It was a warm St. Lucient night, a cooling sea breeze just disturbing the palms on the edge of the beach. The sand glowed orange in front of their bonfire. A young man, boy really, sat cross-legged playing a mournful dirge on his violin over the lapping of the sea on the land and their boat. The ship creaked as it moved and strained on its moorings, its furled sails high above the deck like white beacons. Two small hogs from the island rotated on the spit. The absence of the moon made it possible to pick out thousands of stars like flecks of white paint haphazardly flicked onto the sky.
The captain stood at the edge of the sea smoking his small white pipe and
staring out across the waves. Twenty or thirty sailors were spread in
various positions lain out drunk on the beach. Their bodies interspersed
with empty brown-glass rum bottles. The sand was littered with the
carcasses of three other hogs, eaten that night. The island’s sounds
were regular and calming after the raucous evening before.
The boy went over to the weather beaten elder man. He smiled at the boy
who inanely grinned back. A loud crack pierced the air and they looked
around, startled by the sound. The noise also awoke several of the other
men. Within moments a cry again broke the silence. At the edge of the
beach, just where the last of the island’s plant life grew, a large
group of men had gathered.
The captain spoke and the ellipse disjointed to reveal a body. It hardly looked human but had the head of a crewmember. The postule that he was dead was easily proven; the crack had been the sound of the man’s ribcage being opened. The earth was sodden with blood. Fearing for his crew’s lives he ordered some men be equipped with muskets to search the area. He then cocked both of his pistols by pulling the flints back until they clicked into place behind the trigger.
The armed men slipped into the foliage keeping constant contact with each other by shouting. A musket discharged in the darkness resounding through the bay, shortly followed by the sickening crack of bone being cleaved apart, this time accompanied by screams of pain. Then all hell broke loose. Weapons were fired and foliage torn by fast moving feet.
Two men carried between them the body. Every one asked what the beast looked like. None of the men had seen it. The firing had been into bushes as they rustled, presumably behind the animal. The look of terror on the second deceased's face proved description enough of the horror. Most of the crew now sat close to the fire. Those who were more relaxed slept, not that many could. An hour passed, or that was what it felt like to them. People began to relax and fall asleep but a few still wanted to keep at least one eye open. Most of those with muskets tried to stay awake but the calming effects of the island sounds provided them with a sweet lullaby.
The next crack came from very close by and was followed by another and a swift dragging sound as they registered what was going on. Clawed tracks in pairs as if from a biped were all around them with drag marks leading from where crewmen once slept. The third man died further away, or at least his death was quieter. This time it wasn't only armed men running into the island, wrath over took the men and sent them mad. A throng rose deafeningly flooding the bay.
What ever this thing was it was a persistent one. More and more men were picked off in the great commotion. Their deaths increased the level of noise. Hundreds of figures were silhouetted by the fire. Few men had torches while the rest relied on their own vision. Scared men fired on their friends as they saw foliage moving. The whole bay had become a threat; every thing moved or made a noise.
The deaths became less timid; there was a slaughter. The smell of blood mingled in the air with that of burnt gunpowder and fire smoke. The yelling died down to that of merely a few living men.
The first orange rays of morning broke the sky. The deep night lightened up and the first rays of sun illuminated the bloody ground. Rich red blood saturated the soil and ran down into the sea. No tracks showed any longer on the beach and in the sea stood a few men, the residue of a once formidable crew. The captain stood silently over the scene as his survivors wandered over. The old man then stepped over to the ship's rowing boat and, with help, launched it into the water. It was held steady as each man boarded solemnly. They silently rowed with only the beating of the oars effecting the terrified silence.
Their sails flapped in the wind as they fled, they the survivors.