The Storerooms

Opening the door to the storeroom as quietly as the rather creaky door allowed her to, Grandma peered in, checking to make sure it was empty before entering. It was usually nice and quiet down here, offering her a bit of respite from the never-ending hellish clamor of people that was ever-present on the rest of the ship.

Using her cane to push the door shut behind her, Grandma moved towards a set of nearby crates and began rummaging through them. The contents of the crates were wine bottles, but finding a half-decent one was the real problem… That was the other reason she frequented the storage room, to raid what little fine wine remained in it. While she had probably had more than her fair share of the fine wine, she felt she more than deserved it given her service to Naoki.

Bottles clinking as she moved them around to better read their labels, the old woman heard the faintest of rustles coming from a crate behind her. Spinning, she moved with a surprising burst of speed for someone of her age towards the noise, raising her cane upwards and ready to strike whatever might be hiding down here. However, all she discovered was a rather small rat, which immediately scuttled away. She still swung at it, of course, managing to clip its back legs and causing it to let out a shriek as it half skittered, half drug itself away from her. Shaking her head with a grimace, she turned back to the wine crate. Now where was the last of that Medanese Gold at...

Grandma had heard plenty of rumors about the rat-fever that plagued the ship. She’d even witnessed it first hand on a few occasions, not intentionally of course, but by chance when they had been carrying the infected away to dump overboard. Personally, she had no qualms with such practices, but the other passengers had made a rather large fuss over it. It was a ridiculous thing to make a fuss over, those who caught it and were allowed to stay were simply a drain on their already perilously low resources. And it wasn’t like they wouldn’t find more uninfected nuisances to pull from the waves to make up for any lost manpower.

Smiling to herself as she finally uncovered the bottle of Medanese Gold, Grandma simply admired its beauty for a long moment. How long would it take until they could make wine such as this in the new world? She needed to do what she could to up the priority placed on making a proper winery a reality. It shouldn’t be that difficult given Naoki’s taste in wine was equally as extravagant.

Sadly, Grandma’s musings were interrupted by the sound of the rat. Spinning around with a glare, her gaze quickly moved from the rat to whatever it was fleeing from. Half expecting a cat to come chasing after it, Grandma was surprised to instead see a shadowy creature materialize before her. The sudden lashing out at the bottle caught her off guard and she leapt back as the bottle hit the ground with a shatter. And then the damn thing laughed at her. That was the last bottle of Medanese Gold on the ship… And it was now broken.

“You son of a bitch, you think you can break my midnight snack and get away with it!?”

Glancing at the shattered remains of the broken bottle, the old crone’s eyes glinted in the lantern light. There was the soft sound of clinking as the glass shards began to tremble slightly. The mists really did make things more difficult than they needed to be…

Knuckles turning white as she tightened the grip on her cane, Grandma moved towards the shadow, bringing her cane down against the wall where it looked like the creature’s torso would be.

[This post takes place in a long abandoned store room]

It was strangely empty below decks. Usually, there would be a sailor or civilian bustling about, but at the moment there was not a soul. Norman’s shift on deck had ended during the gruesome operation and there was only one thing on his mind: to get some liquor. In the past weeks he had saved a couple potatoes and a shriveled apple and had even risked his razor on a game of dice to get a silver piece. That would be enough to get him at least a shot of something clear and potent at the bootleg still that the sailors ran in an abandoned storage room. The silver would get him past the guards, who presumably oversaw the operations, though no questions were ever asked, and the rations Norman had hoarded would buy him the swill.

All in all it was a dangerous affair. Keeping the food alone was risky enough for it was likely to attract rats, but an able bodied seaman knew to apply tar to their hammock lines to ward off the vermin.

Unexpectedly, the storeroom was crowded. A group of seven sailors were huddled in a corner of the small room sitting on empty barrels and the floor, or leaning on walls. It was his first time here, but Norman had not expected to find so many people.

“Who sent you?” A woman said in a sharp tone. Two of the seated men stood up.

“I heard about this place in a dice game. They said you have proper drink, not that watered down piss they serve at the bar.” The group seemed to relax. Norman produced his offerings and set them on an overturned barrel.

“Aye, we got what you're looking for…” The women did not seem to take notice of potatoes or the pathetic apple. Taking a bottle from one of the standing men she filled her own cup to the brim and handed it to Norman who took it with a raised eyebrow. It was far too much for what he had paid.

“Yer a lucky man Cleats,” Said one of the men, another yardsman, “ In fact, yer our last customer, Haven’t ya ‘eard. Land’s been spotted.”

Norman was shocked. After so long, this hellish journey was over? He took a large drink from the wooden cup and coughed. It was the real deal. The other sailors didn’t even laugh, they knew what it tasted like. It was not Medanese Gold.

“Yer a real lucky man Cleats… real lucky.” The room was unusually silent and with everyone staring at him, Norman began to get an uneasy feeling. Maybe it was just the booze. Looking at the group he noticed that in their center was a piece of sail, scrawled with names. Norman quickly averted his eyes to his drink.

“Land, I hadn’t heard. I just helped Vulpin saw a leg and came here to take the edge away. I’ll just finish my drink and go see this land for myself.”

“I don’t think so.” The woman said, “You’ve seen too much already.” She stepped away giving Norman full view of the what the group was gathered around. “Seven’s an unlucky number to gather in anyways.” There were more than seven names written on the sail however, written in blood. A sailor stepped forward with a knife.

