Boarding Party • 15. "Working for the Enemy" Part III (Patreon)

The game of cat-and-mouse between The Festering Wound and the privateers had reached its third day. Cain stood by the helm, staring silently as he steered away from the occasional island or patch of protruding rock. D’anna and Majel were nearing the last of the rations, portion sizes decreasing with each meal in an attempt to string their meager supply to its limits. Neither of them dared to mention the barrel of zombie chow that survived the crash, things weren't that desperate... 

...yet. 

The privateers continued their relentless pursuit, stopping every now and then to turn their ship to its side and attempt a potshot on their prey. That granted the Wound a bit of distance each time, which they would always lose whenever they turned away from another obstacle, allowing the privateers to close in on the pirates. 

Morale was at an all-time low. One of the few slivers of happiness that occurred in those three days was the discovery that Malone was still alive. D’anna, while trying to get in some much-needed sleep, had heard his muffled mumbles against the silence of night. She discovered him shambling around the flooded lower decks, the sole survivor of… The Third Deck. After his initial relief, Cain soon demanded to know why the zombie wasn’t out fighting alongside his peers. Malone defended himself (through water-filled garbles) with the fact that he was trapped in the water-filled lower decks and didn't know how to swim.

It was near the beginning of the fourth day when the Wound passed by Dimout Isle, the island that Winn and Majel spent the night at during the Coronet Heist. 

Cain’s shoulders fell. He extended his neck to get a better view of the familiar landmark. “Dimout Isle, that be not too far from Crypt Keep!” he laughed to himself. “How did I not think of it before?!”

“Think of what, Captain?” D’anna asked, still sponging all the water out of Malone’s grayish-green flesh. 

“A way ta rid ourselves o’ these blasted privateers!” He tossed the elf his spyglass. “Turn around an’ check out–no, flip it around tha other way, theeere we go–check out tha size of their vessel!”

“It's quite big!” said D’anna.

“Aye! She be a true Man-’o-War! It be a shame that such beauty like hers be squandered in the hands of those lapdogs an’ their shriveled-up manhoods…”

“What does ‘ma–’”

Cain pointed to D’anna as the cogs in his purplish-grey brain began to turn. “Now, do ye remember the pathway ta get INSIDE tha Keep?”

“Of course!” the elf beamed. “We just go through the stone tunnel with those scary bats that stare at us in the pitch-black with those glowing, red eyes and fly at me and how one got stuck in my hair–”

“Aye! It fits tha Wound like a glove, requirin’ steady steerin’ every time we come in an’ out—lest we get jammed in tha tunnel, like when ye an’ Majel tried ta go through that door at tha same time. Now, if we make a strategic retreat into tha Keep, we’ll be surrounded by dozens an’ dozens of feet of rock with no way fer those bootlickin’ bastards to barge their way in!”

“So the plan is… that we run home and hide?” D’anna smiled. Her ears perked up—now this was a plan that she could get behind. 

“Nay! We aren't runnin' ta mommy wit’ our tail between our legs! We be makin’ a strategic retreat,” the captain emphasized.

Majel inhaled to say something.

“STRATEGIC RETREAT!” the skeleton yelled to cut her off.  

“Sawyer says we should arrive at the Keep in a half-hour…” Majel announced as she walked into the galley. 

D’anna looked up from the pot of barnacle soup she was stirring. “Looks like we gotta eat quickly, then—even though it’s not good for the stomach. Are the privateers still closing in…?”

“Breathing down our necks like never before…” the cat muttered, grabbing a bottle of rum from the middle of the table and popping open its cork. She took a swig straight from its spout, followed by three more swigs and a gasp for air. 

The elf poured two servings of soup into two bowls and placed them on the table. Majel’s ears flattened as the elf set a third bowl to her, and flattened even more when the elf lifted a bucket and poured red sludge into it. 

“I am NOT eating that,” the cat grimaced.  

“Don’t worry, it’s for Malone!” D’anna said, placing the bucket in the corner of the room. Flies were already starting to hover around it. 

“Malone?!” Majel shouted. “You expect me to sit next to a rotting cannibal and still have an appetite?!”

The elf sighed. “Look… ever since we lost the crew, I feel like we haven't been… appreciative enough towards them and for all they do around here. Well, I'm letting Malone know how he and the rest of the zombies—Masaka rest their souls—are not just our crewmates, but our crewmates.”

The cat gagged. “Nevermind Malone, YOU’RE the one who's gonna make me lose my bloody appetite…”

Cain unsheathed his spyglass and extended it with one swoop (a move he had perfected through his many years of pirating). He studied the smudges in the distance before cursing to himself and—after wiping the lens with his shirt—raised it again. Now he could make out the features of Crypt Keep, on the horizon and fast approaching. 

“D’ANNA! MAJEL! MALONE! GET UP HERE!” he yelled, stomping his right boot on the floorplank underneath him and wondering why they didn’t just have a summoning bell instead. 

Malone was the first one to come up the staircase, followed by the first mate and the cook. The zombie’s face was dripping from the dinner that wasn’t barnacle soup.

“You! You take front sails!” Cain called out as he pointed to Malone. “Majel! You’re the middle! And D’anna, ye be in tha back with me!”

