Death Hulk Read online

  "Watch out, here come more!"

  Though approaching at no more than a slow trot by human standards, the zombies formed a dense wedge that crashed into the line of sailors, buckling it by their weight alone. Men scattered as the zombies struck out at anything within reach that lived, slashing faces with claws and sinking battered swords into chests, seeming to relish the spurt of warm blood that washed over their cold, dead features.

  Bryant fought hard to keep his position but even his efforts had to give way to the inevitability of the zombies' assault. He found himself confronted by a pair of the foul creatures, each armed with old-fashioned short swords, and was immediately forced onto a defensive posture, parrying each blade as it tried to sneak in to gut him. Timing his riposte, he waited until one of the zombies stabbed at him again and then swung wildly, knocking the sword to one side. He stepped up to the same creature and slammed it with the full weight of his body, throwing it off balance even as its companion turned to face him. Ducking under its swing, he drove his cutlass upwards, piercing the centre of its face with the tip of his weapon. It sunk in several inches without much effort, the zombie twitching its limbs several times before going limp.

  As he withdrew his cutlass, he was suddenly aware of a heavy weight bearing down upon him, before a splitting pain in his shoulder announced the return of the first zombie, sinking its sword into his flesh. He cried out and rolled away, carrying the creature with him. Twisting his body, Bryant continued his roll until he sat astride the zombie, gagging at being in such close proximity of its foulness. Holding his cutlass across his chest with his off hand on the back of the blade, he drove it down across the zombie's neck, severing its head instantly.

  Rubbing the creature's gore and flaking skin off his arms and clothes as he stood up, Bryant began looking anxiously for his friends. He panicked as he realised they were no longer with him.

  The rush of the zombie wedge into their line had taken Murphy completely by surprise and he had retreated ahead of them until his flight was halted by the railings at the side of the Whirlwind. He glanced longingly at the open ocean and, for a brief second, considered leaping into the dark sea, believing it better to drown than be torn apart by these infernal creatures.

  Heavy footsteps caused Murphy to spin round, instinctively raising the belaying pin. The reflex saved him as a knife sailed into the wood. He yelped and took a step away until he felt the railings dig into his back. Three zombies advanced, reaching for his throat. Crazed by fear, he struck out wildly, hitting nothing but slipping on something on the deck - whether it was blood or water, he did not have the presence of mind to question. Falling heavily, Murphy covered his head for protection, his vision filled with the sight of three dead men bending down to tear him apart.

  An angry cry, unmistakably human, caused him to peer up with a single eye. The head of one of the zombies flew above him and into the sea as an axe bit through its neck. The weapon was reversed in mid-swing to land a blow straight into the chest of the second as Jessop, consumed with fury and covered in blood trickling from a dozen minor wounds, dove into the fight. The third zombie turned from Murphy to grab at the burly man but he head-butted it in return, sending it stumbling backwards as he heaved upwards with his axe. Carrying the impaled zombie with it, Jessop strained as he lifted the creature off its feet, above his head and over the railings. Having cast his enemy into the sea he spun round to catch the last zombie in the side of its skull, dropping it instantly.

  Bending down to Murphy, Jessop heaved the small man to his feet and snarled into his face. "On your feet and fight, you li'l Irish maggot!"

  Murphy had seen the man angered before but the pure hatred and deadly intent he saw now were beyond anything he had witnessed in a human being. In spite of his fear, he was very glad that Jessop was on his side and he regained his footing, brandishing his weapons to show the man he was back in the fight. Satisfied, Jessop turned back to the fray, twirling his axe as he sought a new enemy to smash apart.

  Murphy heard a familiar voice cry out in desperation and he looked around to see a mop of ginger hair near the mainmast. Pushing through the press of sailors and side-stepping a leering zombie, he raced towards his friend as Brooks confronted another of the decomposing boarders.

