Mistress of Helena

Chapter 20

The embrace of darkness was both cold and oddly comforting. It felt like returning to a once-trodden path, its memory wiped clean. Carrack found himself floating in this vast void, his consciousness echoing like a voice in an endless chasm. All around, an unending abyss stretched out, illuminated only by the soft luminescence of an unseen source.

A chill, akin to the prickle of goosebumps, ran through him. Time lost all meaning. Yet even in this timeless expanse, emotions—fear, uncertainty, and worry—clung to him. The vast nothingness wasn’t what unsettled him. It was the unnatural pull keeping him intact, preventing him from dissolving like a sugar cube in a warm drink or evaporating like morning dew under the sun. The fact that some unseen force held his essence together in this place of dispersion filled him with dread.

Carrack tried to resist the force binding him, his futile efforts echoing in the vast nothingness. He shouted, pleading and cursing, his voice bouncing endlessly without response. But then, he felt a sudden tightness. It felt as though unseen fragments from the void were being drawn into him, filling him like a vessel. His once-clear mind spiraled into a maze of questions. Realities blurred, sensations intensified. Coldness seeped into his core and was swiftly replaced by a drenching wetness.

The sensation of lungs, or at least the memory of them, gripped him. The cold air stung, and soon after, the brackish taste of water flooded his mouth, threatening his every breath. As he grappled with the idea of death, a primal fear surged within him. His desire to merge with the void waned, replaced by an urgency to breathe, but the suffocating sensation persisted. Pressure mounted on his chest, vision dancing with stars birthed from the darkness. Amongst them, a shadowy figure circled him, grasping with intent.

Suddenly, he was jolted by a nauseating sensation. The bitter mix of saltwater and bile invaded his senses. Vision blurred, he struggled to take in breaths amidst a chaotic background. A figure hovered over him, becoming clearer with each heartbeat.

“Sir!” the figure shouted, waving a hand before Carrack’s slowly focusing eyes. “My God, he’s back.”

With a shaky hand, Carrack reached out, his other hand cradling his head as if it could contain the whirlwind inside. Fragments of that abyssal void flashed before him, each memory slipping away like sand through his fingers, growing ever distant. Yet as those memories receded, fresher, more pressing ones surged forward. The dock. The raging mob. That shadowy emergence from the sea. And the cacophony around him—what was its source?

With a deep breath, he forced his senses to align. His vision sharpened; sounds became distinct. The present moment crystallized before him, and its reality was so stark, he almost yearned for the embrace of the void again.

He found himself on a dock far from the one he remembered—possibly dock three. But the specifics were inconsequential. Before him was a chilling scene, a blurred line between dream and nightmare. What initially emerged from the fog as a potential savior—a ship—now lay wrecked. The ship’s colossal metal hull had torn through several docks, its relentless advance halted only when half of it was grounded. Twisted remnants of once-mighty cranes dotted the landscape, while debris, large and small, bobbed on the turbulent waters and blanketed the shore. Buildings along the coast had been shattered by the ship’s onslaught.

From its design, Carrack identified it as a Sanderson Class Freighter—a modest cargo ship. Its solitary smokestack had been thrown off-course, bisecting a nearby dock, while its masts teetered precariously. The possibility of food aboard sent a rush of adrenaline that forced him upright, but his weakened body rebelled. The soldier before him, one he didn’t recognize from his original party, was quick to support him.

“Soldier, the ship!” Carrack rasped. “There must be food aboard!”

“Yes, sir. It’s being addressed,” the soldier reassured him.

But another wave of anxiety flooded him. “The others! Foeham, Crow, the rest?”

“They’re safe, sir. They got clear before the crash.”

“Franzen? The mob?”

“Sir, you need to relax—”

“No! Tell me now!”

“Most of the garrison is here. Captain Foeham and Sergeant Crow are leading a team to inspect the ship,” the soldier said. “Everything is being taken care of.”

Drawing a deep breath, Carrack regained his composure. “Your name?”

“Ryan Kramas, sir.”

“Kramas, the people on the dock?”

Kramas hesitated, then sighed. “We’ve been pulling bodies from the water since we got here, sir. You were amongst them—only you were revived. A miracle, to tell ya the truth.”

Carrack gave a hollow laugh. “A miracle.”

The dockyard buzzed with frenetic activity. Carrack, though increasingly lucid, felt the weight of his weakened body and an intense pain in his leg. Gingerly touching his wound, he discovered that the stitches had come apart. The warmth of fresh blood smeared his fingers. Swiftly, he unbuckled his belt and fastened it above the injury, hoping to stem the blood flow.

Scanning his surroundings, his eyes caught the sight of several lifeless bodies lying nearby, their skins pale and soaked from the rain and seawater. Pushing down his revulsion, he reached for the closest one, intending to rip off a piece of fabric. On his first attempt, he only managed to drag the body closer, its dead weight resisting him. With determination, he looked away from the lifeless face, gathering all his strength, and successfully tore off a cloth strip. He then wrapped it tightly around his wound to staunch the bleeding.

While Kramas provided some insight, he couldn’t offer a comprehensive update on the unfolding events. He was, after all, a soldier tasked with the grim duty of retrieving bodies and maintaining security. Carrack didn’t wish to further burden him or make his own survival widely known. In all likelihood, many assumed he was dead or at least missing, and revealing himself now might complicate things. Judging by Foeham’s swift actions in tandem with Crow—marshaling the men to search the ship and securing the vicinity—it seemed the situation was well in hand. Carrack deduced that, for now, announcing his presence might prove more disruptive than beneficial. Until he regained his strength and could actively contribute, he would remain a silent observer. So, he settled in, leaning against a crate, watching his men work with practiced efficiency.

Carrack, still recovering, observed his surroundings with sharp eyes, pressing a hand to his aching body. Kramas reappeared after a short interval, accompanied by soldiers carrying a stretcher.

“Sir, we’ve got a litter for you. We need to get you back to the fort,” Kramas urged.

Carrack dismissed the notion with a shake of his head. “I’m staying. I want to see what comes off that ship.”

“You’re injured, sir. You need medical attention,” Kramas persisted.

“Not yet,” Carrack responded with finality. Understanding the decision, Kramas nodded and refocused on his duties.

As Carrack’s gaze settled on the ship, the flurry of activity seemed both swift and drawn out. His trained eyes detected a shift in the movement on deck—a familiar dance of panic. Men emerged from below, their hurried strides betraying their alarm. Their actions grew even more frantic when thick black smoke began to rise from the deck. The distance muted the sounds, but the sporadic concussive echoes clearly weren’t thunder. Each explosion made the atmosphere tense, until one particularly powerful detonation blew apart the ship’s stern. Liquid fire, unmistakably oil, spilled out, transforming the water into a blazing hellscape.

The onlookers were seized by panic, yet Carrack’s demeanor was eerily serene. The flames entranced him, their mesmerizing dance hinting at patterns and images. Within them, he thought he saw the tormented figure of Adcock, his expressionless face fixed on Carrack. The chilling vision made Carrack’s skin tingle. So engrossed was he in the fiery scene that he didn’t register being hoisted onto the stretcher, the soldiers hurrying him away from the advancing inferno. The haunting image of Adcock pursued him, burning brightly until the dock halted its advance and it disintegrated back into the chaotic fire.