Mistress of Helena

Chapter 19

He didn’t hear the explosion, nor any screams. The thunder of his own blood in his ears drowned out everything but the ragged gasps of his own breath. Yet, he knew the grenade had detonated. He could feel it in the increased trembling of the dock beneath him, a frantic, chaotic dance that sent shivers up his spine. He didn’t dare turn back, his world narrowed to the pulsing fear and the desperate race ahead.

The warehouse doors were burdensome, but adrenaline lent him the strength to slide them shut with surprising ease. His last glimpse of the world beyond was a scene of chaos, an oncoming storm of bodies. Once latched, the outside world became an ominous rhythm of heavy thuds as bodies and fists assaulted the barricade. The ferocity was such that Carrack retreated behind a crate, half-expecting the walls to crumble under the onslaught.

As his adrenaline subsided, Carrack was confronted by the prickling return of sensation. His legs ached from the sprint, his wound throbbed, and a sharp pain lanced up his right ankle—likely sprained during his mad dash. Muttering curses, he knew there was no time to nurse it; escape was still a pressing imperative.

Quickly, his gaze swept the warehouse, ensuring no alternate entry points. The back way, opening to the relentless sea, was crucial for his escape. The sides offered scant space, hardly enough for an intruder to squeeze through.

It was only then that he realized the startling absence of his men. In the whirlwind of events, their fate had slipped his mind. Carrack clung to the hope they’d managed to escape—either making it back to shore or, worst case, still battling the temperamental waves. His mind danced around this uncertainty, focusing instead on the elements he could control.

“Damn Franzen,” Carrack slumped onto a nearby crate, burying his head in his hands. “Why did he grab me? Why did the grenade just slip from my grasp?” His thoughts tumbled like waves during a storm, assuming forms that seemed to reach out with a violent rage.

Why did you kick it toward the crowd? His own words tasted bitter in his mouth.

“It was instinct, I didn’t have time to think,” he replied aloud, the chill of his damp clothes seeping into his bones as he sighed.

You could have kicked it into the ocean.

“Foeham and the others could have been nearby.”

No, that’s not why you did it.

“No … I wasn’t considering the men in the water. The grenade wouldn’t have affected them in the water anyway.”

You did exactly what you intended. There’s no shame in that. The thoughts took a consoling tone, granting him absolution.

“I did what I had to do … yes,” he said, rubbing his head vigorously as if to exorcise the tormenting thoughts.

After all, they deserved it.

“No!” he retorted, his voice echoing in the cavernous warehouse. “They didn’t deserve it. Not a single one of them, not even Franzen. They’re desperate, just trying to survive.”

They’re out of control, rabid. They needed to be reined in.

“That’s absurd! I did nothing wrong!” Carrack shouted defiantly, but the echo of his words seemed hollow, an insincere affirmation that fell on his own deaf ears. It marked the end of his self-argument, although he knew there was more to be said. The lingering thoughts quietly retreated into his mind’s shadowy recesses. Grounded again in reality, he knew what he must do. He needed to escape before he fell prey to the mob’s fury.

Getting to his feet was more challenging than he’d anticipated. His leg throbbed with sharp, stabbing pain that made him wince. Grasping his rifle, he used it as a makeshift cane, doing his best to avoid putting too much weight on his injuries. The only way out was through the water, he knew, but he also understood that swimming with an injured ankle was a tall order. But in the face of an approaching mob, the unpleasant reality didn’t matter; he had to make a move.

As he limped toward the exit, bracing himself against the thrashing wind, a flash of inspiration struck him. Caught in the storm’s gale, several barrels from the other docks had been cast adrift in the water. Observing their buoyancy, he noticed their potential for his escape.

“Well, shit,” he muttered, pivoting back toward the warehouse. A stack of barrels lay in the corner, their contents varying from grain to wine. Taking the butt of his rifle, he smashed open one of the wine barrels, pouring out its contents.

“A damned stupid waste,” he berated himself as he realized his mistake. He’d smashed the top cover entirely, leaving no way to prevent water from filling the barrel and sinking it. But there was no time to lament his hasty actions—the front door was beginning to splinter under the onslaught of axes wielded by the frenzied mob.

Another thud reverberated through the space, snapping Carrack’s attention away from his immediate predicament. This time, it came from the sea. A cold dread began to coil in the pit of his stomach as he cautiously turned, clutching the barrel for support.

There was nothing, just the thrashing waves and the descending fog.

Yet, the thuds persisted, their hypnotic rhythm increasing with an urgency that set his nerves on edge. The rhythm accelerated, the thuds growing louder, echoing ominously like the footsteps of a giant.

Confusion reigned in Carrack’s mind. Was this sound real or a figment of his overstrained imagination? Nevertheless, he felt an inexplicable draw toward the source of the noise. Compelled, he began to limp toward the murky distance, oblivious to the splintering door behind him, and the angry mob forcing their way through. The hypnotic pulse of the thuds blurred his vision, each beat seeming to pull him deeper into the unknown.

The thuds grew deafening, the pull toward the unseen entity stronger than ever. The fog ahead started to shift, giving way to something enormous, something that seemed to be hurtling toward him. His last coherent thought was the chilling realization that whatever it was, it wasn’t stopping.