Dishonest Men Tell No Tales

Chapter 1

Knock knock.

Abigail glanced up from her scripture, expecting her husband to crawl out of his berth and answer the door. All he did instead was continue to stare at the overhead and groan to himself.

Knock knock.

"Shouldn't you get that, dear?" She understood he was tired, but now was not the time to be shirking his responsibilities, especially if it meant interrupting her reading.

Witterel sighed and forced himself onto his feet. "Yes, darling."

He drifted over to the door and opened it to be met with a rather tired-looking Paul Moss.

"What's the problem, Moss?" He grumbled.

Paul glanced back over his shoulder, looking at nothing in particular. He returned his vision to Witterel with sad, solemn eyes. This was not the mere matter of a few food rations having gone to spoil. He carried with him grave news.

"It's Sathi, sir. We... we can't find him anywhere. He's just.. vanished." He explained, his breath visible in the viciously cold air.

Witterel squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed the bridge of his nose with his fingers. Another damn death. How many were there now? Twenty-three crew and five passengers? Twenty-four? He could hardly keep track anymore. Whatever the number was, it had grown too high for him to be surprised or devastated by the news. Just one more drop in the sea of blood.

"Are you sure he isn't... hiding somewhere?" He grasped for any possibilities that wouldn't increase his body count, however unlikely they may be.

"Fairly sure." Paul answered with a shiver. "Had the boys do a complete sweep of the ship and neither of 'em reported anything."

So the man was dead. That much was certain. But how? "When did you notice he was missing?"

Paul rubbed the back of his neck as he considered the question. The whole evening was a great big blur to him between corresponding with McKay, directing the boys, and asking other crew members what they'd seen, not to even speak of those ghouls that attacked. Paul may not have witnessed them committing their monstrosities, but seeing the aftermath was a horror in its own right. "Eh... about an hour ago." It was a guess, really. Could've been ten minutes or two hours for all he knew.

"...Do you think the beasts are at fault for it?"

"Don't know how they would've done it so that they didn't leave behind a body, but aye, it's likely." Paul shrugged. A dark thought crept into his mind. "Either that or he jumped."

"Jumped?"

Paul immediately regretted saying that thought aloud. "To.. well, to get away from it all. But I don't think that's what happened. Sathi isn't— wasn't— that sort of man. He was more strong-willed than that." His shoulders sagged and his shaking head tilted down. "I respected him."

"I'm sure he was a man worth every bit of your respect, Moss." Witterel wasn't particularly close to Sathi, too soft-spoken for his tastes. But he knew he did his job well, made his charges comfortable and happy. Abigail had nothing but compliments when she spoke of him. "I assume you've already informed McKay?"

"I have."

"Good." Witterel thought for a moment; a cacophony of information was rattling around his head and he was doing his best to sort through it all. "He promoted you to chief steward then, I suppose."

"Aye, sir. He did." When the options were either a deranged murderer, two children, or Paul, the choice was perhaps rather obvious.

"You've quite the burden on your shoulders now, Moss. Do you think you're up to the task?"

"I'll do my best, sir. The people on this ship mean a great deal to me, you know. I shan't let them down now." Paul always thought he'd be joyous at the news of his promotion. It was quite the honor, really, and he was sure he could handle it just fine, but now it had come at a cost far too great for him to be happy about it. The death of one acquaintance and the insanity of another. He wondered if the title somehow carried a curse with it, if a sinister fate waited to claim him, just like his predecessors. But, considering the heavy toll extracted from all souls onboard, it seemed likely that the very waters they sailed in were corrupted.

Witterel placed a firm hand on Paul's shoulder and gave him a nod of approval. "I'm glad to hear it. Have you anything else to report?"

"No, sir, that'll be all." The steward bowed his head and stepped back from the captain's quarters.

"Alright. Good night, Moss." Witterel began to pull the door closed, then he yet again caught sight of Paul violently shaking from the cold and paused. "Wait now. I have my first duty for you as chief steward: make yourself a warm cup of tea. You clearly need it."

"Oh, thank you, sir." Paul straightened his shoulders and gave the captain a faint smile. "Good night."

Witterel closed the door and for a moment just stood there, thinking. Muster roll. Had to amend the muster roll. He walked across his quarters with purpose.

"You heard all of that, didn't you?" He asked as he pulled the book off the shelf.

"Aye." Abigail admitted without a hint of shame. Tradition dictated that such talk should never fall upon the ears of a woman, but tradition meant little on this wicked voyage. "What d'you think happened to him?"

"I don't know, and I don't really want to think about it for long either." He sat himself down at his desk and flipped through the pages until the dead steward's name caught his eyes. Surely, whatever happened to him was horrific beyond all reason, same as all the other men who died that night.

