Chapter 6

Stott was the older of the two brothers, so he was trusted with controlling the boat. Father and Etrick were pulling up nets forward. It was supposed to be the peak of the season, but the last three nets had all come up empty.

"Well, this doesn't look right," he heard Father telling Etrick. He looked forward, curious now. This net was full to bulging, but nothing in it was moving. No, that doesn't look right.

"Pa...they're all dead," Etrick said.

"Dump them," Father said quickly. The fish tumbled into the water and out of Stott's sight. Even the sound of them plopping into the water did not sound right. The air seemed...heavy, and a chill ran up his spine. Creepy.

It was then that he looked farther ahead. Father and Etrick had been working at the side of the boat. None of them had noticed the ship ahead. Even from here Stott could tell that something was not right about it.

Sails were out, but not taut in the wind, as if no one was manning them. They flapped and fluttered unevenly. There were dark shapes up in the rigging. He watched for a moment and noticed that they didn't seem to be doing anything. The ship looked to be headed to come pretty close to them.

"Hey, guys, what's up with that?" he asked loudly to carry against the wind.

He saw his father put his hand up to shield his eyes out of habit, despite the darkening sky. Etrick loosened the rope and dumped the load of fish before hauling the net up into the boat. A few dead fish came up with it anyway, and made a hard, flat thudding sound as they hit the wet wood of the deck. Etrick pulled them out of the net, tossing them into a bucket for a moment as he worked the tangles out of the netting itself. One of the fish stuck stiffly up, its head visible over the edge of the bucket, and Stott had a momentary feeling that it was watching him. He shook it off, annoyed that such a childish notion would even occur to him after the amount of gutting dead fish he'd done over the years. He turned his attention back to Father, who was waving his arm at Stott.

"Bring her 'round Stott. I'm not sure anyone's manning up there. She looks adrift. Cargo hauler from the looks of her. Full one too, she's heavy in the water." Father moved back towards Stott, neatly sidestepping the netting. "She'll run right over us if we don't move, but we might as well stay near enough to find out what's ailin' them. It's not as if we're busy haulin' in fish." He sighed and plucked the hat briefly off his head to run his fingers through his graying thin hair, as Stott turned the wheel to adjust their course.

"Father, should we consider heading back early? The storm clouds came up awful sudden. I don't like the feel of it. Something just seems...wrong today."

"Somethin' is wrong, Stott. The wind's goin' the wrong way."

Stott realized that his father was right. The wind tended to run crosswise, and they were able to use it both going into town and coming from it if they zig-zagged along. At the moment the wind was specifically pushing them back towards town. He'd been fighting against it all day, trying to keep the boat in place while they hauled in the nets and traps they'd set. They'd had better luck with the lobster traps the day before, and those were stashed below, but today appeared to be a total loss so far.

"Get that net secured, Etrick. The storm's gonna break soon and I don't want it whipping about." Father moved to the bucket with the dead fish, and plucked the top one out, turning it over in his hands to examine it.

"Can you tell how it died, Father?" Etrick asked, as he started gathering the mostly untangled net up in his arms and heading to stash it in one of the large wooden trunks they had bolted to the deck for gear. He stuffed it inside and then latched it securely shut.

"No. I don't see that I -- ARG! Damn!" Father dropped the fish he'd been holding and clutched his hand. Stott noticed, with some astonishment, that the fish now flopped around on the deck of its own accord. He suddenly saw that the bucket the fish had been in was now writhing excitedly with the movements of the other fish still inside it. "What in blazes..?" Father peered into the bucket, and then pulled his head back as one of the fish suddenly jumped up into the air, snapping at him with his mouth.

"Father?" Etrick quickly grabbed the bandages box out of its cubby and headed over to their father.

"Damn things are cursed or worse. Little bastard bit me!" Father exclaimed. "Get 'em off, now! I won't be havin' cursed fish on my boat!" He reached down and snatched at the fish that was flopping at his feet, looking at it for just a moment before flinging it back overboard. Etrick grabbed the bucket and dumped it over the side before snagging the bandages back up and taking a look at Father's hand. Stott turned his attention to the cargo ship, which had come close enough for them to start seeing some of the crew if any were alive.

