Authors: Kyle Warner
Rakasa
Kyle Warner
Copyright © 2016
Kyle Warner
All rights
reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without written
permission except in the case of brief quotations included in critical articles
and reviews. For information, please contact the author.
This is a work of
complete fiction. All events are the creation of the author. All characters
appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real people, either
living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Cover art made
possible with the stock art of Irene ‘ftourini’ Zeleskou (
http://ftourini.deviantart.com/
),
brushes by FieldofGrey (
http://www.brusheezy.com/brushes/1576-strokes-and-splatters
),
and 1879 compass rose found at The Graphics Fairy (
http://thegraphicsfairy.com/
)
First Edition.
Telling Lies Ink.
Printed in the
United States of America.
This
one’s for Mom.
Table of Contents
.
I
might have killed the
captain but the crew would agree that he had it coming.
Six weeks lost at sea. The man with the map is responsible
and no other.
Aye, he might’ve blamed the unseasonable weather, the lack
of stars in the sky, and the sickness in the ranks… but a man can live off of
excuses for only so long.
I was supposed to meet up with Mary a month ago. We would
have been married by now. Our honeymoon, if I could afford a honeymoon after
this trip, would have been glorious.
Instead of spending time with my lady, I clean the decks as
if we’re expecting company, as if we’re not lost at sea, as if…
As if the captain wasn’t dead.
We like to joke that the candle in his quarters is for his
ghost while he reads over the maps that he could not comprehend in life. It’s
not a joke,
exactly
—nobody’s laughing—but we’re all in on the imagining.
And meanwhile, down in the cargo hold, the animals starve
and die. They smell worse every day. The doc thinks that’s what’s causing the
sickness in the crew, but I don’t know much about medicine and science.
I’m a pirate.
Our ship, the Night Wave, was hired to transport rare animals
to a French merchant named Boucher. The animals weren’t meant for Boucher
himself, but rather the Frenchman’s spoiled children who demanded things that
not even Kings and Queens could acquire.
And so we loaded the ship with animals from all corners of
the globe and started our long journey across the Atlantic to deliver the
beasts and receive our gold.
Should have known it was doomed for failure. This is just a
miserable recreation of Noah’s last trip. And we never did find out what
happened to that boat, did we?
The rhinoceros died first. Shelly, her name was. Sad beast.
Looked half-dead when she first boarded back in port. I don’t remember the
names of the tigers and I doubt anybody bothered to name the reptiles. The
zebra is on the way out next, I suspect. Just as well. It cries a lot and it’s
been affecting my sleep.
When I killed the captain nobody was surprised. I think they
all considered doing it themselves but were too afraid to pick up the blade and
put it to skin.
I think they loved me for a couple days while the blood on the
knife dried out in the sun.
Their love did not last. The crew grew uneasy once it was
clear that Jarvis Jenks, the new captain, was no better suited to directing the
ship towards land than the last man in the chair.
Some approached me with the idea of taking over the ship.
Problem is I don’t know the way home either. I look around and all I see is the
malevolent ocean that means to kill us all.
Adrift.
Never have I spoken or even thought that word
while out at sea. It’s completely foreign to me.
Speaking of foreigners…
The Indonesian deckhand Ahmed has been telling ghost stories
about lost ships. I barely understand him beneath that heavy accent, but the
rest of the crew thinks he’s quite the storyteller. I don’t know. I’ve never
been much of a fan of ghost stories unless they got naked ladies in them. And Ahmed’s
stories aren’t like that.
Ahmed told this story about a crew dying in the middle of
the night as a mist rolled over the sides of the ship. Said they got their
blood drained out of their necks. I say that sounds like a vampire, but Ahmed
shakes his head and the others shush me.
I don’t appreciate being shushed and I tell them so, but Ahmed
says, “It wasn’t the vampire. It was a Rakasa,” as if that’s meant to make it
all better.
One of the crew nods and says, “More original that way, I
expect.”
Ahmed was nodding, his point proven true.
I didn’t get it, but I liked the word.
Rakasa
.
.
