Island of the Dead

Available October 22nd

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Not even death is an escape from the... ISLAND OF THE DEAD.

World Horror Grand Master Brian Keene returns to zombies in this relentless sword and sorcery horror epic!

Einar, an enslaved barbarian, plots his escape from a war galley transporting troops and a mysterious weapon to far enemy shores. But when an apocalyptic storm at sea leaves Einar and his fellow captives shipwrecked on a strange, uncharted island, friend and foe alike must band together against a ravenous, steadily growing horde of the undead... and even worse dangers.

Available for wholesale and distribution through Diamond Book Distributors.

About the Author

Brian Keene is the author of over fifty books, mostly in the horror, crime, and fantasy genres. He has also written for such media properties as Thor, Doom Patrol, Justice League, Doctor Who, The X-Files, Aliens, and Masters of the Universe. Several of his novels and stories have been adapted for film.  

His numerous awards and honors include the 2014 World Horror Grandmaster Award, 2001 Bram Stoker Award for Nonfiction, 2003 Bram Stoker Award for First Novel, the 2016 Imadjinn Award for Best Fantasy Novel, and the 2015 Imaginarium Film Festival Awards for Best Screenplay, Best Short Film Genre, and Best Short Film Overall.  

Keene also serves on the Board of Directors for the Scares That Care 501c charity organization.

He lives in rural Pennsylvania, along the banks of the Susquehanna River, with his wife (author Mary SanGiovanni), and their five cats, thirteen hermit crabs, and assorted deer, possums, raccoons, bears, eagles, and other wildlife.

Excerpt

ONE

The galley’s lower deck stank of sweat, salt, vomit, and desperation. Einar tried to breathe through his mouth as much as possible, but it did little good. The stench permeated the dank, shadowed space. The series of small, round portholes spaced evenly apart along the length of the interior did little to alleviate things, as the ocean outside was currently windless. 

Einar sat on a stained bench next to one of those outlets, gripping the rough wooden shaft of an oar in his hands. All around him were other men, each in the same predicament. They were all shackled together at the ankles, and the heavy iron chains rattled and clanked as the ship gently rolled from side to side. Einar’s stomach rolled, as well. It was not his first time onboard a seafaring vessel, but it was his first time as a slave. Regardless, whether as a privateer or as a prisoner, he doubted that he would ever grow accustomed to the feel of a ship swaying beneath him. Luckily, the meager helpings of stale bread, salt pork, and water he’d subsisted on the last few weeks stayed down. Many of the other slaves had spewed their rations onto their feet.

They rowed in unison, and there was very little talking. Part of this was because of the different nationalities and language barriers of his fellow slaves. Another reason was the soldiers walking back and forth amidst their ranks, calling out cadence for the oars, and watching over their every move. But mostly, it was because they were all too exhausted from their efforts to muster casual conversation. One man had tried, early in the voyage—running through a seemingly endless supply of crude jokes and bawdy tales. The guards had let him prattle on. Einar wasn’t sure if that was because they’d enjoyed his humor or if they had viewed it as a subtle form of torture for their prisoners. The comedian had died on the fourth day of the voyage, slumping over where he sat, mouth open, eyes glazed. He’d died in mid-jest, never delivering the punchline to the joke he’d been telling. Two soldiers had unchained his corpse, dragged him onto the upper deck, and unceremoniously tossed his corpse over the side. Einar had seen it plummet past his porthole. He’d been too tired to muster any interest in the affair.

“Stay in sync,” a soldier yelled. “You get out of sync and we’ll turn to one side! Listen to the call.”

Many of the slaves groaned in response, but no one spoke.

Einar scowled. He’d fought and fucked his way across the continent—at times a thief, a mercenary, a pirate, and a bodyguard. He’d baked in sweltering deserts, crossed insect-infested plains, blazed paths through unnavigable jungles, braved dark forests, and climbed to the tops of mountains where the air was so thin it was nearly impossible to breathe. He’d battled in cities, small towns, and wilderness. 

He’d lost track of the times he’d been injured and had to count the scars on his body to remind himself. Pain and exhaustion were with him always. He woke up in pain and went to sleep in pain. But he’d never been pushed as far as he was now. 

