A Fist Full O' Dead Guys Read online

  Mr. Surfeit was laughing as he reached down and grabbed the wretched mermaid by the hair. She slapped ineffectually at his powerful arm and twisted her head in a futile effort to break free. Mr. Surfeit dragged her over the rail and dropped her on the deck where she lay in a widening pool of water and blood. The men stood with the harpoon line limp in their hands, looking at the thing.

  From the waist up, the mermaid could certainly not be described as comely, but was clearly a woman. Her body vibrated in a palsied motion that I took to be labored breathing. Her skin looked smooth. Her breasts were flat as if she had suckled babies at them. Her hair was wild. Her eyes were dark holes. Her teeth were sharp and she gnashed them brutally, but she didn't appear to be trying to bite, even out of blind habit, as a dying shark would. She had no legs; they were fused into a tail like the flukes of a porpoise. The elements of her personal anatomy I need hardly detail here. Her wondrous tail thumped sickly against the wooden planks. She pawed at the harpoon that jutted from her chest.

  Mr. Surfeit dutifully placed his foot squarely on her breastbone and seized the shaft of the harpoon. He pulled, but it stuck fast. The mermaid squealed, her head banging on the deck. Mr. Surfeit snarled and twisted the harpoon with both hands. Blood spurted from the jagged wound as he worked the barb through her torso. When he pulled the harpoon free, the mermaid lay still.

  Again I heard the sweet song. Not from the pitiful thing on the deck, but from the sea again. Even as I watched the motionless and bloody mermaid before me, the music brought back the delicious warmth and my limbs grew soft. I saw the same state of discomposure overcoming the crew. Except for Mr. Surfeit. In comparison, he was a blur of vicious energy. He ignored the unseen source of the song and pulled a long knife from a sheath he wore on his belt. He squatted beside the mermaid and plunged the knife into her stomach. She screeched and thrashed anew. Mr. Surfeit crushed his knee onto her throat to hold her still and kept cutting. He drew up a skewered piece of flesh as calmly as a man carving a shank of beef. He raised the dripping meat to his mouth and tore into it with his teeth. He chewed, his eyes closed in ecstasy, her blood smeared across his face.

  I knew that I should feel loathing and horror as I watched Mr. Surfeit consume the flesh he cut from the living mermaid, but I felt nothing but warm comfort because of the song. Mr. Surfeit stepped to Caleb Olmsted, able seaman, and used his fingers to open the crewman's mouth. He stuck the flesh into Olmsted's mouth and screamed, "Bite!" The man did so and, as if the taste of blood awakened him, his eyes widened and he bit through the meat voraciously. As Olmsted chewed, Mr. Surfeit proceeded from man to man feeding them the flesh. He twice had to return and slice more from the still-moving thing.

  Then he approached me. I watched the piece of flesh quivering on his knife blade. I wanted to run, tried in vain to turn my head. But I could not. Mr. Surfeit grinned at me as he used his bloody hand to pull the meat from the knife. He replaced the knife into the sheath, then grabbed me by the hair and pulled my head back. He held the flesh over my upturned face. I felt his fingers pry open my mouth and watched as he squeezed the flesh between his fingers. The warm blood oozed out and dripped into my mouth.

  The distant warmth left in that instant. My limbs gained a tenor of power and strength that I had not felt in many years. I heard the song, but now it was just another sound like the lapping of the waves or the jeering laughter of the men as they danced around the carcass of the mermaid. I felt myself biting for the flesh held above my mouth, without shame. Mr. Surfeit laughed and pulled it away. He said mockingly, "That's all for you, Mr. Coffin. I fear you aren't among the elect. But you've tasted. Now I'm sure you see why I had to come back to these waters." At first, I wanted to plead for the flesh. But my senses were slowly returning and the aching longing that I felt receded rapidly.

  Mr. Surfeit turned around to face the crew. "Lads! Did I not tell you that the riches here were beyond belief?" They cheered loudly. He continued, "There are more of these out there, more than you can count. And now we will have them all. They have no power over us." He stepped to the mermaid's cadaver and placed his foot on it. "Let us carve this catch and feast tonight. Tomorrow we begin to make ourselves the richest men on Earth! What say you?" The eager men strung up the mermaid by her tail and butchered her.

