Colony - Blood Kin (Colony Series Book 3)

by Gene Stiles

  The Wind Star’s race ended somewhere between amidships and the stern of that giant vessel and there was not a single thing Lianas could do. The two-hundred-foot monster slammed into the sea with the impact of a falling star. A massive wave exploded outward on either side, rushing toward the two ships trying vainly to escape. The wall of water hit the Windstar with the crushing force of a ten-foot tidal wave. Captain Lianas stared helplessly as his love canted so far over that the three masts snapped like saplings against the flat wall of a shear, granite cliff. Any man on the main deck not secured firmly in his battle harness was swept overboard amid screams of pure terror. Some wails were silenced immediately, the crewmen crushed between the timbers and rock wall. Others, unlucky enough to reach the dark, green sea, were sucked beneath the hull, flesh flayed by barnacles, bones pulverized as they tumbled against rounded boulders in the churning waters below.

  The Wind Star would have capsized if not for those boulders, smoothed and softened by countless years of gentle kisses from the rolling sea. Still, bulwarks and men were squashed like bugs, leaving dark, red stains on the pure white granite. Below decks, crewmen, cargo and equipment snapped their restrains, tumbling together in heaps of twisted metal, broken boxes and broken men. Timbers groaned and cracked sending torrents of water cascading into the belly of the crippled ship. She lay with her keel exposed to the daylight, unable to do more than creak and moan as if lying on her deathbed.

  The Northern Star had barely began her turn to port when the giant wave hit her broadside like the angry fist of the Creator, himself. The blow powdered timbers and men, sent shards of metal and wood rocketing through the decks, cutting through flesh like the sharpest of skinning knives. The deadly spears skewered men and women, alike, and pinned them up like bloody, screaming dolls on the portside walls. Some were blessed with instant, painless death. Most, not kissed by the sweet lips of the Creator, kicked and struggled, bathed in blood and pain, wailing, shrieking, and crying to be set free. There was no one to hear their prayers. No one conscious or alive or curled up in black pools of blood and spilled guts. No one not twisted and bent in most unnatural shapes, limp and broken like the thick, wooden planks of the deck beneath them. Lighting dimmed and failed leaving the once mighty vessel listing hard over to port, unmoving and dark as a cloudy, moonless night.

  On the main deck, slings snapped like paper, the men in them sent into the welcoming arms of the cold, blue sea, entangled in their webbing, unable to break free and gasping for air as they sank to the sandy bottom below. Those souls not entangled in ripped and torn, white and dirt-covered sails, pinned to the deck by shattered masts and spars or laying in heaps of broken bone swung limply in swinging slings and moaned softly wherever their bleeding bodies had landed.

  Below decks, saved from the brunt of the wave and the strong, borithium-laced, lashings on crates and equipment of the mighty cargo ship, crewmen floundered in deep lakes of icy cold seawater. The hammer of the Creator poured through open gun ports and shattered timbers, settling against the portside bulkheads, forcing the massive ship to cant heavily at a near constant forty-five-degree angle. Those who were broken or left unconscious from the blow sank quickly to the wooden walls, never to awake or breathe air again.

  On some decks, saved from rushing waters, survivors struggled to help their less fortunate brethren or lay in quiet slumber, wrapped in the golden cocoon of Healing. The men and women of the Izon, more accustomed to the freezing temperatures of sea and air, recovered more quickly and used their incredible strength to lift timbers and sails from the living, laying them out on the driest parts of the decks.

  Captain Kaikinos shook his soaking wet, wavy black hair and spit saltwater through his long, black beard. A film of pain blurred his vision joining the screaming that cascaded down his back and legs. The straps of his webbing and coarse rope he had used to secure himself to the helm cut through his leather vest, despite the thick padding, crushing his muscles and spine. Lines of bright red blood stained the harsh deck lashes a deep, dark crimson and made small rivulets down his tree-trunk legs. He felt off balance and twisted, almost as if he was laying on his side. The morning sun, blazing golden on the eastern horizon, burned into his already aching eyes and made it difficult to focus.