“You’re a smart lad, you know what this means. Either you’re name goes on the list or you die.”

“Mutiny? Now? I can’t say I like the way this boat was run, but why now, when land has been sighted?”

“This started long ago. You think anything will change? Those corrupt bastards in charge will always be in charge. Unless we do something about it. Are you in or do you want to wash ashore in a barrel?”

Norman, his head swirling as the alcohol set in, could only nod. Pulling out his own knife he slit the end of one finger and traced his name onto the sail. He might have saved his life for now but those in this room now had power over him.

“You’ll get yer orders soon. For now stay cool and ‘ave another drink.”

A couple minutes later Norman stumbled out of the room. He could barely think straight, but he knew he only had one chance to make this right. He needed to see the captain. Now!

The buzzing rose to a crescendo, the noise quickly becoming almost unbearable. The vibrations were enough to make Grandma's ears ring and teeth rattle in her head, making it difficult to think clearly. Even the lanterns were shaking, falling to the deck one by one and going out as the glass smashed against the floorboards. As she approached the food crates, she'd hear a soft tapping on the inside. It was as though hundreds of tiny fingertips were rapping frantically against the inside of the box, desperate to escape.

Grandma's cane came down like an axe, smashing through the heavy wooden crate with ease. As the lid shattered, the buzzing suddenly rose to a deafening roar. A seething mass of fat black flies erupted from the broken crate, pouring into the room like a cloud of smoke in their rush to escape. They swarmed over Grandma, flying into her mouth and eyes as they bit viscously at any bit of exposed flesh they could find. Unable to escape through the door, the horde swirled around the room like a choking whirlwind, buzzing and biting and smacking into the walls. If she managed to spare a glance at the broken biscuit-crate, Grandma would find it overflowing with pale, bloated maggots. The biscuits practically pulsated with the larvae, the yellowish-white bodies flowing like water poured over the edges in search of more food. All around her, the unbroken crates of flour and grain continued to buzz and tremble.

Anticipation and anxiety could only do so much to dampen an alcohol sodden brain. It seemed darker below decks then it had before and there was a foul smell to the air, like rotten food. Norman was far from sober, but he didn’t feel like he was getting any more dunk either. Before leaving the store room previously he had been made to drink two cups of the vile tasting moonshine. Now his vision was blurring and he had to keep one hand on the wall to stay on his feet. The salt cursed waves weren’t helping any.

Where they should have been posted one of the guards lay dead. He bled from two wounds staunched by flies; one in the back and the killing blow apparent from a broken spear protruding from his side. An angered conversation could be heard from down the hall, “Where is it Layra? You burn that sail now or I’ll gut you! I’ll be damned if I let Bloodsail hang me from the rigging!”

“Quiet fool! You knew the rope was an option ever since you signed. That’s the fucking point, now isn’t it? You weren’t such a bitch when it was looking like we’d die at sea. Why don’t you fight to survive or at least die like a man!” A female shout returned with even more vehemence. After that more shouting erupted and nothing was intelligible.

Norman stumbled around a corner and was saved by his own drunken clumsiness as a crossbow bolt flew past his ear and thunked into the wall behind him. The mutineers had constructed a quick barricade of barrels and were in the process of piling more objects to block the hall. The shouting grew louder, and several men could be seen coming out of a storeroom beyond the barricade armed with cudgels, knives, and axes. One man even had a sword. Whoever had shot the crossbow was no longer in sight, having ducked back into the storeroom.

Gothmog watched with no small amusement as the sailor ducked around and then ran back as a crossbow bolt followed him across the threshold. He looked in disgust at the condition of his ship this deep down. No wonder there was mutiny if maintenance and discipline had been left this lacking….but even as he thought it something felt off. Gothmog had inspected this ship himself not two days before the flood and she had been pristine. No way in three months did this level of disgust happen even down here.

“Bloodsail won’t let you all make it to the gallows if you keep shooting at us.” He growled down the hallway to the mutineers. “Give up this foolishness now and I’ll see that the Empress lets you all do some sort of penance. We can’t afford to lose the people. We have to band together to survive.”

Behind him on the steps came a half dozen Legionnaires, full armed and armored with boarding shields. He waved them back for a second, giving the mutineers one last chance to surrender before he attacked.

The mutineers barely had a moment to respond to Gothmog's demands before the situation descended into chaos. The already-miserable storerooms transformed into a nightmarish hellscape as violence exploded behind the barrier. As the maddened sailors slaughtered each other in the storerooms, the more lucid mutineers kicked over the barricade and clambered over. Weapons in hand, they charged the line of legionnaires, desperate to break through and escape. They threw themselves at the soldiers, fighting like caged animals in their effort to make it through. Trapped as they were between the darkness behind and the shields and blades ahead on both sides, each one knew that they were already dead. The captain's promises offered little comfort, as even "pardoned" mutineers often had a way of falling victim to horrible accidents. 

Meanwhile, behind them, the fallen bodies twitched. If they spared a glance at the corpses, Gothmog and Norman would be met with an unsettling sight: the mutilated flesh seethed with worms. White, wriggling bodies squirmed and twisted in every wound, burrowing into the flesh and bone. The dead mutineers convulsed and thrashed as the worms moved within their muscles, controlling the dead bodies like giant marionettes. One by one, each slaughtered corpse got slowly to its feet and began shambling towards the fallen barrier. Seeing their dead comrades return to life, the escaping sailors fought even harder, throwing themselves at the legionnaires with reckless abandon.