  I turned my face from the appalling tableau. Out in the darkness, bright spots bobbed on the sea. I continued to watch until I realized the spots were actually mermaids. They sang as my men stripped the flesh from their sister.

  26th of April (35Q12' N 122c03' W). God forgive us.

  Coriolanus has become a charnel house. Whaling was always bloody work, which is only just in a process where the stuff of life becomes property. But this week's deeds were nothing more than unspeakable butchery.

  That first horrible night the men shared the flesh of the first mermaid. The song continued, but no longer affected us. In fact, the men jeered at the floating creatures, climbing onto the gunwales to taunt them, their half-naked bodies smeared in blood. When all the meat had been taken from the unfortunate mermaid, the mutilated remains were tossed into the sea. The men feasted all night, the flesh giving them extraordinary stamina.

  The next morning, the hunt began in earnest. Mr. Surfeit had our remaining two whaleboats lowered. In my years as a whaler, I knew well that it was not uncommon for animals that never had concourse with men to bide placidly as seamen passed among them dealing out their ends with clubs and knives. I had seen seals or nesting birds without number blackening beaches slaughtered in a day's effort. Likewise, these mermaids did little to protect themselves, save their incessant singing. Certainly they would dive as seals or walruses do, but apparently needing air, they eventually surfaced again. And they never abandoned the vicinity where our ship rolled gently on the easy swells.

  The whaleboats drifted among them while the men launched harpoons. Often it was simpler to stand in the boat and merely jab with a lance like gigging flounder. The stabbed mermaid thrashed the water and called out pointlessly as she was dragged into the boat and dispatched. And eventually, even more terrible to see, the men began to make a game of it. They became very efficient at determining from bubbles on the surface where the mermaids would rise. Two men would work together; one reached over the side of the boat, seized the mermaid by the hair and pulled her up while the second man gaffed her with a marlin spike or clubbed her with a hatchet.

  The boats returned to the ship piled full. The bodies were lifted up the sides and processing began. With practice, cutting in took little time as the cutters became as skilled at butchering these small carcasses as they had been maneuvering massive whales. Soon meat was being salted away in the hold.

  Whale workings were normally attended by an intolerable stench of oil and blood. However, even dead and anatomized, mermaids smelled as sweet as any perfume ever manufactured. Therefore, Mr. Surfeit had the fires lit. A slurry of pink organs and refuse was shoveled into the trypots to be rendered. The flesh hissed in the pots; greasy smoke twisted up through the yards. The resulting oil was ladled into cooling coppers, then casked, and stored below. Mr. Surfeit fairly swooned at the thought of the money that the remarkable oil would bring. And quite right he was too.

  On the fourth night, Caleb Olmsted discovered yet another use for the mermaids. Olmsted had been cutting-in when he began to caper about deck naked as a savage, but draped in the still bloody skin of a mermaid. He offered a ghastly scene, dancing around the trypots, illuminated by the sparking fire. From that point forward, he would clad himself in nothing but mermaid's skin, even fashioning it into a passable garment with the sewing skills that many seamen possessed. A number of the other men soon acquired similar clothing and it was discovered that with little preparation the skins were as soft as the finest silk and strong as leather. From that point forward, every carcass was carefully flailed and the skins hung in the rigging to dry 6th of May (33234' N 123c27' W). Course SSW under moderate winds. Here I began my narrative. All the mermai
ds here have been hunted out. The diet of their flesh has allowed, even compelled, the men to work day and night. Over the last few days, the boats travel farther every day and return with fewer bodies. The last two days, there have been none.

  We have no firm accounting of the number we have slaughtered. We have well over 1000 skins, but it was several days before these were sought and many ruined in the cutting. I would estimate that we have killed close to 1300 mermaids. We have stored near 3000 casks of oil and salted over 30 tons of meat.

