James Axler - Genesis Sinister

“Please, señor,” Alfredo called as the pirate approached him. “Don’t hurt me. My ship, she will sink if I don’t—”

The dreadlocked pirate drove the tip of his sword into Alfredo’s chest, wrenching it down through his body from sternum to crotch as the man howled in agony. “What makes you think I’d give a shit about your boat?” he hissed, wrenching the blade free. The captain’s guts came with the blade, spilling over the bloodied deck as he sank to his knees. And he screamed long and loud.

“For goodness’ sake, shut him up!” Black John Jefferson commanded as he tightened his grip in the blonde woman’s hair. “I can’t concentrate on the task at hand with all that screaming.”

The “task at hand,” as Black John had described it, left the blonde sobbing, and the pirate cursed her even as he spilled his seed inside her. He pulled away from her and stood as his companion, Fern Salt of the tattooed sleeve, took his turn on the girl. All around them, mayhem reigned, and Black John smiled as he saw the bloody hell he had encouraged. The last of the ship’s crew was being hoisted high in the air by four of Black John’s crew as another used his bobbing form for target practice, shots clipping chunks from the helpless sailor’s ear and cutting two of his fingers off his hand as they hit. Finally a bullet pierced the man’s larynx as he screamed, and his scream turned to a gurgle as his ruined body was tossed overboard, the blood pouring down his flailing limbs.

Black John hurried over to the side of the ship as the man was thrown, wrenching his Colt Anaconda from its holster even as he ran. Steadying himself against the rail, Black John took aim at the bobbing figure before blasting a single bullet through the man’s forehead, ripping his skull apart in an ugly red blotch. The sailor continued to bob in the ocean, eyes wide but their spark gone.

Black John turned back to his crew, eyeing them with his ferocious glare. “For goodness’ sake, ex him when you’re done,” he berated. “No witnesses. Not ever. That’s the code, lads.”

Chastised, the pirate crew muttered their apologies as they checked the old scow’s cabin for anything of value. Black John smiled grimly as he marched across the deck to where Fern Salt was having his way with the pregnant blonde. Gun still in hand, he shot the woman in the face, killing her instantly.

Delirious with passion, Fern Salt shook for a moment before realizing what had happened. “What did you do that for?” he shouted, his ardor disappearing like a snuffed flame. “I wasn’t done pricking her, man!”

“No witnesses, Mr. Salt,” Black John said in reply, an ugly sneer marring his dark features. “No witnesses.”

Still staring at the bloody body of the woman, Black John aimed his pistol at her swollen belly and stroked the trigger once more. Salt was splattered with blood, and he growled as he turned and glared at Black John as the sadistic pirate walked away, fury raging through him. With a guttural shout, Fern Salt began to charge across the sloping deck at his colleague.

Black John was a survivor who had relied on his quick wits to keep him alive up to now. He heard Salt charging at him and he stepped aside automatically, his long coats swishing about him as he brought his pistol around. Salt slammed into him still, knocking Black John with his shoulder and shoving him a half-dozen steps onward with a roar. Off balance, Black John went down, tumbling to the deck with his first mate atop him.

“What do you think you’re doin’, Mr. Salt?” Black John bellowed.

Salt was too angry to respond. He scampered back, reaching for the long-barreled Llama Comanche revolver he wore in an open shoulder rig. The Comanche had a six-inch barrel and, at some point in its history, someone had painted a naked, openmouthed woman reclining along that length.

“You’re a maniac,” Salt snarled as he freed the Comanche from its holster.

Black John smiled as he brought his own pistol to bear on the mutinous pirate. “Mr. Salt, surely you cannot be serious—”

Salt pulled the trigger, blasting a volley of .357 bullets into Black John’s chest. Several missed, cutting splinters from the deck in furious bursts of wood, but three bullets hit, striking the captain with force enough to shake his whole body. Black John’s pistol blasted, too, but he was a fraction of a second slower in getting that first shot in. His shots went wild, clipping Salt only once in the hard muscle of his upper left arm.

Salt bellowed in pain as the bullet winged him, jabbing with his Comanche and blasting another burst of fire at his captain. Black John lay writhing on the deck, blossoms of blood appearing on his clothes like opening poppies, a dark wound in each one’s center.

“Bastard,” Salt spit as his weapon finally clicked on Empty.

Standing there, his shoulders rising and falling as he breathed heavily, Salt became aware of his seven colleagues around him. They had boarded with him and Black John to take whatever cargo the ship might have.

“What happened, Fern?” Six asked, still hefting the crate of stones.

Salt became suddenly very aware that Six had a gun trained on him under the base of the box he held, a little snub-nosed thing, its finish the color of storm clouds.

“Cap’n’s out of control,” Salt muttered, shaking his head. “You seen it. You all seen it.”

For a moment, Six and his companions stood in silence, each man poised with his own blaster. Then Six nodded and clicked the safety back on his pistol, the others following suit a moment later.

“Killed the girl an’ the baby, just to make sure,” Salt continued. “The unborn fucking baby. No witnesses, my eye, he just went kill crazy. It’s sick, man.”

Six took a step away, motioning for the others to follow with a tilt of his head. “Let’s get back to La Discordia and get out of here. Time’s ticking and the clock’s never kind.”

Xia looked Captain Black John Jefferson up and down for a moment, the man’s blood pooling around him where he lay sprawled on the deck. “You want we should take him with us, Six?”

Six shook his head without looking back. “Screw him,” he said. “Salt’s right—he always was a sick bastard.”

“Yeah,” Xia agreed, plucking the Colt Anaconda from the dying man’s grip. “An’ he cheated at cards.” With that, he blasted off a single shot into Black John’s skull, finishing the job that Fern Salt had started.

Two minutes later, the graceful dartlike form of La Discordia was sailing away, cutting through the sea at some speed. Behind it, the little fishing vessel known as La Segunda Montaña lurched toward the water, its prow sinking beneath the waves. The pirate crew whooped as they departed the scene of the crime. They had gained only a few trinkets, a box of stones that had been washed in blood, but there had been women on the ship, and the men had been satisfied. Piracy was not always about goods; frequently it was simply an exercise in staving off boredom. The ability to live free, away from the baronies and their oppressive rules in the north, was something every crewman treasured.

Which was ironic, in that the passengers aboard La Segunda Montaña had also come in search of freedom. They were refugees, escaping a madness that seemed to engulf the northern territory of America. The villes had fallen but something had risen briefly in its place, a religion based on stone. Alfredo, the late captain of La Segunda Montaña, had lived the past few months of his life under the name of Alfredo Stone, in acknowledgment of his new faith. The people aboard his boat had come south in search of freedom, trying to escape the insanity that swept across the north after the fall of the baronies, trying to find somewhere to live. Instead they had merely found somewhere new to die.