Undead Island

by Hideyuki Kikuchi

  The grocer and his family quickly set out on foot toward the bay. Following them with her eyes, Meg was rooted in place. Something black took hazy shape in the depths of the fog, and by the time she realized it was made up of people they’d closed to within a few yards. Meg was so scared she was ready to shut her eyes, but they passed right in front of her as they walked toward the bay, just as Gass and his family had done.

  “Auntie Mabel . . .” the girl murmured.

  Passing by was an old woman who lived alone now that all her kin were dead, and the community looked after her.

  “The Kapsch family . . .”

  The father, Nodd, was at the fore, leading a quintet of the village’s most accomplished fishermen.

  “Mr. Ulmer . . .”

  He was the most important person in the village—their shipwright, who would be ninety this year.

  “Miriam Hardy . . .”

  A month ago the young blonde had been widowed when she lost her husband in a storm, but they said she’d be married again inside of a month. Every bachelor in town had his sights set on her.

  All of them were walking toward the bay. Meg stood stock-still, unable to do anything, but not one of them turned so much as a vacant eye in her direction.

  “What’s going on? Is something waiting for them there? Is this what happened to the people long ago?”

  Meg took a deep breath. She’d finally remembered her family.

  “Dad? Mom? Ida?!”

  She ran like a woman possessed. It was a minor miracle that she didn’t get lost or trip even once. There was no saying how many people she passed. The only thing that was clear was that everyone in the village was headed in the same direction.

  The village was built on stony terraces like the rice fields of mountainous Asia, with the bottommost tier reaching down to the beach. The houses were connected to one another by stone steps. Meg’s house was on the third tier. She crept into the place, but quickly realized nobody was there. Still, she couldn’t help running through each and every room.

  When Meg left the house, she was crying in spite of herself. All she had to rely on was the spear gun she carried—one belonging to her father. Though it was the spring-powered type, it was quite powerful, with just as much force as the gas-propelled ones rich people used. Come what may, the girl was going to bring her family back—that determination burned like a fire in her, though she felt like someone was whispering to her that it was no use.

  Three minutes of running down cobblestone streets brought the girl to the bay. She pushed her way through the fog, which was still clinging to her when she arrived, at which point she murmured, “I’m too late.”

  There was no sign of anyone.

  Meg climbed up on the breakwater and ran. Going all the way down to the end, she peered out to sea. Shadowy figures melted into view. Beyond the bay was no shallow shoal. It was more than thirty feet deep out there. Yet the figures were walking across the surface. Meg could only watch in astonishment as they went, and in less than two seconds’ time they’d vanished.

  And then—with a feeling like the fog surrounding her suddenly carried a chill that reached down to the marrow of her bones, Meg forgot herself, dashing down the road that led from the village to the highway.

  On receiving notification, the sheriff immediately had two of his three deputies speed to the village, and as the messenger pigeon they dispatched reported that the place remained shrouded in fog, they were ordered not to enter the village. The lawman had then fallen into serious meditation. For he was not without considerable knowledge about the fog that struck from the sea. Though he possessed the skepticism that came with his line of work, the sheriff believed everything Meg had told him. He was certain the villagers had walked off across the sea. And he was equally certain of their destination. Based on that conviction, it probably took him less than a minute to decide his next course of action, because he’d known that someday this would come to pass and had given the response to the situation consideration on more than one occasion. They were thoughts that’d soon faded from his mind, but now that speculation had become reality, the sheriff was quite proud of himself for not being taken by surprise.

  His plans were predicated on first crossing over to the island. To do that, they’d need a good number of people. And since something weird was going on with the island, amateurs like the townsfolk and fishermen were excluded from the fight. Because the Nobility were undoubtedly involved.

  The sheriff ordered his remaining deputy to go around town and talk to all the roughest customers, he had signs put up guaranteeing a flat wage of ten thousand dalas, and he ran the emergency siren before sending out messenger pigeons with the same information to be disseminated to every town and village within a day’s ride. That night nearly a hundred confident souls had called on his office, but on hearing the details they turned right around, one after another, until only four remained the following morning. Now they stood shoulder to shoulder with the sheriff on the breakwater.

  As far as the sheriff was concerned, the one saving grace was that the former mayor of Meg’s village had left there, and for the past year he’d been living with a daughter who’d married into a family in Piercenun. At the sheriff’s request the old man had straightened up his troubled back and clambered onto a cyborg horse.

  “Well, this is a fine hole in our plans. We got nobody to take the helm!”

  Garigon’s complaint was greeted by silence. So long as the former mayor objected, these warriors couldn’t cross over to the field of battle.

  It was the youngest of the bounty hunters who shattered the oppressive air, saying, “Leave it to me. I was born in a fishing town. My rowing ain’t half bad!”

  “How old are you?” asked the former mayor.

  “Huh? How old do I look?”

  “And how old were you when you left your hometown?”

  “Let’s see—seven.”

  “You been across the brine since?”

  The young man shrugged his shoulders.

  “I can’t give the helm to a seven-year-old. Just accept it.”

  “So, what the hell are we supposed to do, then?”