Abigail stood up from the sofa and came over to massage the shoulders of her exhausted husband. "I'm sorry, dear. You'll be able to put all of this behind you once we return to Britain."

"Yes. That would be nice." Witterel replied, despite knowing how improbable such an outcome was. He knew the Company wouldn't allow him to just walk away from such a disaster. He expected to be stripped of his title as soon as his feet hit the cobbled streets of Falmouth. So be it. Perhaps he deserved it. He brought his pen down to the blank box next to Sathi's name and wrote.

Destroyed by beast.

Chapter 2

Davey wearily put one foot in front of the other, drawing near the ship's tiller. The odds that Mr. Sathi was still alive grew slimmer with each section of the ship he searched, but he had high hopes that he was hiding out in one of the carpenter's walks. He and Rod liked to hang out back there every once in a while, to play games and chatter about the other crew members. Sometimes, Davey would just come there by himself, too. It was one of the few places on a ship where one could get some peace and quiet, two things that were so rare and so precious to him. Perhaps Mr. Sathi was similar.

He came across the purser's office. He took pause, thinking it probably wouldn't hurt to ask Mr. McKay if he'd seen Mr. Sathi lately. Davey knocked on the door. In no time at all, the door burst open and in its place stood the purser, towering over Davey, unnaturally tall. He looked even meaner than he usually did.

"What?" He asked through gritted teeth.

Davey's already delicate confidence shattered as soon as the sour word hit his ears. He struggled for a moment to get any words out. "Eh.. Have— have you seen M-Mr. Sathi, lately.. sir?" He knew it was improper to do so, but he couldn't even look the man in the eyes as he asked.

McKay's eyes darted down towards a corner of his office, a wild train of thought blitzing through his mind at the mention of the missing steward. In the most literal interpretation of the question, no, he hadn't seen Sathi lately. However, he had— no. Davey didn't need to know that. Not a soul onboard needed to know what was on the purser's mind in that moment. His eyes snapped back to the boy.

"No, lad, I haven't." He snarled.

And the door was once again inches away from Davey's face. He frowned. Perhaps it could hurt to ask a man a simple question. He wanted to move on, but he couldn't shake Mr. McKay's bizarre reaction. Was he just on edge because of what had happened earlier that night? Or was he hiding something? Davey was neither assertive nor curious enough to find out the answer. As he stood there, thinking, he came to realize that the foul, yet subtle stench of blood was hanging in the air. His stomach turned. He didn't want to be down here for any longer than he had to be. He held his breath and began to turn the corner to enter the port walk. But instead of peering down the long, dark corridor, he was suddenly met with an imposing, dimly-lit figure standing in the entrance.

"Ah!" He yelped, the lantern flying out his hand and onto the deck. He quickly scooped it back up and looked to the strange man in front of him, arms crossed and expression deadly serious. For a brief moment he thought it might've been one of those monsters, having returned to the ship to claim yet more lives. Instead, it was just Dr. Evans. "Sorry about that, sir. You frightened me there." His heart was still racing from the momentary panic.

"What are you doing?" The surgeon's voice contained no shred of sympathy.

"Eh? I.. I'm looking for Mr. Sathi, sir. He's been missing for some time now."

Dr. Evans's face remained still as a statue, gazing down on Davey dispassionately. He wasn't talking; the boy was forced to keep stumbling through his nervous explanation.

"Ah... and I thought perhaps.. he might be in one of the carpenter's walks." He continued. The stare was starting to make him sweat.

"He's not down here, James." Dr. Evans stated plainly.

"Oh? Are you looking for him too?" Davey had noticed those two spent a lot of time together. He supposed the man just wanted to see where his friend had gone. But still, that didn't explain why he was being so... eerie.

"Yes, I am. And he's not down here."

"Oh. A-alright, then." Davey took a step back. He was at a loss for words. "Um.. good night." He gave a small nod and scurried back out into the main passageway.

The surgeon did not return his farewell.

When Davey finished his fruitless search of the ship, he made no mention of his strange encounters on the orlop deck to Mr. Moss. Why would he? Doing so would only lead him down a path of uncomfortable questions from his superiors and unsettling stares from the pair of deceitful men. Perhaps he could even be terminated for putting in a bad word against his own supervisor. He was sure it wasn't supposed to work like that, that would be ridiculous, but he had seen already that justice took on cruel, twisted forms when one was out at sea, hundreds of miles away from any courts of law. Doing the right thing had equal chances of leading to either reward or punishment, and Davey really did not want to take that sort of risk. Not now. Especially not now.