"Father? Look at this," he heard himself say. He stared, slightly in shock, at the dead eyes of a man hanging from a rope around his neck off the near side of the ship. Other ropes and rope ladders dangled uselessly as they blew to and fro with the wind. His eyes moved to the figure he'd seen in the masts, only to find worse. That man was dangling upside down, his leg caught up in some netting. His head knocked against one of the masts over and over again, as the boat moved in the waves and his body in the wind. The sound it made was wet and hollow, and Stott could see that one of the man's arms was missing, just below the shoulder. The wound looked reasonably fresh, and the blood splatters across the nearby sail could easily have been caused by it.

Turning away from looking at the body, Stott saw that debris bobbed here and there in the waves next to them. Further down the ship there was a small rowboat, dangling half deployed from ropes that would normally secure it in place on the boat and then help lower it to the water when it was needed. He heard his brother whistle, having stopped midway through putting the bandage on Father's hand to gape at the boat. Father was peering up at the ship as well, a look of concern etched into his weathered face.

"Pirates?" Etrick pondered aloud.

"Looks more likely to be that than plague at least. If so, there might be survivors. We'll need to board her to find out," Father replied.

Stott turned the boat about and held it steady while the ship drew closer and Etrick finished the bandaging on Father's hand. With the ship closer it looked even worse. There was blood smeared on the side of the ship even.

When they were alongside the ship Father grabbed one of the dangling ropes and secured it to the boat, letting the ship tow them along with it.

"We'll go up by way o' that ladder, Stott. Don' fall in, there'll be sharks in the water with all this mess about." He turned, "Etrick, stay down here an' finish getting us ready to go in. We might have to do something about this ship, or it'll just slam into shore somewhere. Ship this size must've had a crew o' thirty, easy." And probably all corpses, he did not have to add.

The ship was easily a hundred feet, maybe another twenty besides. Her deck was a good fifteen feet above them. She had two looming masts with two large sails each. The sails looked a bit tattered. Whether damaged by weather or battle he couldn't tell. He saw another swinging body near one of the upper yard arms, and made himself focus on the ladder.

"It don't smell good here, Pa," Etrick volunteered. Stott could smell it, too. Death.

"At least it's not rainin'. Come on, Stott," Father said, grabbing the dangling ladder with his non-bandaged hand. "An' keep an eye for sharks, Etrick."

He grabbed his gloves out of his back pants pocket and slid his hands into them before grabbing onto the ladder and starting up. The soft leather helped him get a better grip on the wet rope and slippery wooden slats as he made his way towards the ship's deck. He felt the ladder steady some beneath him, and glanced below to see that his father had donned his gloves as well, before pulling the ladder taut for Stott. His brother waited to hold it for their father's ascent. Stott turned forward again and finished climbing, not looking at the rest of the deck until he was fully aboard. He saw that the ladder was in good shape and turned to survey the rest of the boat while he waited for his father. His eyes drew first to the man he'd seen before, hanging off the masts, and his stomach rose to his throat.

The man must have been dead for a couple of days now, as the gulls had already started tearing him apart. His eyes had been pecked out, and his flesh around the open wounds had been torn and pulled at. Stott moved further down, feeling his breakfast coming back up on him. He turned away from the center of the boat and another body caught his eyes. This one had been speared to the deck, the wooden handle straight up in the air from the man's chest. It appeared that he'd been stabbed several dozen times first, possibly more, as Stott doubted that the man's own mother would have been able to identify the body. Gulls had been at this one as well. Stott barely made it to the rail before he lost his breakfast into the sea below. He heard his father's feet hit the deck and he quickly wiped his mouth with his sleeve and moved to join him.

He saw his father surveying the scene, and marvelled at the man's calm. His father had served in the Navy for five years before he'd met their mother and settled down to fish instead. Stott suspected that this wasn't the first time his father had seen bodies before, though those stories never came up. He'd always been content to tell stories about the way battles were fought by boats at a distance, with flaming arrows, small catapults, and the like. He'd always glossed over the ship boardings. Stott waited, silently, for his father to tell him what to do next.

"This ain't right," he shook his head. "Let's find the Cap's log an' check below fer survivors. I want ta know if they saw this comin' or not. Cap'n will have likely written it up if they did." Stott saw his father pull his machete out of it's sheathe, strapped to his thigh, and pulled the long dagger he had out of the one he had strapped to his boot. He wondered if his father felt the same comfort as he did, having a weapon in hand. He followed his father around to the middle of the boat, where they found the door to the officer's area propped open by another body. This one appeared to have been burned beyond recognition. Stott wondered where the fire had been and who had put it out. He tried to swallow the lump in his throat, hoping he wouldn't throw up again.