He turned around and squinted at the privateers behind. “Now, ye all know—well, maybe D’anna doesn't—most of ye know that when we slide into tha Keep, we slow down fer accuracy. Well, we don't have that sort of luxury this time, lest we end up sinkin’ before we can even get inside. So, ye all have to listen to me VERY carefully, that means—"

“SAWYER, IT'S RIGHT THERE!” Majel yeowled, pointing behind him with bulging eyes.  

Cain turned back to the front of the ship. He shrieked as the askew Wound was several seconds away from crashing into a wall of stone. The skeleton jerked the wheel to the left, a maneuver that allowed them to enter the tunnel without crashing, but scratched the ship’s entire starboard side.

“RAISE SAILS! RAISE YER SAILS!” Cain yelled as the Wound began to barrel down the tunnel. 

D’anna began to pull on her rope, but noticed that there was still a lack of distance between the two ships. She gasped. “I think they’re following us, Captain!”

Cain gave a quick glance behind and screamed an obscenity. “Stupid rabid bastards!” he yelled as he looked forward once more. “They’ve gone an’ turned this into a suicide mission fer ‘em!”

“What should we do now?!” D’anna asked between fits of hyperventilation. “We can’t escape! They’ll kill us and claim Crypt Keep for their own!”

“We just gotta keep goin’ forward, elf! This tunnel be a bottleneck—it’ll get narrower an’ narrower before we reach tha other side!”

A shot ran out from the privateers, narrowly missing Cain and ricocheting against the tunnel’s stone walls before missing him again. A bullet whizzed past D’anna, causing her to scream and flop down to the deck like a helpless sea lion. Majel joined her too, leaving Cain alone to steady the helm. 

The minutes seemed like hours as the pirates sailed down the dark tunnel, hearing the occasional PING! of a shot meant to end their lives. Each one briefly illuminated the pitch-black cavern, revealing the winding stone that surrounded them. However, as the tunnel’s darkness began to give way to light, the pirates knew that they had finally reached their hideout.

The Festering Wound sailed into the hollowed-out space, turning as they traced the circular cenote and edged close to the pier. A large groaning sound echoed from the tunnel, followed by a deafening series of crashes—the privateer ship was stuck like a chainshot in a blunderbuss, completely dead in its tracks. Majel rested her hands on the Wound’s capstan, readying to drop the anchor when they reached the pier.

“Nay, Majel!” Cain shouted. 

“Oh, what is it now?” the cat groaned. 

“Do ye see what they did ta me precious Wound?” Cain cooed as he leaned over a nearby railing and began to stroke it the same seductive manner one rubs a lover’s back. “I intend ta be a good host an’ show our now guests tha same kind of hospitality they’ve shown us these last four days. Don’t drop anchor now, do it when we be facin’ them with our starboard side. Once we be docked, ready the cannons. D’anna! Scour any shambling strangler left in the hallway and bring 'em here!”

As the Wound swirled counterclockwise, Majel triggered the capstan, stopping the ship when its rightside faced the privateers. D’anna grabbed a gangplank and connected the Wound to the pier, a task that would be much easier (and safer) without the captain’s unusual orders. She ran into the twisting tunnels the Wound crew called their home, trying to find the (literal) skeleton crew left to tend and defend the hideout. 

In the meantime, the skeleton stepped away from the helm and went below deck, laughing to himself the entire time. Majel squinted her eyes; she never liked it when he found something funny. 

The skeleton returned a few moments later wielding a large rifle and propped it on a railing, his chuckles now full-on cackles. He lined up the barrel with a figure splashing in the water next to the privateer’s ship and squeezed the trigger. 

BANG! 

The figure shot back a few feet and fell limp, sinking into the water below. He reloaded the rifle and aimed it again. 

BANG! And again. 

BANG! And again. 

BANG! And again. 

D'anna came back to the ship, a trio of zombies close in tow. “Captain, I found Brisco, Twitchell, and Duke!”

“Good! Now, send ‘em overboard. I want ‘em to take care of any stragglers that fall between our fingers…”

“For god’s sake, Sawyer!” Majel yelled. “Just shoot them and stop being such a theatrical psycho!”

“Nay!” Cain said, rising back to his feet. “They almost destroyed me Wound! They chased me fer four days! They barged into me home, and—worst of all—they strut around like they be free men while they be just another jockey fer that fat, fascistic Queen Horatio! If anybody is more deservin’ of gettin’ ripped apart by zombies, cannonballs, and any bullets I fire, it be them! Now, FIRE! I don’t want ye all to stop firin’ ‘til every plank of that stupid, stuck piece ‘o garbage has been torn apart!”

Majel gritted her teeth and followed her orders, igniting the cannon with a smoky, orange-tipped linstock. It was to be the first of a long-running series of explosions, ripping the front of the privateer ship apart and blasting away its insides. Many of the privateers waded into the waters, taking several shots at the Wound until they ran out of bullets—leaving them defenseless when a slimy hand dragged them underneath the murky waters and turned them into a cloud of crimson.

D’anna went underneath the deck and began to distract herself from the bloodshed by preparing dinner. For her and Majel, she was thinking of cinnamon salmon with her special hardtack cookies for dessert. She thought about the zombies, and wondered how she could give them a special dinner, too She sat at the table and became lost in thought, thinking of a garnish appropriate for brains and entrails.