How long had it been?
He didn’t know how long he’d been drifting in the Atlantic, floating among the flotsam of his ruined ship. Days? Weeks? None of it mattered now. His life—the only precious thing he had left to worry about. What little of it remained.
He hobbled down the street, toward the small inn/pub combo. He took the cobblestone walkway two steps at a time, paused, and then took two more. This approach ensured his body would not become overtaxed. His muscles protested movement of any kind, and hot flares of pain streaked up and down his body. He longed for the comfort of a mattress and pillow, the warmth of a hot compress and kindling in a fireplace. Tea. Yes, lots of tea. The phantom aroma of a hot cup filled his nostrils and that alone was enough to keep him warm for the time being.
A half hour later, the survivor found himself before Siren’s End, the last pub on the edge of the world. He glanced around the dead street, remembering the days when this seaside town hadn’t been so derelict, when townsfolk of all kinds populated these streets, bustling about their day. Those days were long gone, and it had been years since the shops around Siren’s End had seen business, save for the pub and their occasional visits from passing fishermen and semi-lost seafarers. The occasional crew of adventurous pirates.
Now, everything here was closed.
Everything here was dead.
Except for Siren’s End.
And Garrett Means, last captain of the King’s Folly, aimed to find out why.
The buildings he passed were covered in soot, the fires that caused their condition long since smoldered. Debris littered the streets; old newspaper pages blew across his path, wooden slots from ruined crates and rum barrels lay across the cobblestone walkways, and spoiled food lined the gutters, too rotten even for the rats to claim.
A town in utter ruin.
When he arrived at Siren’s End, he marveled over the impeccable condition of the inn’s exterior. Fresh paint coated the brick facade. Black smoke unfurled from the chimney, suggesting the fireplace was in peak working condition. Gulls circled the sky above, hoping to secure fresh scraps from the kitchen.
Captain Means heard nothing from his position. The place seemed quiet on the inside, along with the apocalyptic town it resided in.
This dead city on a dead island off the coast of—if what Means had witnessed was any inclination—a future dead country.
Means headed for the door and was surprised to find the entrance unlocked. He shouldered his way inside, stood in the open doorway for a moment and took in the sights of the interior décor. It was as nice as any other pub along the coast. A place nice as this should have packed in quite a crowd, but today the joint was empty. Not a single patron was cozied up at the bar or occupying the nearby tables and Means suspected the inn’s check-in log would prove every available room vacant.
Behind the bar stood a shadow.
“You’ve returned,” the barkeep said, drying a drinking glass with a dirt-smudged towel. “With far less company than when last we met.”
Tempted to rush the man, Means controlled himself, harnessing his raw emotions. He was in no condition to fight. No condition to take another step but he did so anyway, fending off the dizzying lightheadedness that crawled throughout his skull, erasing his worldly perception as it circumnavigated his dome.
“You…” Means managed to say, continuing his little two-step toward the closest stool. “You…”
“Yes, me. I know. A bastard, ain’t I?”
“Did you know? Did you know she was among them? My Isabella? My sweet?”
The elderly man scratched his thick mutton chops with his free hand. “Isabella? Isabella?” He squinted. “Yes, I seem to remember an Isabella. Your sweet, you say?”
“You know damn well. I told you we were searching for her during our first arrival at this godforsaken place.”
“I recall, yes, I recall.”
“Where is she now?” Means put out his arms, resting his palms on the edge of the bar. He didn’t know how long he could support his weight like this—maybe a few seconds—and then lifted his leg so he could plant his rear on the cushioned stool. His other leg couldn’t handle the shift in weight and gave out, causing him to fall to the floor.
The barkeep heehawed. Another gut-shaking outburst followed. “Sure are a persistent bastard, aren’t ya?”
Harnessing a few shreds of strength, Means rolled over. He faced the barkeep, the reason his brain would manufacture nightmares for every sleep to come. His lips parted, revealing teeth as yellow as a ripe banana. More laughter came from the insidious proprietor; it echoed in the empty chamber that was Siren’s End.
“You fed us to those things,” Means said, his lips stinging with a numb sensation. He sat up, his spine feeling like it had separated in several places. “You… sent us to that island.”
“Aye, I did.” The barkeep was pleasantly okay with this fact, causing Means cheeks to burn with indignation. “If it’s any consolation, I take no pleasure in feeding them. They mean nothing to me.”
A lie. A bold lie. His smiling face told Means that he enjoyed the arrangement very much. Too much.
“You’re a liar. A traitor to the Royal Navy.”
The barkeep shrugged. “Perhaps. Perhaps, my boy. Perhaps.”
Means felt a surge of energy flow through him, and he launched himself to his feet. The sudden movement caught the barkeep by surprise. The man’s eyes flared, his lips naturally forming a tight oval. He backed away, seemingly expecting Means to clamber over the bar and begin his assault, a barrage of blows that would leave him bloody or worse. Dead, dead like the islands his little monsters ruled.
“Do I scare you, old man?” Means asked.
The barkeep didn’t respond. He stared at Means, holding the dirty glass out in front of him like a pointy knife.
Means bared his teeth. “I should kill you.”
The barkeep’s rigid expression broke, and his twisted smile returned. “You won’t hurt me. You won’t dare. You’ve seen what the women are capable of.”
“You are a devil.”
“Of sorts.”
Means couldn’t believe what he was about to ask. “What sort of devil are you?”
The barkeep brayed with more laughter, a deafening outburst that threatened Means’s eardrums.
“Man,” the barkeep said, his voice barely above a whisper. “The worst devil of them all.”
40 Hours Ago
A pillar of fire in front of him and Means realizes the fore mast is burning. He turns and realizes the main mast has been set aflame, too. His men are scurrying across the deck, searching for either means of escape or recovery. Judging from the chaos, it seems the latter isn’t likely. Men are abandoning ship, jumping overboard head first into the rough waters below. The entire stock of rowboats has been deployed, already gone amidst the fog, the all-encompassing white glow that surrounds them all.
He quickly wonders how he ended up here. He remembers Siren’s End, the barkeeper drawing them a map to the island located a little less than fifty nautical miles from where they had sat and drank ale, and ate until they slipped into mini comas.
An Island of Women, he had said, which, to men who’d spent a great deal of time on the sea and limited hours amongst the company of women, sounded heavenly. They had set course at once and sailed west, toward the location of this great mystery.