  Now the situation turned. Mr. Surfeit wanted to move on to find a fresh hunting ground. But his hold on the crew loosened as the ship's hold filled. Most of the crew wanted to make for home; they feared risking the wealth they had already gathered at the hands of Maze raiders or ever-petulant nature. There were enough of them that Mr. Surfeit could no longer hold them in fear. During the past weeks, the Capt.'s cabin was penetrated and his firearms taken. Mr. Surfeit had no choice but to order the ship southward and homeward.

  The Capt. himself, whom 1 have recently neglected in this narrative, is a broken man. Mr. Surfeit never offered the mermaid flesh to him and the song drove him mad. He now cringes in the corner of his cabin in his own filth and I suspect it only a matter of time until he is killed or thrown over alive, prey to the sharks who haunt our wake.

  Near sunset a call from the tops identified mermaids off the starboard quarter. The ship came alive and the boats were lowered. The men, all clad in the skin of their prey, were giddy at the good fortune. They were very eager to fire the trypots once again and they hungrily crowded the sides to see. I watched through my glass. The whaleboat under command of Mr. Whitman outpaced Mr. Surfeit's for the Basque harpooner was not concerned over these meager prizes so much as determining whether we were hard among mermaids again or if these were just straggling survivors.

  Mr. Whitman brought his boat into position for Olmsted, acting harpooner, to lay iron into one of the mermaids when it surfaced. I saw the mermaid break the water next to the boat. But she had something long and black, like a javelin, in her hand and the instant she broke the surface, she thrust the object into Olmsted's stomach. The harpooner looked quite shocked as the mermaid pulled him out of the boat and under the water. The crewmen in both boats fairly froze with surprise. Without a second to gather their wits, two more mermaids rose next to Mr. Whitman's boat and grasped it with their hands. Only then did I see from their musculature and from the long beards that covered their faces that these were males—mermen. With a heave, over went the whaleboat and the men tumbled into the sea. I briefly saw young Mr. Whitman appear, trying to scream. A hand seized his hair and pulled him down. He did not rise again.

  Mr. Surfeit's boat pulled for the ship. He plunged his harpoon into a merman and used the lance to block a strike from another. The creatures swam rapidly and converged on the whaleboat just as it touched Coriolanus. The men managed to scramble up the chains to safety as the mermen dragged the boat back into the deep. As Mr. Surfeit gained the deck, he seized a harpoon, turned, and launched it at one of the figures in the water. Amazingly, the merman used the jagged black shaft that he carried to parry the harpoon out of the air.

  Soon hundreds of mermen circled the ship. They did not sing. They made no sound at all as they swam. They merely watched us with visages that were grim and barbarous, eyes as black as any shark's. Crewmen fired down at them with pistols, but soon all ammunition was used up and it was difficult to see a decrease in the number of the enemy for the effort. I gave an order to put on all the sail she would hold. The men raced into tops and soon we were making near 7 knots. The mermen kept pace without effort, skimming through the sea around us. I was horribly aware of the sound of the female skins flapping in our rigging like hellish banners. For the first time, I saw fear in Mr. Surfeit's eyes and I was disquieted by it.

  8th of May. I no longer know our location and must finish these words quickly. The first night of our pursuit, reports came of strange noises below. Only the next day did we realize that the mermen were working with the strength of the wronged to dismantle the ship below the water line. On swells the copper bottom could be seen hanging jagged in places where it was peeled away. Now the planking is being pried apart and we are taking on water. The pumps are manned around the clock, but to little avail. The water continues to rise.

  I went below with Mr. Surfeit and several other men with lances and marlin spikes, but found it difficult to strike at our enemy for they were protected by the rising water and the pitch darkness. Mr. Surfeit stood awash in water above his knees, surrounded by casks of oil that had broken loose and shifted about with every crippled roll of the ship. He made a strange sound and we all looked to see him, his mouth open in surprise, staring at a javelin that protruded from his chest. In a fit of rage, he struck about him with a harpoon, cursing the while. A floating cask collided with him and knocked him down. Thrashing and spitting water, he called for his fellows to help. But rough hands suddenly reached up from the black water and pulled him under. Realizing in horror that the mermen had gained ingress to the ship through some gap they had torn in the hull, we all withdrew to the deck. There, off the starboard beam, I saw a clutch of mermen surrounding the corpse of Mr. Surfeit as it bobbed face down to the surface. But I realized he was not yet a corpse when he flopped over, his mouth stretched in a soundless scream. The mermen grasped Mr. Surfeit and, before my eyes, they tore him into pieces. Then they dragged what was left of him under to the doom to which he has led us. A doom we richly deserve for following.