  The sound of waves was the only answer to the agitated boy’s query.

  The solution came from a most unexpected source.

  “I’ll do it,” said the girl.

  III

  “Hey! No freaking way!”

  “You should’ve said that before we left.”

  While Meg was at the stern expertly working the rudder, the young deputy had a strange look in his eye as he stared at her arms, to say nothing of the waist and legs that supported her and seemed several times stronger than they’d appeared on dry land.

  At any rate, with the half-dozen men also aboard, the small craft was nimbly cutting across the waves, at times with the current and at others against it. If it were a person, you’d say it had a nice, steady gait.

  Stunned by the girl’s ridiculous proposal, the sheriff had asked if she could even row, to which Meg replied she’d been putting to sea and helping her father with his fishing since the age of seven. Even now she was confident she was better than boys her age. The sheriff had shaken his head and said no to taking a woman along, but Garigon had suggested they could send her back as soon as they reached the island. Meg was the very first to support him. Just to be clear on the matter, the lawman asked her if she swore to do it, and naturally the girl replied in the affirmative. In truth, she had no intention whatsoever of going back. Her parents and her little sister had gone off to an island where the Nobility roamed, after all.

  In addition to the men, the boat was packed with food and water enough for two days and medicine, and two hours later the small craft headed out into the bay with the water almost up to its gunwales. The elderly deputy who’d been left behind to carry word back to Piercenun soon faded from view.

  When the mainland vanished an hour out, even the sheriff thought anxiously that these currents were incredible. T
he boat was borne on a current reaching speeds of twenty knots. And a girl of seventeen was not only challenging that current, she was mastering it. It was small wonder that the young deputy couldn’t help but let his honest impression slip out.

  “We’ll be there in another thirty minutes,” said the girl. “Your weapons and head good to go?”

  “More or less,” a youthful face replied with a sigh, giving Meg a long look and a smile.

  The reason she’d asked was because she was thinking to herself, Will this kid be able to hold his own on an island with Nobles?

  “I’m Meg. And you are?”

  No sooner had she asked that than the sheriff, standing at the prow, called out, “Wesley! We’re within sight of the island. Don’t forget to prep for our landing, now.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Wesley.”

  Once again his name had been called. This time it was Meg.

  “You look a lot like the sheriff,” she continued. “Is he by any chance—”

  “My father,” he said, nearly spitting the words.

  “Oh, really. So, you’re following in your dad’s footsteps? Aren’t you the dutiful son.”

  “I’m not a deputy by choice. See, he was shorthanded.” There was no hostility in Wesley’s answer because Meg’s tone had been entirely sincere. Getting up, he turned his gaze forward to find a little hump of an island on the horizon. “Undead Island?”

  The fear and horror the boy’s voice carried made Meg tense up. Soon they’d be dealing with the Nobility, those who’d once been their victims, or their descendants.

  Just then, the youngest bounty hunter deftly made his way across the rocking boat to the pair. Making no attempt to hide his vulgar smirk he said, “My, aren’t the two of you chummy. Can I be your friend, too?” He couldn’t have been any older than Wesley.

  “Not a chance,” Meg said flatly.

  “Oh, why not?” he asked with feigned ignorance, but his eyes shone with a dangerous gleam.

  “Because ever since you got to the village you haven’t taken your eyes off my boobs and butt. You’re such a pig.”

  As Meg had reprimanded him loudly and without a hint of restraint, the bounty hunters in the middle of the craft let out delighted whoops. The young man’s face flushed crimson and murderous intent filled him from head to toe. For those who lived on the field of battle, a public tongue-lashing could be considered the greatest insult. If they couldn’t reassert their honor right there and then, they’d have no leg to stand on the next day. Meg was well aware of that but had been merciless with him nonetheless because he’d had such a lecherous look in his eye. However, the instant Meg saw the young bounty hunter’s hand go for the machete on his hip her expression froze. It was no exaggeration to say a killing lust radiated from the young man.

  “Knock it off!” Wesley said, standing between the two of them.

  “You wanna try stopping me, lover boy?” said the young bounty hunter. “Don’t kid yourself. You act like you’ve never heard of Bo the Bowman before.”

  That knocked the wind out of Meg. She’d had her suspicions since she first saw his bow, but never would’ve imagined he was really that young.

  They said he could fire an arrow that would punch through a demon bird soaring a thousand yards off the ground, and he was so quick that in a second he’d taken down ten bandits, putting an arrow through the right eye of each. At a range of a hundred yards he’d taken on a hundred charging outlaws mad for blood, slaying the last with just three feet to go and ensuring that his consummate skill was already the stuff of legend. Meg got the impression Wesley and the badge on his chest were swiftly fading away like mist.

  But then the girl heard someone say, “Never heard of you.” That was Wesley’s reply. The young deputy’s right hand was going for the pistol on his hip.

  “Nice. Fight! Fight!” the bounty hunter nearest the three of them chanted, pounding the butt of his short spear against the bottom of the boat and getting to his feet. “A bounty hunter and a lawman fighting over a gal? This won’t be done till we’ve seen some blood.”

