That day is scarred into my memory. It haunts me. I don’t need to worry about the hells, because every time I sleep, every time I drift off… I see it. The faces. The fear. The freak below the waterline.
The crew had gathered for the show in the morning winter sun, milling about the various decks, rigging and rails. I use the term ‘crew’ lightly, for they were a ragged bunch. Torn uniforms. Foul mouths. Poor hygiene. Rejects of the Regime – stuck on muck duty of cleaning up the shipping lines from any threats.
Especially, Sea Monsters.
That’s how this ship, this barque of a monster hunter earned its name: The Kraken Krusher.
That’s what I had been told anyway… from the other captives that is.
All fifteen of us. Accused enemies of the Regime. And now we stood side by side in a haphazard line in the centre of the main deck. The rags of our trousers and pants flapping in the sea breeze. Some of us were hardened soldiers, like Carlsberg and Jorg, who had been captured while helping defend a naval port to the south, the wounds from their captors still fresh and weeping. Others were Allied Nations sailors who had been found floating adrift after their ship had been sunk by a pair of Regime Frigates. Eight of them stood beside me, a mix of unshaven faces, heavily tattooed torsos and scar tissue. There was Taven, a wiry old man with several missing teeth. If you saw him anywhere but here, you’d think of him as a harmless beggar. But one accusation of treason and he found himself with us. The crew considered him a bad omen—always playfully sabotaging things on the ship for his own amusement. One of the last captives was one that gave me the creeps – Istvan. With long scraggly dark hair and leather skin, he talked to himself constantly in a murmur. He was a former member of the crew that apparently lost his mind during an encounter overboard in the Northern Seas. Something had spooked him so terribly, that any time someone in the crow’s nest cried out ‘Thar she blows,’ he would violently attack anyone around him. And on this ship, that was a common affair.
Then there was me.
Flynt Cunningham.
A full head shorter than the other captives and not a chest hair to show for my age, I stood. My whole ten years of life experience on show for what it’s worth. I’d like to say I was quite wiry and fit for my age. But the scraps of food I was fed every few days had whittled me down to more of a twig amongst the oaks.
The Regime sailors laughed and jeered. A ship’s biscuit struck the side of my head and bounced off into the crowd. A slight tremble rattled through me, which I convinced myself was more from the ocean chill than any sort of fear.
I was a good liar.
A voice boomed from somewhere behind the crowd gathered on the quarterdeck. A mixture of forced charisma and pipe-smoked lungs. ‘Welcome, guests. Welcome crew. Welcome… to this wonderful new event.’
The men hushed to a murmur as he did.
The small sea of crew parted ways and The Captain paced confidently through them, regarding each and every member gathered as he spoke. He wasn’t tall nor short, but he certainly stood out from the crowd with a hat that you could use to signal other ships, and facial hair that looked like it took far too much attention to maintain than would be considered sane. And with the ship anchored, Mordgill, the newly appointed quartermaster was free to slide behind him in his wake.
‘You spoke. I listened. You said you wanted entertainment. I am here to deliver that to you.’
The crew cheered in response. The Captain waited for them to settle as he made his way toward us captives. Walking down the line but speaking to none of us in particular he continued, ‘Today you will see a spectacle like none other. A drama of the seas, where the very lives of men will be at stake.”
‘And boys Cap’n?’ called out someone from the rigging.
The crew laughed.
‘Aye, and boys,’ he smiled and delivered a pantomime bow in my direction.
I gulped involuntarily. My father had left a mark on the Captain before they separated us. A headbutt, a broken pipe and blind eye as thanks for his capture. Now the tightness of the scars across my back from the cat-o-nine tails tingled in The Captain’s presence.
I thought he was done with his revenge. Apparently not.
‘And what’s even better lads? You get place bets of your hard-earned coin. Some of you, could walk away from your service of The Regime with a tidy sum for your retirement.’
The crew chatted away excitedly at that.
‘Or you could blow it all partying in the next port because life is short!’ he cried.