After days of constant rowing, his back and shoulders burned, and his muscles felt rubbery. His legs and lower back were seized by constant cramps from the lack of movement. His palms, once rough and thick with calluses, were now blistered and bleeding.

Gritting his teeth, he forced himself through the pain—raising, pushing, lowering, and pulling the oar in union with the others along the bench in his row. Lighter chains were affixed to their wrists, and they clanked with each movement—a chorus of despair, reminding each man that escape was impossible. 

Respite was brief and came in three forms. They were fed twice a day, in shifts. 

Some rowed while others ate. They slept in shifts, as well, although the slumber was fitful and unrestful, given that they did so sitting up and shackled. The only time their chains were removed was when they needed to shit or piss. Then, two of the soldiers would free them, using a key each guard kept on their person, which they stored in pouches on their belts. The prisoner was walked aft under guard to an area near the stern where two rough holes had been cut into the deck. They squatted over these holes and did their business. Then they were returned to bondage. The stench wafting from that area was curdling. The wooden slats around the holes were stained with shit and piss, and flies crawled over them. Those same flies then crawled over the slaves. It was a foul, revolting process.

But it was one that Einar planned to use to free himself.

Gritting his teeth, he squeezed the oar shaft harder, ignoring the stinging in his raw palms, and watched the guards closely. There were eight of them standing watch, with one more calling cadence. Nine in total. Each was lightly armored and armed with short swords. He would need to strike quickly—a considerable feat given his current physical condition—and then fight his way topside. After that, he’d have to survive being adrift in the ocean, with no food or water or means of flotation. A timid man or a cautious man might have called such a plan foolish or a recipe for certain death, but Einar was neither of those things, and he had survived against far longer odds in his time.

He drew a breath and was about to call out to the nearest guard when the man across the bench from him spoke in a language Einar was unfamiliar with. The man paused, waiting for a response. Einar shook his head, indicating he didn’t understand.

The man tried again.

Einar narrowed his eyes. “What did you say?”

The man kept rowing but leaned forward. He was older than Einar by perhaps fifteen or twenty years. His wiry beard and mustache and the curly locks atop his head were a mix of white and black. His tunic and trousers were finer than those usually worn by a laborer or a commoner, but both had clearly seen better days. 

He was barefoot, and Einar noticed white bands of skin around his toes and fingers, indicating that they had been adorned with rings until recently. 

He repeated himself, but this time in Einar’s native tongue. “I know what you’re thinking. You’re planning an escape.”

Einar glanced furtively at the guards, but they gave no indication that they had overheard the conversation. They continued to stride back and forth, calling out cadence with bored expressions.

Chuckling, the man switched to the more common tongue. “Judging by your expression, I’m not wrong.”

“Keep your voice down,” Einar murmured. “And how is it you know my language?”

“I make it my business to know many languages. People are more inclined to buy your wares if you can first put them at ease and build a rapport with them.”

“You’re a merchant.” Einar grunted. “I should have known that. Your belly is fatter than the rest of this lot.”

“Not for long,” wheezed a small, skinny man shackled next to Einar. “A few more days of this and he’ll be as scrawny as me.”

One of the soldiers glanced in their direction and all three men fell silent. Einar turned toward the window and spotted two more identical craft rowing alongside their vessel. He wondered just how many vessels were in the fleet. When the guard’s attention became focused elsewhere, he stared forward again.

“My name is Chuy,” the merchant said. “I would offer to shake your hand as is the custom of my people, but I am afraid that I can’t right now.”

“I am called Einar.”

“I’m Rasto,” the skinny man said, “but my friends call me Rat.”

Both men ignored him.

“You are from the north,” Chuy observed. “The barbarian tribes.”

“You knew my language but not much else.” Einar scowled. “Others call us barbarians. We do not.”

“I meant no offense, of course. My point was that you’re a long way from home. 

How did you end up here?”

“A tavern brawl. I got knocked out and woke up in jail.”

“A big man like you?”

“It was eleven against one. Several people were killed.”

“By your hand?” Chuy asked.

“Yes. But the magistrate decreed it was in self-defense.”

“If it was self-defense, then why are you here?”

“There was a lot of property damage,” Einar explained. “More than I could afford to pay for. I may have also broken the tavern-keeper’s nose. The details are murky. I’d had quite a lot to drink.”