Chapter 3

"Dammit." Evans said under his breath. Without even having to cast the light of his lantern down the port walk, he could see a shape crumpled on the deck near the end of the corridor. He walked over. Just as he expected, it was Zungi, silent and lifeless. He set the lantern on the deck and kneeled down, gently adjusting the man's body to inspect it. Blood thoroughly soaked his jacket. Must've died from blood loss, or perhaps whatever impact that had caused the bleeding was enough to kill him instantly. The Memento Mortem was shaking fervently from within his breast pocket. He pulled the thing out, gazing into the empty eye sockets of the grinning skull etched onto the lid. He always hated how smug that skeletal demon looked. If he had a better understanding of what the device was, he'd have a blacksmith grind the bastard clean off. He shook his head. Now wasn't the time to be distracted by such petty thoughts. He flipped the lid open.

Breathing. Strained, weak, dying breathing. Zungi.

Muffled shouts and thumping from the outside the port walk. The crew fighting for their lives, and the awful monster attacking them.

"They make for the lazarette!" Announced a voice louder and more authoritative than the others. Witterel. "Secure the hold!"

Advancing footfalls. Men trying to make a stand against the unholy creature.

Someone grunting. The distinct, erratic popping of a jammed-up musket. "Someone shoot the damn'd thing!" A shrill Scottish voice yelled. Hoscut. "Rrragh!"

A few more unintelligible sounds and suddenly Evans's sense of sight returned to him. There Zungi was, standing in front of him— not exactly alive, but not really dead, either. He was hunched over, his back leaned up against the inner partition, struggling to get up onto his feet. An explosion of blood was shooting out from his chest, though the cause was still unclear. At least Evans now knew that the impact was the cause of death, not blood loss, thankfully. He shook his head and loosened his shoulders in trepidation. He'd now have to look through the small portholes lining the partition to see what exactly had killed his friend. And he already had a rather clear idea of what he'd be seeing when he peered through.

That demon. That terrible demon that had risen out of the depths of a watery hell and attacked the ship. Standing there in the middle of the orlop deck. It was much less unsettling when it didn't move, but it still was frightening enough to make the old man tremble. But as it turned out, what he saw hadn't quite met his expectations. The creature wasn't facing towards Zungi; instead, it had its sights set on Hoscut, backed into a corner and forced to use his malfunctioning gun as a shield. If a spike from the monster hadn't killed Zungi, then what had? He needed a different perspective. He felt that the odds were against his favor, but perhaps the pocket watch was charitable enough to allow him to slip out into the main passageway. He walked aft. The watch shivered in excitement as he neared the corpse of that poor butcher he'd attempted to save. Later.

Evans swore to himself again. The watch had apparently decided against benevolence tonight, for the port walk stubbornly ended in a black void. He supposed he'd just have to carefully observe from in here to uncover the fate of Zungi. Out of curiosity, he sneaked a glance into the purser's office. McKay was hiding in there, sitting on his desk and clutching his knees to his chest like a bloody coward. Evans shook his head and moved onto the next porthole. O'Farrell's miserable face greeted him, mouth leaking blood and eyes dull. Evans made sure to stand back, away from the trio of spikes that pierced through O'Farrell's body and pinned him to the thin wooden partition. He caught sight of his past self, turned away to see the commotion near the ship's bow. His gaze didn't linger. Beyond, he could make out the figures of the three midshipmen, two living, one dead. One living boy clutched a sword in his hand; the other one reached out to their fallen friend. Both looked to the bow with expressions of terror on their youthful faces.

He moved on, skipping past the holes obscured by berths and chests, and stopped amidships. He already knew well what he'd see through this slit. Reluctantly, he put his eyes up to the gap. There Wallace was, sitting on the deck. Zhang lied next to him too. They were a mess. The cuts that had separated their heads from their bodies were crude and uneven, like a child had taken a pair of shears to her dolls. Blood sprayed the bulkheads and deck haphazardly, as if the child had gone on to knock over her father's paints. If only he'd been there to help them. In front of the corpses was Klestil, kneeling down and aiming a musket at the beast. To the side was one of the topmen, charging ahead at the ghoul and waving his scimitar through the air. Evans admired his tenacity.

He arrived again at the first porthole he had peeked through. He looked closer now, in the hopes of stumbling upon Zungi's true cause of death. This time around, he noticed Witterel stood on the stairs, a pair of swords in his hands. Strange, but not what killed Zungi. Miraculously, the next thing he spotted seemed to be a rather likely culprit: Miner standing behind the creature, aiming a musket at it. Perhaps a stray bullet had gone through the partition and struck him. The line of fire seemed to match up rather well. Evans sighed. How could such a stupid accident kill his companion? What was he even doing back here in the port walk anyway? Why was his breathing so labored?