A roar of laughter erupted all around. They stomped the deck in excitement. The planks rattled with their enthusiasm. It wasn’t all that surprising really. A ship, with this sort of crew, in this line of high-risk work, with this level of discipline… it was held together more from hope, rusty nails and a patchwork crust of barnacles along the hull. I guess it kind of made sense – with the amount of timber that got damaged on the ship, it kind of seemed to develop a philosophy that there was no need to fix it if the vessel wasn’t going to fall apart into the sea. Us captives resented it even more with extra shifts on the bilge pump though.
‘Today, you will bear witness to a trial. A challenge. A bid for freedom.’
That last word caught my attention.
‘Today, these guests-‘
‘Dontcha mean pests Cap’n?’
More laughter.
‘No,’ he grit his teeth, ‘Now shut up and stop interrupting.’
Breathing in, he continued, ‘Today… these guests… will voluntarily participate in the first step toward leaving this here ship.’
Voluntary? Ha! Where’s the catch? I thought.
‘All they have to do is survive.’
There it is.
‘Fifteen times.’
Yup it gets better.
‘And freedom will be theirs.’
Oh, you make it sound so easy Captain.
‘I call it “The Sea Monster Challenge.” And these guests are now to be addressed by their new titles.’
His pacing stopped beside me.
‘You may now refer to them as…
His eye met mine.
‘Bait!’
The crew burst into a chorus of cheers and slander – almost regressing into apes amongst the treetops. One of the crew stepped forward to the Captain. A pudgy man, with sausage fingers. He had a dirty piece of paper and a portable quill with its own ink well.
‘As already organised, Salvey here will start taking your bets!’
And with that announcement, the crew, hands holding out sovereigns, swarmed in toward the bookkeeper like ants on a carcass.
Time passed as we made our way to open waters. I found myself bunched in with the other captives near a missing piece of gunwale on the starboard side of the main deck. Istvan’s murmurs became increasingly erratic, as his wild eyes flitted about the white caps on the ocean. Taven’s bony elbow dug into my side. When I looked at him, he just smiled with his remaining teeth. Perhaps he thought that this could end his suffering. Or maybe he was losing his mind like Istvan. The sailors had taken either side of the group and looked somewhat reluctant to return to the waters that had almost claimed them. I could make out broad shoulders Carlsberg, and wiry Jorg. They had positioned themselves closest to the edge of the ship. Jorg though, looked pale and fevered – I could smell the festering of his wounds. The sailors of the Kraken Krusher must have too, for the odds Salvey had given him to survive was almost as bad as mine. Almost.
The smell soon changed to something more concerning. The familiar metallic scent of blood, chum and pig innards was being shovelled overboard in the ships wake. A white painted barrel with a chain and weight, was kicked into the sea and the ship sailed onward, coming around to starboard before the order for the sails to be furled and the anchor to be dropped was given.
The ship slowed and as the anchor bit into the sea floor, turning back toward the barrel slightly. I could just make it out. It bobbed on the currents no more than eighty fathoms away.
The waters were watched by five of the ship’s ballistae—great steam-cranked crossbows armed with fletched harpoons. A handful of rusted cannons stood beside them, already loaded with shot, as if hungry for a worthy target.
A silence had fallen over the crew, as what little discipline they had, they saved for the hunt.
The cries of gulls enjoying floating scraps and the lapping of waves filled the air.
The ‘Bleeders’ – the small boats sent out to finish off wounded monsters, batted gently against the davits on the side of the ship. Itching to be launched.
Finally, The Captain stood atop the poop deck and yelled, ‘Are you ready bait? When I give the signal, all you need to do is swim to the barrel. Touch it and swim back. It’s that simple.’
I eyed the Captain. He was loving this. Pipe smoke billowed from his nostrils, and he laughed with the crew nearby. I watched and waited for his signal, whatever that would be. He turned and studied the waters with a looking glass.
‘Wait for it.’
I felt the bodies of those around me tense.
‘Wait for it.’
I looked up at the men in the rigging. The began to point at the waters. A few jaws dropped.
‘Ready?!’
Istvan babbled away to himself. Someone farted in nervous anticipation. I swear it wasn’t me.
‘Thar she blows!’ cried the Captain as he fired a flintlock into the sky.
The bodies moved. Splashes erupted as captives landed into the water. Before I could leap into the drink, something grabbed me instead. I looked up into the wild eyes of Istvan as he wailed, sinking his nails into my shoulders. He tackled me through the moving bodies. I felt gravity replace the timber decking. We hit the water hard, in a swirl of bubbles and brine.