  Backing away and swinging wildly with his belaying pin, Brooks was petrified as he faced the cutlass wielding zombie, constantly giving ground before its attacks. Nearly tripping on a loose rope, Brooks cried out as he sank to one knee and raised his weapon up in reflex. The zombie hacked sideways, slicing into the belaying pin and leaving only a stump in Brooks' hand. Shouting out desperately for help, Brooks managed to regain his balance and started to back away again, only to find himself pinned against the mast. He closed his eyes, raising the remains of his weapon as he waited for death.

  Seeing what was about to happen, Murphy let loose an inarticulate war cry as he jumped forward past a stumbling zombie and then crouched, tensing his muscles and dropping his near useless knife. Leaping upwards, he caught hold of a rope that had broken free from somewhere high on the mainmast, and swinging across the few remaining yards, he let the full weight of his momentum carry forward into the blow he made with his belaying pin. Landing the weapon squarely on the back of the zombie's skull, he shattered it completely and, landing lithely on his feet, he stepped over the corpse as it crashed to the wooden deck.

  "Brooks, lad!"

  Slowly, Brooks opened his eyes "Murphy? Where did you come from?"

  Sporting a long, ragged cut on his left cheek Havelock had been fighting for his life since the French ship had crashed into them. Two boarders had jumped from the side of the larger ship, falling straight to the frigate's quarterdeck. Havelock at first thought they had both broken their necks from the drop, but had been horrified to see them rise, their milky eyes staring at him from deep, sunken sockets as they reached for him with wickedly sharp claws. The flash of bloated, rotting flesh had stalled him for only a brief second before he realised, whatever the nature of the enemy, it posed a very real threat to his ship.

  Precise strokes of his sword had at first disabled the zombies, depriving them of their arms, then dispatched them as he learned, like so many of his sailors after the initial clash on the main deck, how to fight these unnatural foes. He had backed away as more creatures started dropping onto his deck like sacks of wheat, before stirring from their fall and advancing. Quickly joined by Corbin and a handful of marines, Havelock had led the defence of the quarterdeck against ever-rising odds.

  Now coated with sweat under his ripped jacket, his hat lost long ago and sword wreathed in a sickly grey ichor, Havelock fought side by side with his Lieutenant as another pair of zombies advanced towards them. Only the Marine Sergeant now survived on the quarterdeck and he flanked Havelock on his left side, using his sword as skilfully as either of the naval officers.

  Working together, their swords flickered out as one and the two zombies dropped to the deck, their heads rolling for several yards before coming to rest. Already, more zombies were clambering over the side of the ship that towered above them, preparing to drop downwards. Havelock spared a glance to the main deck, trying to gauge the ebb and flow of battle. He immediately saw that, while his crew had taken horrific casualties, they had steadied from the fear of confronting the fighting dead for the first time, and now formed a credible line that held firm against the tide of zombies. Away from this scattered skirmishes took place all over the ship. He took a single glance at the number of unmoving rotting corpses lying on the deck and quickly decided that far more zombies lay within the French ship and that his crew would, inevitably, be overwhelmed sooner or later.

  "Mr Corbin!" he called, arresting his Lieutenants attention. "We cannot go on like this."

  "Captain, what are we facing?" Corbin said breathlessly, a hint of hysteria beginning to rise in the man's voice.

  "We haven't got time to ponder that now! We have to get away from here, Corbin, do you hear me?"

>   Havelock grabbed Corbin by the arm and shook him, forcing the man's attention on him. Corbin seemed to waver for a brief second, then locked eyes with his Captain.

  "What are your orders?" he asked, to Havelock's relief.

  "Gather as many men you can. Then sever those lines holding us to that ship. Once they are cut, we sail."

  He saw Corbin's eyes dart with foreboding to the roiling battle on the main deck. He gave the man's arm another firm shake, forcing Corbin to look at him again.

  "Lieutenant, this is very important. If we cannot get away from that ship, we are doomed."

  Corbin took a shaky breath. "I understand, Sir. You can count on me."