It didn't take long for them to find the Captain's quarters which were neatly marked with brass letters on the wall above the door. They had to break down the door to get in, as well as push furniture out of the way. Another body lay on the floor, possibly that of the Captain, by the way he was dressed. A cutlass lay discarded on the floor nearby, as if it had been lost in a struggle. One of the man's arms lay extended in its direction, as if trying to get at it. He had a large, bloody gash across his forehead, as well as several slice wounds across his body. Stott's father turned and handed him the log, which had been lying open on the desk.

"Time to put all that book learnin' o' yers to work, son." Stott took the book and skimmed over the words quickly, trying to see if he could find the beginning of what happened. Once he had, he cleared his throat and began to read aloud.

Whatever is happening to us feels as if it has come on the wind. The crew is agitated. We've not been out long enough for this, but I'm going to cut in and add another couple of days at shore so they can shake it off. We should be able to reach Eagle's Harbor in another four days, wind willing. And it seems as if it is - the wind itself has oddly turned towards town. It's day, but the sky is black with clouds. I've never seen clouds like these before. I fear we're in for the worst storm I've ever seen.

---

It's getting worse. I don't know what to make of it. Maybe we've been cursed? The clouds still hang above, and it rains sporadically - hard rain when it does. Lightning has been hitting the waters nearby, but somehow not the boat itself. The livestock in the hold have gone nuts, and it's affecting the morale. They had seemed agitated before, but now some have chewed right through their ropes and kicked open their stalls. One of the boys was nearly killed by a pig! I'm ordering the livestock slaughtered. I hate to lose the profit, but if these animals are cursed I'm not going to be able to sell them anyway.

---

Crew seems bloodthirsty. Slaughtering the animals looked more like a party for savages, as several crew members joined in. I'd suggested that the beasts be killed, butchered, and the cook preserve the meat with the help of some of the boys, but there's not much left of them for the cook to work with. Crew set onto those animals like a pack of hungry dogs. Stranger than that, the eggs cook had on board for cooking HATCHED. Mitch, our cook, is very superstitious to begin with, and now the kitchen floor is coated with salt and he's hanging bundles of garlic all over the ship. It's hurting morale, and I'm having them taken down. I'll need to confine Mitch to quarters.

---

Another thing - there's no thunder with this storm? What kind of storm doesn't have thunder?

---

Gods help us all. Something terrible is happening. Men rose from their bunks and started killing eachother today. Some with their bare hands. The woman from the couple I'd taken on as passengers is dead, and last I saw they were raping her dead body. Her husband was thrown to the sharks. I couldn't save them, I'm not even sure I can save myself at this point, much less the ship. I've locked the rudder into place and barricaded myself into my quarters - the crew has gone insane. They are killing eachother. A few people have been tossed overboard and it was as if the sea was starving, they went under so fast. Objects have been moving on their own - a couple people have been strangled by ropes. The anchor rose up on its own and smashed my first mate's head open. I wish I hadn't taken on extra crew at the last port, though I'm pretty sure more than half the men on this ship are now dead.

---

I'm defending against my own belongings at this point. I doubt I'll be alive when this log is found. Just burn the ship, and everything on it. Don't take anything off - we must have something aboard that has cursed us, though I can't imagine what kind of curse could do this.

"Come on, Stott. Let's toss that log book down to your brother, an' then we'll go below and start a fire." Father looked more than just concerned.

"But he said not to take anything...."

"I doubt it's the log book that's cursed, Stott. 'Sides, it lists the names o' everyone aboard. Some o' them'll have family." Father moved out of the room, stepping wide around the dead captain. The corridor outside the cabin room seemed darker than it had been.

The door to the outside banged shut with cracking slam. The latch was clearly broken, and it started banging open and closed with a clearly increasing wind. They started that way, and during the open moments he could see past Father to an oppressive darkness outside.

"Storm's comin'," Father warned. At the door Father caught it before it could slam into them. "Arg, dammit!" he said, having without thinking caught it with his hurt hand. He grabbed it with his other hand and held it for Stott, who followed him through.

Once they were outside the wind suddenly stopped. It was calm--dead calm. A look to either side revealed sea that was suddenly stilled. Not a wave to be seen under the brooding skies. That's not possible, Stott's mind insisted.

With an abrupt and start-inducing thud a body fell from the rigging and smashed into the deck just a foot in front of him, and he yelled. The head smashed open on impact, some of it spattering on his legs. His stomach started coming back up on him.