His grip changed and a moment later his hands had found their way to my throat. Drifting deeper, my mind spasmed in panic. I clawed at his face with my fingers. His grip tightened. I
gouged my thumb deep into his eye socket and poked around inside. A purple cloud blossomed from it. Still, he held on. Spewing out bubbles in a scream.
Suddenly his grip loosened. Released. I brought my legs up and pushed away with a mix of panic and sinew. Stroking, I paddled toward the surface.
I broke the waterline and gasped. Coughed. Retched saltwater.
The crew cheered from above. Their eyes scanning the waters around me. Enjoying the spectacle. Some cried out in disappointment at my escape.
Who had helped me?
Before I could return my face to the water. The square-jawed Carlsberg surfaced beside me. His demeanour was calm despite the battle that had just happened below.
‘Kid, swim.’
I gawked at him.
‘Go!’ he yelled before turning and stroking in the direction of the distant barrel.
The other captives were now spread over a considerable distance. The distant coloured tattoos signalling that it was the sailors who were leading the race.
Carlsberg joined them, stroking overarm through the waves. He looked back once more and yelled ‘Swim!’
So, I listened. Swim is what he said. And swim is what I did. For me, it was something I had always been good at. My father had always taught me that if you wanted to spend your life on the water, then it was no good not being able to survive if you fell in. Now, all those times I had learned to swim down to spear fish in coral reef or ridden waves along the sandy shores of our village, were paying off. Stroking overarm, I placed my face in the water and kicked away. Pacing myself and lifting my head every few strokes to readjust my approach to the barrel.
It wasn’t long before I had passed several of the others. Jorg, looked sluggish and fatigued as he turned to dog paddle to keep his head above the water.
Taven had taken to plodding along on his back squirting water from his mouth, apparently enjoying the moment.
I stuck my head up to check where I was. The ship seemed a long way away. The barrel bobbed no more than fifteen fathoms away.
I was closing on the allied sailors at the front of the pack, when I heard a scream that was cut short.
We all stopped swimming. Floating on the surface, we eyed one another. A mental count sounding in my head. There had been eight sailors before. Now I could only count seven. The others, whose faces were usually hardened, looked at one another in panic.
A splash behind me.
Bubbles rising to the surface.
Six.
I knew not to wait any longer. Putting my head down, I covered the distance to the barrel. I touched the rough slippery paint and looked back in the direction of the ship. The sailors had given up on trying to reach the barrel and were now manic. Splashing the water as they swam, each one treating the ocean like it owed them coin.
Amongst them, still making their way toward me was Carlsberg. He was dragging something through the water.
Someone.
It was Jorg. He must have passed out from his wounds. Carlsberg himself seemed to fatigue as he moved with the speed of a wind-blown jellyfish through the currents.
My eye caught sight of something dark and quick plucking another sailor from the surface.
Five.
Something inside me compelled me next. I should have swum back to the boat. I could have swum back. My head told me to. But somewhere inside me, my body made a different decision.
I swam over to Carlsberg and Jorg. Carlsberg, startled by my sudden appearance swung a fist involuntarily at my face. He pulled his punch short.
‘By the gods, kid. I thought you were a monster.’
Another scream.
Four.
‘Sorry to disappoint you,’ I said, pushing my arms under Jorg and adding to our speed.
‘You don’t need to do this. You can make it. Jorg is my brother.’
‘You two are brothers?’
‘Kind of. We’re soldiers. Brothers in arms. I won’t leave him behind.’
I hadn’t heard of anyone like that before. Despite the war, it always had felt distant. I had never seen many soldiers before. Just the damage they left in their wake. Especially Regime soldiers.
This one was different. He had saved me and now he was rescuing his friend. His brother. Somewhere inside, I needed this. It felt right.
Having touched the barrel, we gradually made our way back toward the ship. Jorg, looking pale as a corpse drifted under our guidance. If only he had of been as bloated as one, it would’ve been far easier to drag him with us.
The distance to the ship closed painfully slow. My arms and legs ached from the effort of dragging along Jorg. Carlsberg didn’t utter a single complaint. He struggled in silence with his brother. So, I kept my mouth shut and did the same.