Chuy and Rat both laughed. Attracted by the sound, a soldier hurried over to their row.

“No talking,” he yelled. “If you bastards want to eat again and avoid the lash, you’ll keep your mouths shut and focus on rowing!”

He stood there and glowered at them. Chuy stared straight ahead, his expression serene. Rat glanced down at the deck and twitched. Einar turned his attention back to the porthole. He noticed that the horizon had now turned black as if a wall of darkness were crawling across the ocean. A cool breeze billowed through the opening, strong enough to tousle his long, unwashed hair. He closed his eyes, relishing the feel of it on his face and forehead. Someone several rows aft began to cough violently, and the guard moved on.

“It seems the magistrate assigned us both to the same fate,” Chuy whispered. 

“Conscripted and indentured to the military. Rowing their soldiers and equipment off to war.”

“We’re not indentured,” Einar grumbled. “We’re slaves.”

“Not me,” Rat replied. “They said if I do a good job, I can go free afterward.”

“Keep your voice down,” Einar warned. “So, if you do their bidding, they’ll grant you freedom? That sounds like slavery to me.”

“Perhaps.” Rat shrugged. “It’s better than the gallows, though.” 

“Forget the gallows. They can kill you at any time between here and there. And even if you do regain your freedom, it will be on a foreign shore as part of an invading army with an entire country full of people who also want to kill you. The gallows seem preferable to all that. Quicker, at least.”  

Rat paled and grew silent.

Einar nodded at Chuy. “What about you? What crime landed you here?”

“No tavern brawl for me, I’m afraid. I ran afoul of a nobleman.”

“Selling junk wares?”

“Nothing of the sort,” Chuy protested. “My wares are top quality and priced fairly. No… he caught me in bed with both of his wives. Rather than kill me, he trumped up a series of false charges. He was a powerful, connected man.”

“You should have just killed him.”

“I’m not a fighting man. I prefer to use words over weapons if I can.”

“And here you are.”

“Yes,” Chuy agreed. “Here I am, aboard this miserable, stinking ship, and my entire life—everything I have built for the last twenty years—is receding behind me with each push of this oar. If I wasn’t in so much pain right now, I might cry.”

The ship rolled hard, and thunder rumbled in the distance. Mist sprayed in through the opening, and Einar blinked. His lips tasted of brine.

“That’s some storm coming in,” Rat murmured. “Fast, too. It was clear weather just a few moments ago.”

Einar noticed that Chuy’s expression had grown sullen. Wincing, the older man raised the oar in unison with the other men beside him.

“Cheer up,” Einar told him. “Perhaps there will be wives you can sleep with when you reach land.”

A grin slowly spread across Chuy’s face. He winked at Einar. “I can’t help but notice that you said when I reach land. I rather than we. So, I was correct in my initial observation. You plan on leaving us before that.”  

Einar raised his head and made sure that the soldiers were out of earshot. Then he slowly nodded. “I do. Within the hour. Do you wish to come with me?”

Chuy shook his head. “I am afraid I wouldn’t last long in the ocean. In truth, I don’t see how you will, either. Clearly, you are strong and blessed with the constitution of a bull, but we are far from any land, and even a bull can only swim for so long before they tire and sink.”

“I’ll worry about that later. One thing at a time.”

“I don’t know,” Rat said. “Seems to me that here you’re still alive, at least. Jump overboard and maybe not so much. Ten minutes in that sea and the gallows might not seem so bad to you. Particularly when that storm hits.”

“I’d rather die of my own free will than wear these chains for another day.” 

“What’s your plan, then?” Chuy asked.

“I’ll show you.”

Einar sat up straight and squared his shoulders. Then he waited for a pause in the cadence calling. When it came, he drew in a deep breath.

“Ho, guard! I need to make use of the head.”

Two of the soldiers approached his row. Both men walked slowly as the ship began to roll harder. One of them was an older man with a gray beard like Chuy’s. His complexion was gnarled and grizzled, and he had a pale, wide scar that crept out from just below his helmet, ran down his forehead, and then zig-zagged across his nose and left cheek. Clearly, he’d seen some battles in his time. The other soldier was a slender youth. He had a few wisps of blond hair poking out from beneath his helmet, each strand as fine as gossamer. His blue eyes were wide with nervousness, and he kept staring past Einar and the other prisoners, watching the storm roll closer.