They started towards the ladder over the side, and the rest of the hung bodies fell at them, one by one. Each landed with the same rotten fruit thunk. "This ship really is cursed," Father exclaimed when he dodged the third one.

"Pa! Stott! Help!" Etrick's voice's was filled with fear. They rushed forward and Stott's foot slipped, sending him face-down onto the deck. He slid towards the stern of the ship, before his momentum was stopped by the soft form of another body. As he pulled himself to his knees, he realized it was a woman. Her head was at an unnatural angle, and her eyes wide open, a look of terror frozen on her face. Her shirt was in shreds and her skirts were missing entirely. She lay in a heap against the wall, as if she'd been discarded, and bone protruded out of one of her legs. Stott turned and emptied his stomach onto the deck, heaving forth what seemed like everything he'd eaten in the past week, before there was nothing left to vomit. He looked around and found a large piece of sail that had torn from the mast and caught on some barrels, and used it to cover her before moving back to join his father. The image of her seemed burned into his eyes. She had not been much older than he was.

His father was nowhere to be seen on the deck of the ship, and Stott looked over the side to find his dad jumping down, having slid down one of the ropes with his knees and gloved hands. His father was swearing in pain as he did it, but Stott saw why he had, and immediately did the same, stuffing the log book into the back of his pants to not lose it. One of his gloves tore on the rough rope, and he gritted his teeth as he felt the outer layer of skin stripped from his left palm. He jumped off the rope, as the one he'd grabbed didn't quite make it all the way down to their boat, and he felt his ankle snap as he hit the deck and tumbled. Ignoring the pain as best he could, he pulled his knife back out again, and threw himself forward onto the shark, who's teeth were deeply imbedded into his brother's left thigh. His brother was screaming now, and his father was hacking at it with his machete, while grabbing it's nose with his good hand, trying to pull its mouth open. Stott moved his dagger under Etrick's leg, and jammed his dagger into the shark's lower jaw, using the handle as leverage to push it down. Between them, they managed to get it open wide enough that Etrick could pull his leg out. Blood started spurting into Stott's face suddenly, from the puncture wounds. Etrick managed to get his hands down on it, as Stott and Father flung the shark off the boat. The sea writhed as it hit the water, and he saw all manner of sharks, fish and other sea life fighting angrily to get to it. Not all were carnivorous.

Stott turned and yanked his belt from his pants, to strap it around some bandaging he quickly grabbed from the trunk. His father had already used his own belt to cut off the blood above the wound by the time Stott started applying the bandage. Etrick looked pale, and had stopped screaming but was breathing hard.

"It was dead. It was dead. It was dead," Etrick started repeating. Stott realized that Etrick was right. The shark they'd pulled off him had been dead. dead, but moving as if it were alive. Its color was wrong though. And its eyes looked dead. Like the fish from the net.

"He's in shock. We need to get him back to town. Get a fresh glove on, then go light that boat so we can leave, Stott." Father grabbed him by the shoulder. "And you be careful." He gave Stott's arm a strong squeeze before he turned back to Etrick, who'd fallen unconscious.

"I will, Pa." He ran below quickly and exchanged his damaged gloves for fresh ones, before grabbing the flint and a jug of lamp oil out of one of the watersealed trunks, stuffing the cargo ship's logbook into it's place. He latched the trunk shut again and rushed back up, being careful not to bump the jug. He stuffed the flint into his pocket, and used a chunk of rope to tie the jug around his waist, before climbing up the ladder he'd used before. He noticed Father was dousing the bandages on Etrick with alcohol, and had gotten some blankets to keep him warm.

His ankle hurt, but if he was careful it did support weight. At least its not broken. Somewhere there was lightning, but no thunder followed it.

"Hurry, Stott!" Father called out. "And careful!"

He did not bother answering as he clambered over the rail onto the deck. He stopped briefly to think. Below there would be hay for the livestock mentioned in the log. That would be the best place to start a fire.

He found a hatch that led below through the cargo holds. He decided if he had to hurry out he would rather have stairs than a ladder, so he moved aft to look for another route down. The hatch he left open.

Off the corridor that reached the captain's quarters was a stairway below. He supported himself with one hand on the wall, still being gentle with his ankle. The ship's layout made no sense to him, and it seemed to have far more corridors than it could possibly need. He passed through the galley, where a quick glance was more than he wanted to see. One cook lay on the floor with four knives in him.

