The Mariner

With the thought of being either burnt or eaten alive ripe in his mind, Schiff rose to his shaky feet. He had to run for it, past the bodies of his friends, past those demon dogs and then up the stairs. From there he’d throw himself overboard into the safety of the open ocean. Cool water. Salty safety. Fuck revenge against this ‘Mariner’ fellow, death wasn’t worth it. Revenge? Pah! He hadn’t even liked the men the stranger had killed. Fuck ‘em all! He wanted to live!

Schiff staggered forward like an animated scarecrow, limbs stiff and uncertain, heat at his back galvanising him into motion. Just a quick dash and jump would do it, the dogs were small, no more than misshapen terriers really. He could do it.

He could.

Schiff ran the short distance and jumped through the doorway. Too high. He smacked his head on the ceiling sending his vision into sparkling darkness. Something wet and slippery met his foot as he landed sending him skidding forward, collapsing into a heap upon the stairs.

Weeping in both pain and fear, Schiff crawled the ascent, sure any moment he’d feel tiny teeth upon the nape of his neck. The rising heat seemed to lift his body like the smouldering remains of kindling. Fresh air awaited, a heavenly promise that propelled him onwards and upwards, towards the open door and then the Neptune’s top deck.

Coughing and wailing, Schiff tumbled through the doorway, once again under the sky, a presence he’d never fully appreciated before. Well he’d never make that mistake again. He’d prize it, he’d worship it: cool, clean air. It filled his lungs, soothing the scorched sensation within, and as he lay prone across the deck he sucked in huge healing gasps.

Schiff began to laugh. He’d seen Hell and escaped! A second chance had been given. From now on, everything would change. No more theft. No more fights. No more rapes. He was a changed man, a police-man, and he would strive to be a Good Guy once more. Those dogs would be proud.

The sound of a whip cracking against flesh stopped his laugh as it began, his throat clamping shut like a startled sphincter. A horrible moan of pain followed, though it was cut short by a second terrible thwack.

Schiff slowly raised his shaky head and looked at the scene about him.

If he’d witnessed the gates of Hell within the Neptune’s belly, then rather than flee from it as he’d hoped, he’d tumbled through. All about him people were tortured. Some were flogged, the skin on their backs sliding off like film upon hot milk, clumps clinging to the leather chord as it rose for another pass. Others were having ropes put around their necks, eyes bulging as the nooses tightened. One man’s face was repeatedly beaten with a thick wooden stick. Two pained eyes roved wildly above the mush that once was his nose, mouth and chin.

The violence wasn’t just intended to inflict pain upon the victims, acts of humiliation and degradation were indulged with similar vigour. One man was urinated upon by three laughing tormentors, whilst behind a woman was raped by an equally distraught victim, forced into the act by spectators who lashed at him when they thought his thrusts lacked the cruelty they intended. They laughed and jeered, dark smiles beneath soulless eyes.

Where had they come from? Was he dead? Was that it?

Schiff tried to stand amongst the carnage, but found he could not. It was too horrible, too nauseating. Everywhere he looked something terrible was taking place, some act designed to reduce man to vermin. None returned his horrified stare, so consumed in their own activities the sight of one terrified man must have been inconsequential.

And then he saw him. The Mariner. The man he’d come to kill. He was on the floor, naked with a redhead, rutting as if their life depended upon it. However, all Schiff’s previous intentions were gone. He had no desire to kill the stranger, just to escape, just to feel that cool water he’d promised himself moments before.

Schiff looked up from the naked couple, one scene amongst many, and into the eyes of the Mariner once more. He blinked and looked again. There were two of them, one on the floor fornicating, the other standing in the centre of the carnage, watching, eyes wide and filled with just as much horror as Schiff’s.

“What have you done? What is this?” Schiff asked, but the Mariner didn’t seem to notice. He was looking down at himself, face drained of colour.

The rutting Mariner was becoming more and more vigorous, approaching orgasm. The redhead was too, her hips rising to meet him with every thrust. He hoisted himself up upon his elbows, running his hands about her face. She closed her eyes and welcomed his caresses, gasping as he placed one about her neck and raised the other, curling his hand into a fist.

“No!” the voyeur Mariner wailed, but his words were impotent. The couple couldn’t hear him just as the torturers and victims couldn’t see Schiff.