  It took a seeming eternity for his senses to return to him, but when they did, it was with sudden, crystal clarity. The moans and cries of the wounded, injured and the quiet bustling of the survivors aiding them replaced the rushing wind in his ears. Kaikinos glanced to his left to see how his First Mate and fared, but of Inopos, there was no sign. Even as a soft glow of Healing haloed his body, the Captain fought to right himself on the canted deck and take stock of the situation. The engine still hummed softly below, a low buzz of power vibrating through the wooden planks of the ship. The polished silver throttle sat straight up, pulled back to neutral unconsciously as Kaikinos passed out. Masts, snapped like twigs by the force of the wave, lay on the main deck amid dirty-white piles of sailcloth. Crewmen struggled to stand on the severely tilted deck making their efforts to search for other survivors even more difficult. There were scant few. The Captain searched the deck, searching the huddled groups below, hoping against hope that his friend might be among the living. Of Inopos, there was still no sign.

  Captain Kaikinos beheld his beloved ship, broken and bleeding, listing heavily to one side. He fought against the churning of his stomach and the foul, stinking bile that burned a trail up his throat. It filled the back of his mouth with a choking stench that left him with no choice but to spit it from his between his salt-water parched lips.

  Kaikinos shook his head once more as a blurry film returned to cloud his sight. He focused his quickly building energy, forcing it into his trembling muscles, and slowly slid the throttle forward. The Northern Star inched its way into the sea, slowly shifting to port with the weight of the water inside her hull. The Captain wrapped his massive paws around the spokes of the wheel and, using all of his incredible strength, pulled it toward him. With creaks, moans and a sick sound of pouring water that terrified Kaikinos, the mighty ship struggled to right itself in the rolling sea. The more water that reached the over-worked bilge pumps, the less the load became on the tortured timbers of the hull. Inch by arduous inch, the Northern Star slogged upright, easing the quivering strain on the Captain’s agonized muscles.

  The Northern Star still canted to the right, but the severe angle lessened enough so the crew could walk upright, making their labors much the easier. The hundred and fifty-foot ship battled against its tendency to turn to the right and wrestled the sea into a straighter path. Still she could only move at a crawl, pregnant with a child of seawater filling her belly far beyond her ability to birth it.

  Captain Kaikinos eased the throttles forward with one hand, the other still locked on the wheel. He blocked out all other concerns, concentrating only on the slow movement of his beloved, sending prayer after prayer to the Creator that the horrifying monstrosity at his stern remained as ghostly silent as it had been since crashing into the blue-green waters of the sea.

  Chapter XIV

  The Black Death had lived up to its dark promise. The hellish ship reeked of fear, evacuated bowels and the beginnings of decomposition. A ghost, broken and bleeding from more than one wound, slowly and carefully dragged himself out onto the main deck near the bow. Saved from the white-hot plasma that nearly cut the ship in half by his proximity to the bow wings, the ghost was tossed high into the air as the dragon had sought the sky. Crashing down on the thick, black planking with bone-breaking force, the unconscious figure slid hard into a heavy coil of rope attached to the anchor chain. The entanglement of rope and twisted limbs kept the ghost from slipping toward the stern and away from the waves of seawater that swept the main deck clean of every other living thing.

  For an eternity that was actually moments, the ghost lay upon the wet boards, enshrouded in the golden cocoon of Healing. Muscles, sinews and broken bones in the twisted left leg straig
htened and reformed, still aching with remembered torment. The right arm healed much more slowly, bones having been crushed to white powder and ligaments torn from joint sockets. He raised himself up on shaky legs using the wing edge for support, nausea doubling him over with the dry heaves of an empty stomach.

  Once capable of movement, the ghost traveled from above to the broken bottom of the demon, traversing through the most agonizing, hallucinogenic nightmare world a twisted mind could create. His eyes seared with each new, torment-filled level, surrounded by the sick, perverted underworld of damnation visited upon each deck where flames floated atop small islands of slick, black oil and shattered crates of nameless cargo.

  And that was nowhere the worst of it.