  There is no escape for us. We are now near foundering. There is some eight feet of water in the hold and it grows unabated. I will secure this record and heave it over. Then I will face the inevitable with whatever of the crew have not taken their own lives rather than fall into the unknowable hands of our enemy. I only pray God that this record survives to meet the eyes of one who will heed its warning. I willingly leave this world to come unto the bosom of Abraham and abide in the everlasting love of our Savior.

  ***

  With that hastily scribbled prayer, the narrative ended. Captain Fremantle closed the small leather book and, rubbing his tired eyes, set it aside. He examined the oilcloth in which it had been wrapped, but there was nothing else to see there. Captain Fremantle's clipper Swiftsure, three days out, bound for China, had encountered a field of flotsam consisting mainly of shattered planks and broken yards. The sea was coated with an oily scum and the air hung heavy with the inexplicably sweet smell of flowers. In spite of the harm to his schedule, Fremantle hove to and boats were lowered. No survivors and no bodies had been found. The oilcloth bundle was the only object so far brought on board.

  Captain Fremantle stepped out of his stateroom for a stroll around the deck, lost in thought. The wonderful scent still hung in the salty air, bringing him an inexplicable peace despite his perusal of the disturbing narrative. He lit his pipe and gazed out over the stern of the graceful wooden ship. Nathaniel Coffin's narrative was a tale that even he was disposed to classify as the ravings of an unbalanced mind. Could there have been a rationale behind such a document aside from insanity? Perhaps Coriolanus had found rich whaling grounds and wanted to spread rumors that would keep other ships away. But then, was the wreckage about him actually Coriolanus or had they planted it on a traveled road so that the book would be found and the story of horror spread? Fremantle shook his head. Perhaps, he suddenly reasoned, this Mr. Coffin was a writer. Many of that ilk race to sea before quickly retracing their steps to safer Bohemian chambers. The unfortunate Mr. Coffin had spun a mighty tale, but apparently had not lived to publish. Fremantle smiled. Perhaps he might arrange to have it printed.

  As he continued to think, the water reddened with sunset. One of Swiftsure's boats pulled into view, making a last pass through the oily flotsam that rested on the placid sea. Fremantle took a cold pull on his pipe and irritably studied its dimming bowl. When he looked up the boat was gone. Glancing port and starboard he saw no sign of it. Ov
er his shoulder, he heard the voice of his 1st mate. "Begging your pardon, sir. We seem to have sprung some seams. Carpenter reports two feet of water in the well. And rising quickly."

  Capt. Fremantle reached back. "Your glass, if you please." He snapped open the instrument and swept it astern. Faces emerged from the water. Fremantle hoped they were the faces of his men swimming up from a capsized boat. They were not. These were not human faces.

  Fremantle felt his fingers grow numb around the brass of the telescope. He could not take his eyes off the mermen, hundreds of them, as they swam toward the ship. How many more were already at work on the hull, letting cold seawater into the ship? They surrounded Swiftsure, surfacing and diving with a sureness of purpose that was thrilling and terrifying. Most of them carried jagged black javelins.

  And a few of their naked bodies were draped with the skins of dead men.

  by Kevin Ross "You got anything you wanna say mister?"

  "Nothin' I wanna waste on you sonsabitches. Let's just get it over with."

  The eyes of the four men standing below him narrowed, their expressions sharpened from amusement to malice. The one called Cale stepped forward, glowered up at Oakes, and slapped the horse's flank.

  The beast lurched forward and the rope around Oakes' neck tightened, choking him even before he was out of the saddle. When the animal had cleared from beneath him his neck jerked as he fell—not enough to break the neck, but strangling him nonetheless. The rope continued to tighten as he swung. He wasn't sure which was worse—the brutal stretching of his neck, the bite of the rope as it burned into his throat, or the simple fact he couldn't breathe. In a few seconds, it wouldn't matter.