  "Good man. Now, go. The sergeant and I will hold them here. Their swordplay is no match for ours!"

  Taking just a second to gather his courage, Corbin ran to the stairs leading to the quarterdeck and ran down them, two at a time. A zombie had started to climb them to flank the Captain's position but Corbin, bracing himself against the banister, kicked out with his boot, pitching the creature overboard. He spotted half a dozen sailors battling a trio of zombies just ahead and he leapt into the combat, slashing with his sword as he aided them in braining or decapitating the decomposing French.

  "You men!" He called "With me! We must cut the lines!"

  He could sense the sailors' relief as they realised that, at last, they had some real direction. Some of them even grinned as they gathered their weapons and followed their Lieutenant to the other side of the ship where they set about cutting the lines that bound the ships together, while two of their number stood guard with belaying pins, ready to attack any zombie that strayed too close.

  After the nearest lines had been cut, the ships began to float apart and the team moved forward, eager to cut the remaining tethers. Corbin looked up and spied another group of zombies setting foot on the ramp, another wave designed to slowly wear down the defenders and whittle them away to eventual defeat. He shouted to gain the attention of the two men standing guard over the line-cutters.

  "The board! Pitch it over the side before they come down!" he said, pointing up at the advancing zombies. The sailors at first seemed dubious about intentionally getting so close to the dead but a further word from Corbin sent them sprinting.

  Getting a purchase on the wood, they strained, raising it a few inches from the deck but the weight of more zombies walking on the board threatened to tear their grip loose. Seeing the danger, Corbin ran over and, skidding to a halt, dropped his sword and grabbed the board to add his own strength to their efforts. Straining together they slowly raised the board and, moving to one side, spun it around so it broke free of its mountings on the larger ship. Board and zombie alike fell into the gap between the two ships and were instantly swallowed up by the sea.

  Looking towards the prow of the Whirlwind, Corbin saw that almost all the lines had been cut. He began shouting orders that would set them underway but the frigate was already shuddering as it began to scrape past the French ship, as if it were aware that to tally longer would mean its own desecration and eventual corruption.

  "Set the mainsail," shouted Corbin and his line-cutters began scuttling up the rigging to obey. On the other side of the deck, men still battled with the dead but they had all sensed the Whirlwind begin to move and there was an instant change in their demeanour. Morale improved instantly and those still fighting redoubled their efforts while those who had defeated their immediate foes either scrambled up the rigging or grabbed lines to bring the sails into line, or else prowled the decks, quickly dispatching any zombie that leapt from its ship to the frigate's deck.

  In less than a minute, the Whirlwind had cleared the hull of the French ship and the last zombie had either been cast overboard or cut into inanimate pieces. Corbin ran back up to the quarterdeck to greet his Captain. He found Havelock stooped over the marine sergeant, hands pressed to the man's chest which was stained with a spreading shade of dark crimson. The sergeant's face was deathly pale, matching that of the zombie that had finally claimed his life with a wicked strike to his heart.

  Without turning his head to face Corbin, Havelock asked "Are we all set, Mr Corbin?"

  "Aye, Sir. We are on our way."

  Regarding the sergeant for just a moment longer, Havelock laid the man's head gently on the deck and then stood up. "But for a few more moments and he would have lived through this. He was a good fighter, Mr Corbin."

  "That he was, Sir."

  Walking slowly to the stern of the Whirlwind, Havelock looked into the darkness, watching the French hulk lie still and motionless on the ocean.

  "We are not pursued," he remarked.

  "I don't understand, Sir. I saw how fast that ship closed with us - it was like lightning! Why do they not chase us?"

  Havelock stared at the zombie ship until it finally disappeared into the darkness.

  "I don't know. I just don't know."