I could see one of the sailors had made it back to the ship and was clambering the side rigging that stretched into the water. I wondered if in some sick sense of the crew’s humour they would throw him back in like an unwanted catch.
That’s when I felt a tug. Jorg’s body jerked. Carlsberg swore. In a splash, Jorg was ripped from my grasp below the surface. Carlsberg went with it. Stunned, I stared. The surface churned, oily and slick as if nothing had happened.
A cry came from the ship.
A chorus of heavily tensioned ropes twanged.
A harpoon hit the water beside me. Followed by two more. Their cables pulled taut immediately.
From somewhere in the depths below came a deep rolling moan.
The waters, some ten fathoms behind me, erupted upward in a spray. Three black tentacles rose in defiance. Harpoons protruding from them. One held the body of Jorg and with it, Carlsberg as he struck out with meaty fists.
Floats hit the water. Big barrels of air, bolted firm to the cables holding the harpoons.
Another cry from the ship, echoed by the crew. A thunderous series of booms and whistles as the cannons balls flew past me. One struck the tentacle holding Jorg. A sizeable chunk of calamari spraying into the air. It released its prey and he and Carlsberg fell back into the water.
The ship’s crew had found their rhythm. Firing a mix of harpoons and cannonballs, they now seemed to have secured the lines to the cranks and were slowly dragging the sea beast toward the ship. The ocean now ran an inky blue as the creature bellowed and bled.
I swam under the writhing masses of flesh. I found Carlsberg floating warily. Dazed. Regardless he still held Jorg.
‘Let’s go!’ I yelled over the noise.
Carlsberg seemed to be on his last reserves of strength. Half drowned. I realised, he too was bleeding. His wounds from his capture had all but opened, revealing deep lacerations into muscle.
‘Swim!’ I yelled again.
I stroked and pulled. Carlsberg’s weight adding to Jorg’s.
The cables pulled at the creature. A giant bulbous head emerged from below. Its wails seemed to grow in volume. Angry. Desperate. A large yellow eye, bigger than a ship’s wheel, with a horizontal pupil, surfaced right beside the three of us. It constricted and focused. We were the source of its pain. The remaining tentacles that had until now stayed in the depths, emerged around us. Eight in total, they bore down from above, like surfaced sharks ready to strike. One slap from these meat tree trunks would break a man beyond repair.
Carlsberg acted first.
Moments ago, I swore the man was almost prepared to meet the divines. Now, fuelled by rage he hurled himself at the creature. With heavy fists, he bludgeoned the eye. At first his strikes bounced off the jellied sphere, scraping along the surface. Teeth gritted, he struck harder. A
fist found traction, ripping through tissue. It buried to the wrist, piercing through a rubbery membrane. The monster flinched. A second, thicker sheath closed over the eye. It wailed. He roared. It howled. Noises that to this day, cry out in my mind whenever I try to sleep.
The pain from Carlsberg’s wrath caused the creature to retreat to below the water with renewed determination. Some cables snapped. Floats failed.
The beast began to descend.
A whistle and a thunk. Carlsberg yelled in surprise and agony. A harpoon now protruded from his shoulder, pinning him to the brow of the beast.
‘Carlsberg!’ I yelled.
He writhed in teeth grinding agony. Eyes clenched, he clawed at the shaft in vain. The cable pulled taut. Another harpoon struck a few more feet above him into what could only be described as the forehead of the creature.
‘Go kid! Save yourself. Take my brother,’ he half yelled, half wheezed.
I turned back toward the ship.
‘What are you doing?! You’re killing him. Stop!’
They responded with another harpoon fired past me.
I turned back in time to see the creature do what animals do when faced with hunters and a sure death. They return to where they feel comfort and safety. In this case, it was the depths below. And with one last agonising gasp, I watched as Carlsberg saw the sun one last time.
…………………………
It didn’t take long for the Kraken Krusher to live up to its name. The crew were seasoned in not letting prey escape. More harpoons and shots had quickly retrieved the beast from the depths and drawn it back to the surface. Still, it fought. Weakened. Writhing. Dying. All but two tentacles were now pinned so heavily they were useless. As the creature was skull dragged the remaining distance back to the ship, it made my attempts to return with the limp Jorg more inspired. A dying kraken was still a threat, and now the angry mass of it brushed at our feet. The crew, cranks and cables, worked away.