Knock knock.

What was that? Someone must be nearby. In the present. Evans had to get out before anyone came across him. He fumbled the Memento Mortem back into his palm and hastily pulled the crown up. Black clouds grew around his vision and then he was in the real world once more. He clicked the crown back down and tucked the pocket watch into his vest. Without much tact or grace, he killed the light of his lantern and paced down to the end of the port walk, listening to who was there.

"No, lad, I haven't." McKay's voice snapped, then a door slammed shut.

Whoever that lad was, Evans would be sure he wasn't getting into the port walk.

Chapter 4

Zungi stepped back, in horror of the grotesque creature advancing toward him. A monstrously large crab, upon which rode a demonic, seaweed-clad, vaguely human creature. It whirred and clicked and groaned, and it was crawling towards Zungi with unnatural speed and a thirst for blood. He raised the pistol up at the thing, determined to make his mark against it. But the rider moved quickly, reaching from behind its back and producing a long, vicious-looking spike. Panic spreading over him, Zungi turned to run away, but he was already dead as soon as the thing spotted him. The spike pierced through the flesh on his back like a needle into a pincushion. He seized in pain, the pistol falling out of his grip and thudding onto the deck. The agony was too great for him to remain standing, and he swiftly collapsed onto his hands and knees. Pain coursed through his body, far beyond the boundaries of the wound itself, like some strange cancer. He had to get away, before that monster finished him off. He dug his nails deep into the wood and dragged himself forward, consuming all of his rapidly draining energy to do so.

Someone's legs were standing in his way, shaky, wide-stanced, clad in black boots. Zungi couldn't see who it was; twisting his neck up to look would only slow him down. His fingers brushed against the man's foot. The man gasped and cleared out of his way, too terrified of the beast to help him out. That was fine, Zungi understood the man had more important things to deal with. If he could just make it to McKay's office, then he'd be alright. That was all he needed.

He continued onward, dragging himself along, keeping his head pointed down at the deck. He could hear horrible things happening behind him. The whirring of that strange beast, sounds of terrible, guttural choking, someone calling to set the thing ablaze. Zungi wished he could help, but knew he wasn't in the position to do anything for them at the moment. As he crawled, he could feel the warm trickle of blood pulsing out his back and his stomach. He was starting to taste iron in his mouth. He kept going.

Almost an eternity seemed to pass before Zungi reached the door, but he had done it. He'd be safe now. The spike lodged in his body kept him powerless, unable to get up onto his feet. He was instead forced to knock and scratch at the foot of the door like some beggar, praying that McKay would be able to hear him.

"McKay..." he croaked. "H-help..."

On the other side of the door, the purser stood frozen in place. He could hear perfectly well the steward's desperate pleas to enter his office, but he couldn't open the door. He just couldn't. There were far too many important records lining the shelves of this cabin, far too much critical information stored in his head to risk one of those things breaking in and doing horrible, unspeakable things to him. He told himself he really did want to help Zungi; the man had been working for McKay for six years after all. He should care about him. But there were things in this office worth protecting more than one mere man who, by the sound of his weak voice, was practically dead already. Stewards were replaceable. But Duncan S. McKay was not, for he was the greatest purser that Orkney— nay, all of Scotland— had ever produced. He stepped up to the door and put his ear against it, waiting to hear the sounds of the man going off and leaving him alone. The screams of a dying boy were making it hard to make out Zungi's pathetic cries for help.

The purser's office was no safe haven for the injured steward. His supervisor was not coming to his rescue. With great pain and expenditure of energy, he forced himself to keep crawling. He now resolved to take refuge in the port walk. Surely the beasts would be unable to chase him down there. He reached the entrance eventually, but he had to take pause. That dreaded spike had to go. He grasped blindly around his back, eventually stumbling upon the splintery projectile with the brush of a fingertip. He grasped tightly around the thing and, after taking a deep breath, pulled it out. The wound stung and throbbed with such intensity that he became numb to all other sensations. The rough, jagged ripping of flesh set his nerves on fire and tormented his mind. He let the spike slip out of his fingers and clatter onto the deck. He took a moment to recover, his whole body shaking in agony.

Somehow, sheer determination brought him back onto his feet. He stumbled along, his hope renewed. He was not going to die here. He would be alright. But in the moment, he was still weak and injured. The wound still had its teeth dug deep into his abdomen and refused to let go. He had to stop again to catch his breath. He leaned against the partition, breathing heavily. There was a garble of sounds and shouts from the other side, but he didn't bother to listen to the words. As he began to stand tall again, pushing himself off the wall, a small, piercing thing struck clear through his abdomen, and just like that, he was dead.