Zane Carrington fans, read the first two pages of his new adventure: the Crimson Leviathan. You can find the whole chapter on my Patreon Page when you subscribe.
Chapter 1
Death Drinks the Sea
The ship was on fire, tinting the night in violent amber. Whatever had attacked it must have been massive—powerful enough to rip into a warship without effort. Undoubtably, it could blow my ship out of the water if it so chose. I throttled back the engine of the Algiers, letting the trans-steamer chug forward at a cautious crawl. My senses on high alert.
We were coming back from a cargo run to the Mariana Islands. Most of the time my cargo is questionable, but this one was legit. That’s what I do, I haul cargo, and I try and stay out of trouble, most of the time.
The name’s Zane Carrington, captain, though others might call me a smuggler I tend to think of myself as a man who knows the difference between survival and heroics and chooses survival every time.
The British flag atop the attacked vessel’s ruined mass burned fiercely, the sea air feeding the flames as the flag snapped and writhed against the dark.
“It’s the Guardian,” Major Ronald Chesterton said as he came into the wheelhouse. He went straight to the window, one hand braced against the frame, his breathing heavy. Ronald was a disgraced British military man—drummed out of the army and stripped of his station, his family, and his country—but he was still British to the marrow. Watching a piece of English pride die in the night unsettled him more than he cared to admit.
“You know her?” I asked.
With his back to me, Ronald said quietly, almost mournfully, “I saw her christened in 1915. She was one of the most powerful warships afloat at the time.” He paused. “Not anymore.”
“She’s still a fair-sized warship,” I said. “Whatever did this—”
A sharp whistle cut through the cabin as Lucas stepped in. “Wow,” he breathed. “You think there’s anyone alive over there?” He stopped beside Ronald, staring out at the burning hulk.
I cleared my throat. “Take the wheel, Lucas.”
“Sure, Zane. Sure,” he said, his expression falling apart like a boy caught somewhere he shouldn’t be.
I moved up beside Ronald. “What do you think, Major? Anyone still over there?”
Ronald rubbed his chin, eyes never leaving the wreck. He gave me a sidelong glance. “There’s really only one way to find out.”
The fire looked contained to one side of the Guardian. A massive hole had been torn through her port flank, and she listed badly, but she was still afloat. The idea of her slipping beneath the waves while I was aboard didn’t sit well with me. Still, I wanted to know if anyone remained—and what in God’s name had done this to her.
If the ship was empty, maritime law was clear: whatever lay aboard was fair claim. The human part of me hoped to find survivors. The tramp-steamer captain in me needed to make a living. Think what you will—I’ve been judged for worse, and some of it was true.
“I don’t know why I can’t go with you, Zane,” Lucas said, hovering too close, his words tumbling out faster than his thoughts.
Lucas couldn’t have been much older than seventeen. He never said exactly how old he was, or what his full name might be, and I never asked. I’d caught him as a stowaway a year back, skinny and desperate, hiding where he didn’t belong. Despite his secrets, he talked his way into a berth, and since I was short a sailor, I let him stay.
“I need you here with the major, Lucas,” I said, keeping my voice steady as Crocker and I readied the lifeboat.
“He can take care of himself,” Lucas insisted, stubborn as ever.
“Maybe,” I said, meeting his eyes, “but he’ll need help with the ship if whatever attacked that vessel over there comes back.” I leaned closer. “Think, Lucas. Use that brain of yours—and think.”
It took no time at all for Crocker and me to cast off from the Algiers. He took the oars while I kept watch. Crocker wasn’t much for conversation—never was. Most days it was because he was too drunk to talk, or too hungover to bother. Damned good engineer, though. I was lucky to have him. He slept with a bottle under his pillow, but he never let me down. Not once.
The smell of diesel and smoke grew heavier as we drew closer to the wounded Guardian a little after four o’clock. It clung to the air and settled in the back of my throat. There were no bodies in the water, which was a good sign—but there was no sign of life aboard either.
By now there should’ve been something. Shouts. Cries for help. An officer barking orders, something. Instead, there was only the crackle of fire and the slow slap of water against steel.
“What do you think’s going on?” Crocker asked.
I didn’t answer. I didn’t have one. Could whatever attacked her, have taken the crew as hostages? And if so—why? Why take the risk of hauling that many prisoners aboard?
“Zane… Look!” Crocker yelled, jabbing a finger toward the water.
There, floating face down in the inky black, was the first body. We skirted the boat alongside it, and Crocker grabbed a fistful of the man’s shirt, hauling him halfway out of the sea.
The dead man’s face was calm. Too calm. Almost peaceful, as if he’d been ready. Willing, to meet death. There was something about it that chilled me far worse than any look of terror ever could.
“You ever seen a dead man look like that?” Crocker asked, his voice tight with horror.
Death was never pleasant. I’d seen fear, shock, surprise—but never serenity. Never anything that looked so much like acceptance.
“What do we do?” Crocker asked.
“Let him go,” I said. “We’re here for the living.”
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