B
illy
Damon was starving and he wanted meat so he made up his mind that he was going
to eat one of the dead tigers. I tried telling him that it was a bad idea, that
the big cats were rotting and it would only make him sick. But you can’t argue
with hunger. Hunger always wins.
Now Billy’s green and covered with sweat. The boys are
keeping him comfortable, for all the good it does him. We know Billy’s gonna
die next.
It was the captain’s idea that we should keep the dead
animals on the ship even after they started to stink. The contract with Boucher
claimed that the Frenchman was willing to pay for the animals dead or alive.
The captain was dead and we would never reach Boucher. So,
why did we continue storing dead animals in the cargo hold? Because the rest of
the crew are cowards, unwilling to accept the fact that we will never reach our
destination, and I cannot lift a dead rhino by myself.
It was the doc who started the paranoia about the animals
carrying some sort of disease. When Billy started dying after taking a bite,
that was all the proof the others needed.
We don’t go down into the cargo hold anymore. It’s
off-limits.
The doc’s got the crew thinking we’re some kind of a plague
ship.
The boys are checking their scars and freaking out over
every little bump. The men I used to know would recognize sunburn when they saw
it, but they’ve changed on me and grown stupid.
I think when the captain died their minds kind of snapped,
like it was all over now and they were just waiting on permission to die.
Feel kind of guilty about that. Only meant to murder the
fool at the helm, not rob the boys of hope. I’d apologize if I thought it would
make any difference. I don’t, so I don’t.
Our new fearless leader calls all able-bodied men into the
captain’s quarters for a meeting. Only fifteen of us attend, six of which can
barely stand.
Jarvis Jenks sits where I murdered his predecessor. Some of
the blood on the chair hasn’t dried yet but he pretends not to notice.
I used to like Jenks. He’s a worthy seaman and good with a
blade. However, if I’m forced to consider the alternative, I’d rather have the
old man back in the chair.
The captain needed killing, let’s be clear. He’d done us
wrong and so we needed to do wrong unto him. However, he was a leader of men
and had a cruel nature that I admired. I don’t regret what I did, but I do wish
it hadn’t needed doing. We could use his leadership now.
One man wonders aloud if we will be eating our own dead.
“I’m just so hungry,” he says.
Everyone backs away from the guy. We know he’s stupid with
hunger but there are some things you just don’t do.
Cannibals are monsters and we will not become monsters.
Jarvis Jenks tells us we don’t have enough supplies to go
around. He suggests we put the sick out of their misery so that the food and
water will last that much longer for those who may yet survive.
I think he’s joking. I laugh, tell him it’s a good joke, but
everybody’s looking at me like I’m a clown at a funeral.
“Fucking serious?” I ask.
Jarvis Jenks nods.
The ship’s doctor says, “I can’t cure them. Even if we were
back at port, I doubt a team of doctors with the best medicine could save them
now. They’re dead men.”
I consider the idea and ask, “How would you ‘put them out of
their misery’?”
One-Eyed Jack says, “A knife worked well for you before.”
I think about ripping out his other eye, just in case he’s
trying to get a rise out of me. Jack lost his left eye in a poker game. He
tells the story like it was a bloody brawl in a saloon that cost the lives of
four lesser pirates. He forgets I was there and that I know the full story.
Ol’ Jack got caught cheating with an Ace up his sleeve. He
was too drunk to feel shameful, so he boasted about it instead.
The other men tackled him and took a spoon to his eye. I
think I even helped hold his legs still so that he couldn’t kick ’em off. I
thought the spoon was a bit much, but Jack had cheated me, too, so what the
hell?
Apparently One-Eyed Jack is still looking for a reaction,
because he says, “Have you got your knife on you? Or did the captain still have
it stuck in his neck when we chucked him overboard?”
“I don’t need a fucking knife,” I say. “A spoon will work
just fine.”
Jack jumps and grits his teeth. The others notice this and
he shrinks a bit, looking sheepish. I love it.
Jarvis Jenks says, “Can we put this to a vote? All those in
favor of the doctor’s plan, raise your hand.” Jenks does so, letting the ship
know where he expects them to stand on the issue.