He passed through and found stairs leading farther down. At the bottom of the steps was an aisle corridor with doors on both sides. It was too dark to see more than that. He backed to the kitchen and found an enclosed oil lamp hanging on a gimble that would let the lamp sway with the ship's motion. He took the lamp down and lit it.

With the lamp in his left hand he moved carefully down the steps. The corridor was a short one, with pantries and storage areas. The hold must be below, he thought, wishing he had just taken the damned ladder.

Finally he found what he was looking for. Part of the hold was divided into stalls, and he pointedly did not look in them. At the far end was a blocked off area with stacked hay bales reaching to the ceiling. He reckoned he was near the center of the ship, fairly low. Perfect.

He untied the jug of oil and poured some of it on the hay. He splashed some on the walls. Once it got low enough, he stepped back and hurled it at the ceiling near the top of the straw. It shattered there, splattering oil all about. None of it splashed onto him.

After a deep breath he pulled the flint and struck a spark that caught the oil at once. Flame instantly roared into life, spreading faster than the oil should burn. He stepped back from a wave of heat. It's like it wants to burn. Desperately.

Before he had even started moving it had spread across the ceiling. The lamp broke open in his hands, glass breaking as if it had been hit with some invisible hammer. With a jerk reflex he tossed it away from him before he could catch fire himself. He ran with all he had towards the rear and the steps up.

Stott could feel the heat of the fire intensifying as he ran, as if it was somehow burning hotter. His heart raced, and his ankle seemed to be getting worse with every step. He could hear his own voice, yelling out, but he felt disconnected from himself, as if he was watching from a distance. Each placement of a foot was deliberate, and every other one now brought a yelp of pain. He'd definitely made the sprain worse, but the fire licked at his back as if it was reaching out to claim him for its own.

He nearly cried in relief when he finally saw the stairs leading out to the deck. Suddenly the world seemed to move in slow motion for him, as he started up them, grabbing at the wall to take some weight off his ankle as he did so. As he neared the opening, the doors above him slammed shut, one at a time. He only barely managed to keep his head from being hit. He pushed against the doors with his hands, to try and open them, but they felt as if something heavy had been placed over them. He shoved against them with his shoulder until he felt something pop and pain ripped through his arm. He then battered against them with his fists, screaming for help. There was nothing there but the darkness and the fire. And the fire seemed to have stopped short, licking the occasional tentacle of flame out to test him. He dodged, but one slipped across his face, setting the edges of his hair on fire. He managed to snuff it with his gloved hands before it could actually take hold, but the smell of burnt hair added to his fear. He turned, frozen in it, and looked into the flames head on.

"Mother of seas and oceans protect me as I sail to the deep unknown.." He found himself reciting words his father had taught him as a child. "I shall fear not your dark waters for I know that you are waiting." He had wedged himself up between the doors and the stairs, his arm thrown up as if it could fend back the flames. His face felt as if it already burned from the heat. "Take me within the comfort of your waves, where --"

A loud smashing noise came from one side of the doors above him, followed by the appearance of part of a blade near one of the hinges. Another came quickly after, by the other hinge, and then there was a great cracking and splintering of wood. Stott's attention was drawn back to the fire in the moment before his father managed to pull one of the doors aside, and it seemed as if the flames roared in anger. He scrambled through the opening as soon as it was large enough, heedless of any pain as he felt the fire lunge forth to try and consume him. His father's strong arms grabbed hold of him and pulled him free, letting the wooden door slam back down behind him.

They ran across the deck, Stott limping and a few steps behind Father. The deck was slick with blood. Flames poked out the still open cargo hatch. Fire shone through cabin windows already. ...Not possible.

At the rail Father waited and let Stott go down first, needlessly reminding him to hurry. Every other rung hurt, but he moved as quickly as he could. He dropped the last couple of feet to the rocking boat, trying to land on his good foot. It was not graceful.

He stumbled over to check Etrick, who was still unconscious. His face was pale with lost blood. His pulse was not very strong, but it was there and he was breathing.

"I'm untying the ropes now, Stott," Father called out, "unfurl the sail. Let's get as much wind as we can!" Lightning flashed angrily on the other side of the ship. Again there was no thunder.

Stott was already not far from the ropes for the main sail, and his experienced hands had the sail down with wind in it in fairly short order. Even still there was fire in the ship's rigging before they started moving away any. Stott moved to the wheel to steer away from the flaming wreckage. The wind was in their favor, and he steered to catch it as best he could. The boat leaned in the wind, moving for all it was worth.