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Throughout the small hours until the breaking of the dawning sun above the eastern sky, the crew of the Whirlwind often resembled the walking dead they had fought earlier that night. Going about their duties automatically, many were dull-eyed and uncommunicative. The constant banter among sailors was noticeable by its absence and orders from officers were obeyed without comment or argument. Stunned by their supernatural encounter, each member of the crew tried to assimilate, in his own mind, just what had happened, even as he mourned lost shipmates.

  Having been ordered by their Captain to make good repairs and return the frigate to fighting fitness, the crew of the Whirlwind found their ship to have suffered only superficial damage. The sporadic firing of the French vessel had failed to do much more than smash the rigging of the mizzenmast and dislodge a couple of guns from their carriages. The damage to the crew themselves was more substantial and morale plummeted as men were ordered to clean the deck. Whereas this usually meant hours of back-breaking labour with the holystone, today it saw sailors prepare the bodies of their shipmates for burial at sea, sealing them in sailing canvas, while throwing the corpses and severed limbs of unmoving zombies over the hull. Even then, they had to strain to remove the countless pools of blood from the wooden deck, each a reminder of just how hard they had had to fight in order to survive.

  While most of the Whirlwind's crew who had been killed in the attack were easily identified, a few were not. In areas of the deck where the walking dead had swept forward quickly, trapping sailors behind their line, there remained only a few gruesome scraps of bloody flesh and clothing, mere puddles were men had once stood. Corbin noted the similarity of these finds to the remains of the crew that had been killed on the African coast, and he mentioned his theories to the Captain. Evidently, the ship of the dead had known where the Whirlwind was for quite some time and was not averse to deploying its crew on land.

  It was not until this gruesome task had been completed that Havelock allowed his crew to resume their normal watch patterns, permitting those off-duty to find whatever rest they could below decks. There was a brief period of excitement as a call rang out that another zombie had been found on the gun deck, having apparently clambered up the hull from where it had been tossed into the sea, to enter the ship through an open gun port. It had lurked in the darkness of the lower decks until a sailor had strayed too close to its hiding place. Stumbling out of the darkness, the creature had terrified the man, who ran up into the daylight, screaming. A small party of sailors eventually steeled themselves to descend onto the gun deck, where they had dispatched the zombie. A thorough search of the ship turned up no more enemies but it had rattled the nerves of everyone on board even further.

  All across the gun deck, sailors who were not assigned to the current watch set their hammocks swinging from the rafters but few actually crawled into them. Most gathered in small groups, speaking in huddled whispers as they tried to come to terms with what they had seen, keeping an envious eye on those who did sleep.

  Bryant, Brooks and Murphy sat quietly
at a table hastily placed across the centre of the gun deck, the crew of two other cannon opposite them. Conversation was sporadic, each man preferring to keep his own council as they hunched over under the light of a single swinging lantern above them. It was Murphy who broke the silence.

  "So what 'ave the Frogs turned upon us?" he asked.

  No one answered for a few seconds, then Bryant sighed. "I don't know, my friend, truly I don't."

  "I told you they was usin' the walkin' dead - zombies - as sailors!"

  One of the other cannon crew stirred at this. "It don't seem credible."

  "Trust your own eyes," Murphy said. "What do you think we was fightin' last night?"

  "It was the dead," Brooks piped up softly. "Face's rotting - and they didn't go down when you hit them!"

  "Not without a solid blow to the head," said the sailor. "I saw one comin' at one of me mates, both arms 'acked off. Still it came forward, trying to bite 'im. In the end, we stuck an axe in its chest and 'eaved it overboard. Not 'fore it got Buxton though. Poor lad."

  "And that smell!" Brooks said. "I lived near the factories of Portsmouth and never smelled anything so bad."

  "T'was the smell of death," said Murphy.

  "It was the stink of something that had lain at the bottom of the ocean for years," said Bryant. "I don't know, Murphy, your idea of the Frogs using the dead to fight this war - there's something wrong there. That ship, I swear, had been dragged from its resting place on the sea floor. It was like, I don't know, a ghost ship or something."