Hands start shooting up like they’ve forgotten they’re
voting to murder their shipmates for a few extra crumbs of bread.
I keep my fists in my pockets. I’m not better than them, but
I don’t like killing those incapable of defending themselves.
My side is outvoted thirteen to three. The only other fools
who keep their hands down are Ahmed the Indonesian storyteller and the teenage
cook who might be named Daniel… or Darren… or Dennis… whatever. I’m pretty sure
it starts with a ‘D.’
“Good,” Jarvis Jenks says, rubbing his hands together as if
he’s looking forward to a hot meal. “Now that that’s settled, who wants to
volunteer for the deed?”
I say nothing. I don’t raise a hand. I don’t look anybody in
the eye. I don’t even twitch. But somehow I find myself below deck with a
deadly purpose just the same.
In a boat full of bastards, I am their elected executioner.
Billy Damon’s choking on his own sick in a sweaty hammock
that sways with the unforgiving waves.
I saw a gravedigger pull a man out of a casket once and
Billy looks kind of like the corpse I saw then. His face is sunken, his eyes
are glazed and yellow, and there’s a smell to him that I do not wish to name.
The gravedigger was interested in the dead man’s liver. ‘For
scientific research,’ he said. All I’m interested in is the jugular.
I kneel beside Billy’s hammock and he’s dimly aware of my
presence. He tries to say something. I think he’s asking for water, but one of
my instructions was to ignore all requests for food or drink.
I shake my head, tell him there’s nothing I can do.
His mouth smacks as he tries to talk. “The… tiger.”
“Yeah, probably shouldn’t have eaten the tiger,” I say.
“Tried to tell you. But nobody listens to me.”
“Any… more?” he asks.
“Of the tiger?”
He nods.
The stupid bastard wants more of the meal that killed him.
“So… hungry,” Billy Damon whispers.
I take the edge of the blade to Billy’s exposed jugular
vein. It’s not hard to find, since his neck is so shrunken and veiny from the
sickness. Blood shoots out from his neck and he looks at me like I’m the worst
Judas that Hell ever spat out into the world.
The blood sprays the wall and I watch his eyes go dim. I try
not to hate myself for it. I tell myself it’s the captain’s orders. But more
than that, I remind myself that they were suffering and their deaths would be
slow.
I’m granting them release from their pain. It’s bloody and
it’s awful but I believe there is some kind of kindness to the edge of my
blade.
Billy Damon’s dead, so I stand.
The blade leaves a trail of red behind me as I walk the rest
of the ship and send the damned back to God… or the Devil… I care not which.
.
H
alf the crew is dead now. Jarvis
Jenks caught the sniffles and the doctor is missing. We’re throwing more bodies
overboard with each passing day. Not long until I catch whatever’s going around
and get on with dying, too.
Sometimes my eyes deceive me and I think I see land off to
starboard. Always starboard. But that can’t be. We’re in the middle of the
ocean, far from land, farther from hope and a chance for survival.
And yet we keep on living. I guess we just don’t have much
else to do.
I wrap a rag around my face and dump today’s corpses into
the ocean. The sharks linger along the sides of the hull but they don’t eat
from the bodies. Even the sharks have abandoned us.
Feeling lonely now.
I tried to kill a shark by hanging over the side and
swinging a hook on a rope at the monster fish. The crew pulled me back before I
could get the hook to stick into the big fucker’s head.
The crew said I was acting crazy, singing to the sharks as I
dangled over them. I did no such thing. There were no songs.
But even if there
were
songs, then what of it? Let
me sing, damn you.
As night steals the sun away a fog rolls in and embraces the
ship in its cool touch. It’s the closest thing to a shower that I’ve had in
weeks… or is it months? How long have we been out here now? Who still counts
the days?
I go to the bow of the ship and find Ahmed there trying to
light a fire. He doesn’t seem to mind the company, but there’s guilt in his
eyes.
“A torch to light our way through the fog,” Ahmed says.
“Ah, I see,” I say.