Before long, we washed up against the cargo netting draped over the side into the water. The crew cursed or cheered depending on the outcome of their gambles from earlier. The Captain,
stood by the open railing and watched. Reaching out, I grabbed the netting with my arm and pulled us in as best I could. Jorg was still unconscious and lolling about in my arms. He was in no condition to climb. The crew watched me struggle.
‘Can you pull us up?’ I called out.
The Captain continued to stare. The crew’s faces became stone.
‘Oi! Pull us up! I can’t do it myself.’
I panted and spluttered as the waves smacked us up against the barnacled hull.
The Captain smiled.
‘Can you hear me? Or do you have brine in your brain? Pull us up now!’ I screamed.
‘I can hear you perfectly well Bait. But I don’t think you understand this situation. This challenge is all about surviving. If the lad can’t save himself, then he doesn’t deserve to be here.’
‘What?! But we touched the barrel like you said!’
‘I don’t have space on my ship for dead weight. You have a choice. Either you climb aboard, or we set sail without you,’ he pulled out a fob watch and checked the time. ‘You have a minute to decide.’
He turned on his heel and walked off.
I yelled. I hollered. The crew continued to drag the monster in, preparing a final cannon shot between the temples to end its suffering. I watched as it rolled over to face the ship. Upon its brow, a macabre tiara pinned in place and wrapped in cables and rope; the corpse of Carlsberg. Lips blue, eyes vacant.
Surely, he didn’t die for nothing. Gritting my teeth, I strained. Every fibre of muscle I had tensed and pulled. But what chance did a ten-year-old have moving the heap that was this unconscious soldier?
I wrenched.
I heaved.
He flopped about in response. Jorg was destined to be devoured by the sea.
Warm tears pooled in the corners of my eyes before being added to the salty brine of the ocean with each wave.
‘Wake up Jorg! I can’t do this myself. Wake up damn you.’
A commotion rang out somewhere above. The sound of a pulley losing control and a splash nearby. One of the Bleeders, the ship’s small hunting craft had somehow fallen loose into the water. I looked up toward the davit ledge where it had come free. The broken toothed grin of Taven smiled back down on me. His hoarse high-pitched cackle disappeared back beyond the gunwales, followed by the angry yells of some crew. Without wasting anymore time, I spent the next moments in a clumsy, yet far more successful retrieval of the unconscious Jorg.
Not happy with the situation, but not willing to lose a valuable boat, the Captain and the crew set to retrieving the Bleeder – and us with it. Soon, we were being pulled up the side of the ship. Looking upon the deck, I could see who was left from our time in the water. Two sailors remained, they sat huddle together, eyes distant. Taven was rested up against the mizzen mast, his arms and legs now bound. Still, he seemed rather pleased with himself, even though now he appeared to be short a few more teeth than before. That left Jorg and I. A boy and a soldier. I considered the deep wounds and his laboured breathing and wondered if he would survive the night. Had Carlsberg died for nothing? What of the other captives? Would I be seeing their remains spill onto the deck of the Kraken Krusher as they dissected the beast for its parts? What was the point?
The wind picked up and I felt the aches throughout my body, care of Istvan and his brief episode overboard.
The Captain considered the bled out corpse of the creature, now lashed to the side of the vessel. He shook his head.
‘Lads, it’s a juvenile. A runt. Remove its beak… and take one of the tentacles for the crew’s dinner, then cut it away. Like I said, we don’t need dead weight around here.’
Within minutes, the crew had removed the precious ivory and done the Captain’s bidding. With the anchor now up and the sails open, I watched us pull away from the giant dead mass floating in the water. It twitched and jerked as the sharks began to claim the remains.
That night, Jorg passed in his sleep. Without ceremony or prayer, his body was added to the watery tomb where his brother had made his final sacrifice.
Like I said, that day changed me. More death. More loss. Fewer beside me.
So, when I hear people talk about fearing the hells below, I smile. Because whatever the hells or Regime could throw at me—I had already survived.
I just had to do it again. Fourteen more times.