They were both quiet and Stott watched the blaze behind him. His brain was still trying to absorb everything that had happened. He wasn't even trying to understand it yet. It was too much. At least there's no danger of it reaching shore...not burning like that....

The ship grew smaller as the distance grew. One mile. Two miles. As the distance grew he could see the scope of cloud cover. It was dark, especially farther behind the ship. They passed out of it, and he wondered how it was that they were traveling faster than the clouds. The ship was not the center of it, but even still it would be quite a few hours before they were under clear skies.

All three of them had taken at least some small hurt. He wished they had never seen that damned ship. He finally turned to look forward, wanting to see the rest of his family and know that they were safe now, that they were away.

He was dumbstruck to see Etrick standing, walking forwards towards Father near the front of the boat. Etrick was not even limping, as if he was not bothered one bit by his wounded and bloodsoaked leg. It was only then he saw the hook in Etrick's hand. It was a fish grabber, sharp for hooking into bigger fish to haul them aboard. In town similar ones were used in pairs for hefting hay bales, although those weren't as sharp as these.

"Etrick!" he finally managed to call out. Father turned at that, startled to find the younger boy suddenly standing right there.

Suddenly Etrick's arm cocked back and he swung the hook into Father's face. It tore flesh and Father fell back from the impact, sprawling on his back.

"NO!" Stott yelled, letting go of the wheel and leaping forward. He raced the length of the boat, ignoring the pain of every second step. Etrick swung the hook four more times in the time it took Stott to cover the almost thirty cluttered feet. The second swing tore a deep gash in the arm Father put up in front of his face. By the fourth swing Father had stopped screaming.

Stott lunged at Etrick, using the weight of his body to knock his brother back. Unbalanced, Etrick landed sideways, but managed to turn and impale the end of the hook momentarily into Stott's left shoulder before yanking it back out again. Stott screamed at the pain and grabbed at Etrick's wrist. It was slippery with blood, but Stott managed to get a purchase on the sleeve of Etrick's jacket and began slamming the hand with the hook against the deck, trying to get him to drop it.

"What's wrong with you?! Etrick?!" he yelled. Suddenly, Etrick's free hand was on Stott's throat, fingers attempting to close around his windpipe. Stott kept one hand on his brother's wrist while he brought the other to try and pry the fingers away as he started to cough from the pressure. In the process, he caught sight of his brother's eyes.

He couldn't see the pupils very well. There was a red film covering over Etrick's eyes, like a thin jelly. They were open, and unblinking as they looked straight at him. Stott nearly lost his grip on Etrick's wrist when he saw it. Words from the log book ran through his head, Men rose from their bunks and started killing eachother. Some with their bare hands. Etrick let go of the hand around his throat, and reached for some nearby rope, only barely being able to get to it. Etrick didn't seem to notice or care, though Stott feared his throat would not hold out long enough. He yanked his body back, pulling his throat out of Etrick's hand and looping the rope around it a couple of times. He looped the other end around his good ankle and kept it away from him as he turned his attention to trying to pry the hook out of Etrick's stiff fingers. He tried not to think about the stiffness, but his stomach lurched when one finger made a snapping noise when he pried it from the metal. Etrick didn't seem to notice, and Stott noticed he was making a low growling noise.

Stott got the hook free of Etrick's hand and flung it as far away from them as possible, hearing it tumble against the wood of the deck somewhere at the other end of the boat. Etrick suddenly moved all at once, and grabbed Stott's good leg with both hands. He was suddenly reminded that his younger brother was also slightly stronger than he, as Etrick twisted sharply, causing pain to rip through Stott's thigh and hip. Stott screamed again, trying to get away from him, but limited by the rope he'd connected to Etrick's arm.

It was as if there was a moment of stillness then, as Stott caught sight of Father's machete. He didn't remember reaching for it, just that he'd managed to get it out of father's sheath, into his own hand, and was now lying flat on his back on the deck. He slashed the rope he'd connected them with, and Etrick suddenly started punching Stott with both hands, in the stomach and face. Stott tried to roll and fend off the blows with his unarmed hand, but he was exhausted. And he felt something rise up inside him. An uncontrollable anger.

And then he was no longer defending against his brother, but swinging the machete. His voice echoed over the thunderless seas as he screamed, slashing again and again.