Chapter 5: The Sea's Red Tithe

Chapter 5: The Sea's Red Tithe

Dusk bled into a moonless, star-swallowing night. The sterile beam of their single battery-powered lantern seemed only to deepen the shadows that pressed in on their small patch of sand. The grotesque totem stood like a sentinel at the edge of the light, the flayed skin of the forgotten sailor stirring in the faint sea breeze. Over it all, the six-foot idol watched with its dead, glittering mother-of-pearl eyes, a silent god presiding over its own altar of smashed technology.

They were huddled together, a pathetic triangle of modern men reduced to their most primal state. Harlock gripped a heavy wrench from the boat kit, his knuckles white. Aris Thorne sat cross-legged on the sand, rocking back and forth, muttering botanical names like a prayer against the dark. And Leo… Leo could feel the small, carved idol in his pocket, a burning coal of transgression. He was certain it was a beacon, a homing device that had called this doom down upon them.

Then, the sound returned.

Thump... thump-thump...

It wasn't the distant, questioning beat from the night before. The drum was here, just beyond the treeline, a hungry and insistent pulse that vibrated through the soles of their boots. Another joined it from the rocks to the left, and a third from the right, creating a disorienting, predatory rhythm that surrounded them.

And then came the wailing.

It was a sound that scraped the inside of Leo’s skull, an inhuman chorus of rising and falling cries that seemed to mimic the wind, the cry of gulls, the shriek of a dying animal, all twisted into something hideously intelligent. It echoed from the jungle, from the cliffs, from everywhere at once, a calculated assault on their sanity.

"Hold your ground!" Harlock barked, his voice tight with strain. "They want us to run! They want us to break!"

Only Riggs seemed unaffected. He stood at the edge of the lantern light, his rifle held in a low ready position, a statue of lethal calm. He scanned the treeline, his head moving in slow, deliberate arcs. "It's misdirection," he said, his voice a low, flat declaration. "Psychological warfare. They're making noise to draw our focus, make us panic. The attack will come from one direction. From the trees. They're in the trees."

Harlock nodded, seizing on the cold logic. It was a piece of familiar, conventional strategy in a world that had become an insane nightmare. "He's right. Watch the trees!"

But Marcus Cole was beyond logic. He was a wreck, his body trembling uncontrollably. His face, slick with sweat and tears in the lantern light, was a mask of pure terror. "I can't... I can't," he stammered, his teeth chattering. "I gotta... oh god, I have to..."

He scrambled to his feet, his movements jerky and uncoordinated.

"Marcus, sit down!" Harlock commanded.

"I can't! I have to piss, man, I'm going to do it right here!" he shrieked, his voice cracking into a sob. The sheer, humiliating pressure of his own body's needs had finally broken him.

Before anyone could stop him, he stumbled away from the relative safety of the lantern, toward the dark water's edge just twenty feet away. "I'll be right back," he sobbed, fumbling with the fly of his pants. He turned his back to them, a lone, pathetic silhouette against the faint, shimmering line of the surf.

The moment he separated himself from the group, the sound from the jungle changed. The drumming and the wailing swelled into a deafening, chaotic crescendo, a wall of pure noise designed to overwhelm, to paralyze, to mask all other sounds. It was a climax of madness that vibrated in Leo's very bones.

And then, in a single, coordinated beat, it stopped.

Silence.

Absolute. Perfect. Heart-stopping silence, more terrifying than any noise that had come before. In the ringing void, there was only the gentle hiss of the waves.

Leo’s eyes were locked on Marcus. In that profound quiet, he saw the young tech finish, saw his shoulders sag in a moment of pathetic relief. He began to turn back toward them.

That’s when the sea erupted.

It wasn't a shark. It wasn't an animal. It was a blur of slick-skinned muscle and speed, a shape of coiled power launching from the black, shallow water. There was no warning, only a violent spray of sea and sand. A single, wet, choked-off scream was swallowed by the night. Marcus was gone, pulled under and away into the darkness in a thrashing of water that lasted less than a second.

They stared, frozen in disbelief, at the empty space where he had been. The water was already smoothing over, leaving no trace. No, not quite. On the wet sand, just at the water's edge, lay a single, severed hand. It rested palm up, the fingers slightly curled, as if waiting to receive something.

Aris let out a high, thin wail, a sound of a mind finally snapping. Harlock stared, his face a canvas of horror, his authority, his control, utterly annihilated. He had been looking the wrong way. They had all been looking the wrong way.

Before the horror of Marcus's end could fully register, the second phase of the attack began. They had no time to process, no time to grieve, no time to scream.

From the deep shadows among the rocks to their left, and from the black maw of the jungle they had been so focused on, figures emerged. They didn't run or shout. They moved with a silent, fluid grace, dark shapes detaching themselves from the deeper darkness.

Riggs reacted instantly. He spun, bringing his rifle to bear on the nearest shadow. He was a professional, fast and efficient. But they were faster. And they were smarter.

Something flew from the darkness, not a spear or an arrow, but a dark, spreading shape. With a soft, wet thump, a heavy, weighted net unfurled in the air and fell over Riggs. He gave a grunt of pure surprise as the thick, knotted ropes entangled him. The weights at its edges pulled it tight, pinning his arms, trapping his rifle against his body. He was neutralized without a single shot being fired.

He fought for a second, a powerful man caught in a spider’s web. But ropes snaked out of the dark, attached to the net. He was jerked off his feet with brutal force, his helmet scraping against the sand. He let out a choked gasp as they began to drag him, choking and struggling, across the beach and into the waiting darkness of the trees. His dragging body left a deep furrow in the sand, a final, desperate mark that was erased by the next wave.

In the space of ten seconds, the Aethelred Geospatial survey team had been violently reduced from five to three. The wailing started again, closer now, and it was no longer a tool of misdirection. It was a sound of triumph. Of hunger.

Leo stood paralyzed, staring at the severed hand on the sand, then at the dark furrow leading into the trees. Harlock let out a guttural roar, a sound of pure, animal rage and terror. He grabbed Leo's arm with the force of a vise.

"RUN!" he screamed, the word tearing from his throat. "TO THE DINGHY! RUN!"