The Black Lung Captain - Chris Wooding [31]
Malvery appeared out of the rain, hurrying past Pinn and Frey, a lever-action shotgun in one meaty hand, his doctor’s bag in the other. “Malvery!” Frey said. “What in bastardy is happening?”
“Can’t stop. Duty calls,” Malvery replied, heading off in the direction of Jez’s voice.
“We’re coming with you,” Frey decided. “Come on, Pinn. Everyone, stay together.” They followed Malvery into the trees, slipping through the mud, pushing wet branches aside. “Jez! Keep shouting!”
“This way!”
Frey’s heart was pounding against his ribs as they forged through the forest. The sense of threat was overwhelming. The farther they went from the fire, the worse it got. He could barely see far enough to avoid the trees in front of him. Everything was slick with rain. In seconds, the camp was nothing more than a faint smear of light in the distance.
They followed Jez’s voice and found her with Silo. The two of them were smeared in mud and kneeling over a fallen figure. Frey felt a surge of relief at seeing they were unhurt, but it faded as he remembered that Crake was still unaccounted for. That figure on the ground …
Don’t be Crake. Don’t be Crake.
It was Gimble, the scrawny, bad-humored crewman from the Storm Dog. He was trembling, eyes glassy. One arm had been torn off at the socket. A knob of bone glistened there, washed clean by the rain. Three ragged, parallel claw strokes were carved into his belly. Vile blue loops of intestine poked through the rips. Blood washed into the mud, coming from everywhere. He hadn’t even had time to pull his revolvers from his belt.
Malvery knelt down next to him, wiped his round glasses, looked him over.
“He’s done,” Malvery announced. “Soon as the shock wears off.”
“Can’t you do anything?” Jez pleaded.
Malvery grimaced regretfully and patted his shotgun. “Best I could do is make it quick.”
“Anyone seen Crake?” Frey asked, panicked. Something was out there, in the forest, and his crewman—his friend—was missing. He didn’t give a toss about Grist’s folk, but Crake was a different matter. He called into the night. There was no reply.
Crattle appeared, having followed Jez’s calls. He stared down at Gimble, then at Frey.
“We need your doctor,” he said. “Tarworth’s shot.”
Malvery got to his feet. “Lead on.”
“We need to stay together!” Frey insisted.
“They’ve got wounded,” Malvery said. “I can’t help this feller, but I might be able to help the other. You lot find Crake.”
“I’ll make sure he gets back to you safe,” Crattle told Frey.
“What about your crewman? You’re just gonna leave him here in the mud?” Frey demanded of Crattle, slightly appalled.
Crattle gave Frey a hard look. “Don’t matter what anyone does for Gimble now. My concern’s with the living.”
Jez looked up from where she knelt by Gimble. His ragged breathing had stopped while they argued. “He’s dead anyway,” she said, her voice flat. She got up. “Let’s find Crake.”
“Good luck, eh?” Malvery said. He went off with Crattle and was swallowed up by the rain.
Frey rubbed water out of his eyes. The forest looked the same in every direction, but he could still vaguely see the firelight from the camp. “Alright,” he said. “He can’t have gone far. We circle the camp. Keep that light on your left. And stay together. I’m not losing anyone to this forest, you all hear me?”
“Yes, Cap’n,” mumbled Pinn, who’d been rather sobered by the sight of Gimble’s guts.
Frey led them away from the dead man. His mouth was dry and his temples throbbed. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt this exposed. The rain, the dark, and the cacophony of animals and insects conspired to foil his senses. If something was out there, they’d never see it coming.
When he was a child, he’d go sneaking through the corridors of the orphanage at night. Usually it was for a dare; sometimes it was because he needed the toilet and he hadn’t gone before bedtime. Either way, the punishment for being caught out of bed was severe. But it was never the staff that he feared or the prospect of a thrashing. It was the monsters