  The first of the four decks below the main, saved only from the majority of the waters that poured through the riven hull, smelled of burning flesh and urine. The lance of the Creator had ripped a fire-blackened swathe amidships leaving a twisted gap of timber and metal open to the daylight that crackled at the edges with hungry, dancing flame. Through some joke of the heavens, most of the deck, itself, remained solid and untouched thanks to the borithium panels on the hull allowing one to move from bow to stern. The silent traveler skirted the fires and came at last to the bow to find it cracked and leaning toward the sea. A shiver of fear rippled up his spine. A foreboding sense that the giant ship was about to split in half felt only amplified by the creaks and moans the sagging, splintered hull.

  An eerie, at first unidentified, quiet greeted the ghost until a shaky revelation touched him. There were no bodies…anywhere. The unearthly silence seemed a palpable, unholy thing, crushing him in its tight, spectral hand. His movement was sluggish as if the terrifying fist sought to root him solidly in its grip. The knee-high, polished, black leather boots on his feet seemed bogged in a quagmire of unadulterated fear. His broken leg was Healed, the heavy limp easing with each passing moment, yet every step took nearly all of his dwindling strength. The only thing that kept him moving forward was the prayer that he was not alone.

  The ghost glided along the wet, wooden planks, his silver Enviro-Suit shimmering beneath the flickering lights, many of them broken and hanging in strands of twisted metal. The deck was littered with their shattered crystals, some retaining a dim glow before their life force was snuffed out by the choking darkness. The tiny shards crunched under his boots echoing off the bulkheads and compartment walls, as would a tinkling, rolling thunder. All around him were piles of tortured metal, buckled supports and the arid fog of burning wood that strove to strangle the breath from his lungs.

  Still no bodies.

  He made his way past the smoldering gash amidships, the blinding light of the rising sun pouring through black hull watering his eyes and scorching his vision. The ghost raised his arm against it and stumbled into the darkness, so much deeper now that he had to drop on hands and knees to make his way. His outstretched hand touched warm, damp planking, but when he brought up his leg, there was only empty space. Panic tore through him, filling his mind with a primal scream that exploded out of his smoke-parched throat and past his chapped and cracked lips. The screech bounced around the cavernous room, shrieking back at him as if a thousand banshees chased him into the pit that opened beneath him. His gnarled hands clawed for purchase, but found none on the slick, wooden deck.

  The ghost bounced from side to side like a child’s ball tossed in the narrow confines between two buildings. Each impact drove more breath from his heaving, terror-filled chest, clenched muscles tearing on sharp corners beneath his arched spine. Bones recently healed cracked with a pain as brilliant as the golden orb of Proto-Sun. Bent metal railings, some with edges as sharp as a hunting knife, grabbed at his flesh and ripped it from his face and arms, lacerating him as if he fell head-first into a bramble of thorny vines. He lay at last at the base of the stairs, his neck turned at an odd angle, with his legs drawn up so tightly that his knees kissed his bloody chin. Sparkles like a clear, starry night, danced like fireflies under fluttering eyelids and only his labored breathing touched the ringing in his ears.

  Time lost all meaning in the midnight of his mind. When at last dim, mote-filled twilight slipped through the watery slits of his burning eyes, the phantom stretched out his stiff and torn tendons, muscles rippling in tortured screams. He reach up with bloody hands, cupping his fevered skull and jerked it sideways in an attempt to straighten it atop his long, thin neck. He succeeded, but with an explosive cracking of misaligned vertebrae that hit his ringing ears like a thunderclap and sent nauseating shockwaves down the length of his spine. The ghost bolted upright, retching a mixture of clear fluid and globs of molted green bile all over the front of his silver Enviro-Suit where it pooled in the creases of his lap.