Ahmed’s put a bundle of wood into a vase that he presumably
stole from the captain’s quarters. In between the pieces of wood are tufts of
cotton taken from pillows and bits of fur taken from the animals down in the
hold.
He takes a candle and touches it to his makeshift torch and
it instantly goes alight with a beautiful orange flame.
“Well done,” I say.
Ahmed’s laughing. He takes the vase into his hands and
winces at the heat, then starts to climb up ropes leading to the front mast.
“Where are you going with that thing?” I ask.
“Like a lighthouse!” he says excitedly.
I shrug.
Ahmed puts his legs over the sails and tries to feed a rope
through a hole in the vase so that he may leave it hanging up above.
I’m not surprised when the rope itself quickly burns
through, dropping the vase and the burning wood down onto the deck in front of
me.
It
is
a bit of a surprise, however, when the sail
bursts into flame as well.
Ahmed screams as fire licks his legs. He tries to climb
higher but the flame is quickly growing, reaching up for him. Out of room and
with no other choice, he makes a desperate leap for the water—
—and breaks his neck on the ship’s rail before tumbling
overboard.
The crew’s screaming, coming up on deck to witness the
growing fire.
I back my way to the very end of the bow as cinders fall all
around me.
The men take buckets of water and throw it at the sail but
their work is clumsy and the flame is strong.
The fire spreads to the second sail and I can’t help but
laugh.
“Stupid fucking Ahmed,” I say, shaking my head.
I walk through the cinders and ash, past the men desperately
trying to quell the fire, and find myself at the lifeboat.
The lifeboat can only fit a dozen men or so. Maybe that’s
enough now, considering how many losses we’ve taken, but I have no intention of
sharing. Not with these bastards.
One-Eyed Jack sees me and must know what I’m thinking. He
drops his bucket of water and storms after me like a raging bull.
There are many options open to me, but the best ones all lead
to Jack’s eventual death. I can either share the boat with him and kill him
later or kill him now and make a clean escape. Decisions…
One-Eyed Jack wraps his hairy fingers around the lifeboat’s
ropes and growls at me. His mouth starts working and spittle sprays onto my
shirt. I think he’s probably doing his best to be threatening, but I can’t hear
him over the roar of the fire.
I lash out, grab a handful of his hair, and slam his face
into the rail. He’s mumbling and spitting up blood as I grab him by the
shoulders and give him the big heave-ho.
One-Eyed Jack’s splash is louder than I’d anticipated but
nobody turns my way.
Our captain Jarvis Jenks is screaming as he runs around the
ship with his head on fire.
I think it’s time for me to leave.
I make sure that I have my sword and pistol, then I hop onto
the lifeboat and cut the ropes suspending it above the water.
The landing is rough but I manage.
Above me the ship is an inferno. Men run scared as fire
latches onto their bodies, eats their flesh.
I put the paddles into the water and dare one final look
back.
At the rail is the ship’s cook. Again, I’m pretty sure his
name is Daniel. Could be wrong. Probably am. But it’s definitely a ‘D’ name.
Daniel’s got this sad expression on his face like he’s
watching his father row away or something, like what I’m doing is a personal
injustice to him.
I don’t know if I ever spoke to the kid even once.
I feel bad but it’ll pass. It always does.
But when the kid takes off his boots and leaps into the
water behind me, I sort of pause.
What’s the pause mean? I wonder. To better examine my
feelings about the situation or to give the kid a chance to catch up?
Putting the paddle back into the water now would feel cruel.
I can leave a man to burn but I cannot leave a child to drown. I got ethics,
what can I say?
The kid pulls himself onto the lifeboat. He coughs up salt
water and shivers.
For some reason I ask him if the water’s cold. He just looks
at me. I put the paddles back in the water, moving us away from the sinking
inferno.
I don’t have much hope for my survival—
our
survival,
I mean—but I’d say we have a better chance than that poor lot playing with fire
back there.
The fog is thick and the ocean is endless. I didn’t think to
bring food or water. We’ll likely starve.
I wonder if death by fire wouldn’t have been so bad.
