did now, thought Timbs. He let out a sigh. How quickly things could change. He quietly offered up a perverse series of obscenities for Major Thompson and put his hands on his head. As he watched the Northerners approach, a small sense of relief began to buoy his stomach. These people looke
d sharp. They looked deadly. But without the Sentinel, they would need deadly. Timbs had been operating drones off-island for a lot of years. The devils were out there and they were far more clever than most people gave them credit for. Citizens safe back home still tended to confuse the mindless diseased people that were the devil’s parents with the devils themselves. The devils weren’t mindless, and, for Timbs, they were potentially far more terrifying than their parents. They were going to have to get off these dead ships and step out into that jungle. Timbs wanted to get home. Maybe these people who were pointing guns at him would get him there. With his hands still on his head he said, “I’m going to drop my weapon.” Then he heard and felt the vibration of the hanger door unlocking below him. The Northerners took silent direction through their helmets from their captain and broke into two groups of four; one group aiming over the heads and past those in front as that group ran at a crouch toward the hanger. It was a powerful display of courage and coordination. The same man who had yelled at him to put his hands on his head was now yelling into the hanger, “Drop ‘em! Drop ‘em now!” Timbs heard the unmistakable sound of firearms hitting the steel deck. The Northerners stopped running and remained aiming. The captain stepped forward. “Hands on your heads! You, drop it! Drop it!”

  Plimpton didn’t realize that he was still holding his gun. He was so flummoxed by the abruptness of their surrender that he stood dumbfounded, still holding the rifle somewhat pulled into his shoulder, the barrel drooping down. Feeling and hearing a bullet wiz over his head and then ricocheting around the chamber behind him brought him to full attention and he dropped the gun like he’d been holding a snake. He saw the devils then, standing at the bow of the ruined wind turbine ship. A woman without a helmet stood with them. He could smell her like she was standing right next to him, her voice calling out like she was right in front of his face. “Stewart!” she said with urgency. She was pointing past the front of the ship toward the land, his own view blocked by the walls of the flight hanger. Suddenly in his mind he could see the land in the distance. The men around him gasped and some fell with utter disorientation, the devil’s senses mixing with their own. On the shore stood more devils. Tens of them, naked and hairy, staring back at the stricken boats. Though his position on the ship wouldn’t allow him to see Timbs on the deck above him, in his mind he could clearly see the man turn and face the shore. With almost no hesitation, Timbs got a running start and leapt off the deck into the water. It was an almost perfect dive and when he broke up through the surface he swam with broad confident strokes toward the jungle, toward the naked creatures with the bent legs, the long ears, their sharp teeth drawn into unanimous anticipatory smiles.