  When the spasms were over at last, he found himself sitting midway down a winding staircase, the edge of a wide, wooden step cutting into his lower back. He buried his face in his long-fingered hands, resting his elbows on his upraised knees, thanking the Creator for calming his rebellious stomach. He wiped long, damp clumps of honey-blond hair from his eyes, seeking to clear the stars from behind the lids. It was only then that the ghost realized that the floating, red fairies were actually fiery embers blown about the chamber by a strong, cool current of air. The dim lighting was the result of the very few, small sections of light crystals that still functioned, having snapped their mounts near the ceiling. They swayed in a sickening cadence, matched by the gentle rocking of the vessel that knotted his still queasy stomach. The ghost squeezed his eyelids tightly, clenching his square jaw so hard he could feel the grinding of his teeth and the twitching of the muscles just beneath his ears. The storm brewing in his belly slowly abated along with the thunder and ringing of his ears allowing the groans and moans of twisted metal and broken timbers to return.

  A horrifying revelation dawned dully upon his torpid mind when the fog at last cleared his mind and his shimmering, blue eyes flew open so wide that the eyeballs seemed to jump from his head. His thin, pink lips formed a gaping, round hole from which not a single sound emanated. His lanky, athletic body went rigid, his long legs stretching out beneath him. The ghost hardly noticed the cold seawater that lapped so high that it cascaded over the top of the black boots on his long, sprawled legs and caused his feet to slosh as he forced himself to stand. Tremors built in the darkest pit of his soul, radiating liquid fire along every nerve. The burning sparks inside him seared his tendons, causing his aching muscles to grip his skeleton so hard they felt as if they were being crushed beneath an avalanche of giant boulders. His skin crawled with twitching sinews as if a nest of hungry insects ate at the raw flesh beneath it with pinchers of plasma. Unadulterated terror seethed and squirmed inside his tortured brain and weaved a web of tepidity that rooted his shaking feet to the soaked planks of the deck.

  He had finally found the crew.

  “Not like this!” the ghost whimpered to himself. “Not like this!”

  A demented desire to see overcame the screaming in his soul telling him to run…run away toward the fresh air and glowing sunlight above. It forced his protesting legs to take step after agonizing step toward the mountain of mutilated, ghastly bodies piled high against the stern bulkhead. The closer he came, the more the mountain seemed to undulate as if it breathed with life of its own. ‘A trick of the light,’ he tried to tell himself even though he knew it to be a lie.

  A sickening, disgusting odor overwhelmed him first. It filled his wide nostrils with a putrid scent of released bowels and decaying flesh tinged heavily with a sense of extreme, terrifying panic. Then a low, fearful sound rippled through him. It surround him like a solid thing, caressing his clammy skin like the light fingers of a gentle lover, hot with passion, but leaving icy trails with their passing. His eardrums thrummed a disharmonious rhythm that seeped into his raw nerve endings and cooled their burning. A numbing chill spread throughout him, his body shivering uncontrollably as he forced his way forward. The last vestiges of mist cleared from
his vision bringing a crystal clarity to dimly light sight before him.

  The ghost screamed then. A wavering wail echoed off the bulkheads, down the shattered passageways and swirled within the remnants of burning, broken chambers. His quivering legs refused to move, frozen in place as if encased in a thick block of polar ice. He could not move his head nor close his eyes to the hideous mountain before him. He could only scream in cadence with pulsing mass of bodies before him. It beat like the demonic heart of some hideous beast covered with a writhing blanket of pale white maggots feasting on its rotting flesh. Arms, legs, heads and distorted body parts stuck out from the putrid hill, mashed together in a jumble of bloody, broken puzzle parts in no discernable pattern. Hands clenched in claws and fists, fingers crooked in twisted talons, reached out toward him, hoping to draw him in to add his frozen flesh to their horrid horde. Disembodied legs and feet convulsed and twitched like dismembered limbs tossed carelessly into a heap, tapping out their last dance of death. Entwined amongst them, horrific heads, crimson covered and dripping, fought to free themselves, pushing outward like a newborn squirming out from between the spread legs of malignant succubus. One puss-covered face looked up at the ghost, tendons and veins stretched out on its long, thin neck, and opened filmy, green eyes that stared at him in fearful yearning. The torn and tattered lips formed two words – two words that sliced into the heart of the ghost like the fiery knife of a fiendish assassin. “Help me!”