  “Neither of you better pull out,” Garigon added. He was licking his chops.

  From the look in their eyes, Wesley didn’t have a prayer of winning. Knowing that, he still held his ground due to the inherent hatred of wrongdoers shared by those on the side of the law.

  “Shut your trap!” the bowman snarled. The naked malice in his tone showed he’d played right into his compatriots’ hands.

  “Wesley! Bo! Settle down, both of you,” the sheriff commanded from the prow. “This seem like any time to be fighting among ourselves? Bo, anything happens to my deputy and you won’t see a lousy dala!”

  There was no reply. The young man called Bo was so lathered up for a fight there’d be no stopping him now.

  The sheriff’s right hand went for his gun—and at the same time, the two bounty hunters gripped their weapons as well. A fight between the young bucks was turning into a proxy war splitting them along job and character lines. It could no longer be averted. Both the sheriff and Meg felt it.

  “Huh?!”

  A cry of surprise had escaped the sheriff. It was a heartbeat later that not only his form but the entire boat was engulfed by something white billowing up from behind them.

  “It’s fog!” Garigon exclaimed, his voice quavering violently.

  The sea had suddenly gone mad. Waves bared white fangs and slammed the boat broadside.

  “This is some serious shit! Hey! Do something, helmsman!”

  “This can’t be,” Meg said, squeezing the words out in what was nearly a scream. “The tides don’t just go nuts like this. No way! It’s been rough, but we’ve managed to get this far because they were running the same as always.”

  “Hold on tight, everyone! Fall in the sea and you’re a goner!” the sheriff shouted, his voice, too, shaking badly.

  “What the hell is this? The wind ain’t even blowing!”

  “And the sun’s shining away like nobody’s business. This ain’t normal stormy weather!”

  The seas had erupted madly despite sunny skies and a lack of wind. Swells were reaching ten feet now, and if the fifteen-foot-long craft couldn’t adjust to the changed conditions, it was only a matter of time before it’d be reduced to so much flotsam.

  Though she’d experienced rough seas more times than she could count, now waves rose on all sides of the boat, falling on it with the force of some bizarre beast and leaving Meg slumped over the rudder and barely conscious.

  The sheriff and the roughnecks could no longer even find voice enough to shout at her. But it didn’t take long for all that to give way to cries of astonishment and delight.

  “The fog’s gone!”

  “The waves have settled down, too. It’s calm!”

  As she felt the pitching and rolling quickly fade, Meg turned her face forward from where she clung to the rudder. Already calmed, the surface glittered in the sunlight, while far off across the water the shape of a tiny boat became visible.

  “What’s that?”

  As proof that Meg hadn’t been the only one to spot it, someone to the fore called out, “It’s a boat! One a lot smaller than ours. So how’s it going so fast?”

  “Manning the helm is—just one person. Some guy in black.”

  Meg strained her eyes for all she was worth. It’s him, she thought. It has to be that gorgeous fella I saw up on the cliffs. However, when her eyes finally focused on the point in question, the little boat and the figure were rapidly pulling away, and they swiftly melted into the vast expanse of sea.

  “I don’t believe it. When I spotted him, it was that small. To get that far in less than five minutes . . .”

  The sheriff’s words sounded like delirium, and in her heart of hearts Meg was shaking her head vehemently. You say you don’t believe it, but that’s a lie, she thought. He of all people could do it. I mean, just look at how beautiful he is.

  But a voice cut into the girl�
�s rapturous thoughts like the teeth of a beast.

  “In that boat just now—was that another bounty hunter?”

  “If it is, he’s a hell of a good one! Hey, hurry it up, baby. Don’t want him getting the jump on us.”

  “But to be able to work a rudder like that . . . Who the hell is he?”

  Seemingly unconcerned with the voices that rose like bubbles to the surface, the sheriff was concentrating on a different question. Those sudden killer waves just now—had they been calmed by the master of the now-vanished boat?

  He had no reason to think that. No, actually there was one. Though it was at a great distance and only for a second, the sheriff had seen the face of the man helming the little boat. Not only were his features indistinct, but his very outline had been a blur. Still, the lawman’s retinas had been emblazoned with it. That one God-granted instant had been like an eternity. And in it, he had been witness to beauty itself.

  Wanderers

  chapter 2

  I

  It was thirty minutes later that the boat entered a bay much larger than the one back at the village. The air grew milky white and hazy, and the way they drifted along in an almost imperceptible breeze called to mind the stillness of a tomb.

  On seeing the orderly rows of bizarre midsized ships on the other side of the bay, Garigon asked Meg, “Would those happen to be the Nobility’s boats?”

  “Yup. Seems they’ve been anchored there for more than a thousand years.”

  Since it wasn’t the sheriff who’d posed the question, Meg’s reply wasn’t overly polite.

  “They’re clean as a whistle. I heard they never ever rust, but the way they look like they just pulled up gives me the creeps.”

  Meg wanted to say, “Good!” and stick her tongue out at him. As the daughter of a hardworking fisherman, she viewed bounty hunters as right at the top of the list of people to be spit upon.