“Keep at the oar,” the veteran admonished the men in Einar’s row. Then he turned his attention to the barbarian. “Can you wait? There’s a storm coming. We need every hand on these oars.”

“Aye.” Einar nodded. “I see it. But nature calls. If you want me to shit right here, I’m fine to do that, but the smell isn’t going to help us row any faster.”

The older man’s eyes narrowed, making his scar stand out even more. “Are you mocking me?”

Einar shook his head. “Not at all. My apologies if it sounds that way. I just have a knife twisting in my gut. I suspect these choppy seas have stirred me up inside. I can do it here or over yonder at the head, but what I can’t do is wait.”

The soldier hesitated. His expression indicated that he was considering everything Einar had said.

The youth stepped forward. “Maybe we should let him do his business. If he—”

“Shut up,” the older man interrupted, glaring at him. “This is your first deployment. 

When you’ve been doing this as long as I have, you’ll see. You can’t let these bastards take advantage of you because they will. Every chance they get.”

“Pardon,” the boy replied. “I only meant that if he shits himself while sitting there at the oars, then we will have to smell it, too. My stomach is already in knots.”

A sneer slowly spread across the veteran’s face. “Still seasick, are you? Well, we can’t have you spewing your guts all over the deck, can we, recruit?”

A blast of thunder rumbled outside, and the ship listed hard to the side. Both soldiers struggled to keep their balance.

The older man nodded at Einar. “Okay, you. Let’s go. But you had better be quick about it.”

“I don’t think that will be a problem,” Einar replied. He screwed his expression into a look of discomfort.

The soldier ordered the men chained to Einar’s oar to halt their efforts for a moment. They did so quietly, but with obvious relief. Their shoulders sagged and their posture relaxed. He carefully wended his way down the row between them and stopped in front of the barbarian. Then he produced a key from his pouch.

“No tricks now. I heard about what you did in the tavern. You might think the nine of us down here are acceptable odds, but there’s an entire company of our brothers on the decks above. We’ve got a very special cargo onboard.”

“What kind of cargo?”

“Never you mind. Something that will help us win the war. It’s none of your concern. 

All you need to know is that if you try anything, you’ll never make it off this vessel alive.”

“No tricks,” Einar agreed, trying to sound pained. “I’m in no shape for them with these cramps.”

Chuckling, the older man unlocked Einar from the other prisoners. His wrists and ankles were still manacled. The soldier backed away, not taking his eyes off him. 

When he reached the end of the row, he motioned at Einar to follow.

“Come on then.”

Einar stood slowly. After sitting for so long, his feet were numb, and his legs tingled. He wobbled from side to side, and his chains rattled. 

The older man laughed. “No sea legs on you Northerners, eh? Guess you don’t develop them living in the rocks and snow.”

Einar ignored the taunt, doing his best to appear more unsteady than he really was. 

The poor circulation in his lower extremities helped the charade, as did the movement of the galley. The edge of the fast-moving storm was upon them now. 

Darkness seemed to quickly swallow the ship. The ocean was no longer visible outside, but they could still hear the waves, crashing and roaring. Rain battered the vessel and blew through the open portholes like arrows. Lightning flashed, eradicating the darkness for a second and turning everything white.

“Let’s go,” the veteran yelled, slipping the key back into his pouch. “Faster, you ignorant brute!”

Several rows away, the other soldiers began to call cadence again. Their tones were urgent and, Einar thought, frightened. 

The tingling in his legs faded. He reached the end of the row and stepped out into the aisle. The two soldiers grabbed each of his arms and led him aft.

“This storm,” the younger guard murmured. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Aye,” the old man agreed. “I’ve seen many in my time, but this one looks to be a monster. We’re in for rough seas, for sure.”

“It came upon us so quickly.” The youth’s tone was full of awe and dread. “It is unnatural.”

Scoffing, the older man shoved Einar. “Get a move on, big man. I thought you had to go?”

“I do,” Einar grunted. “The cramps… it is hard to walk.”

They reached the stern, and Einar stood over the area where the two holes had been cut into the deck. Sea water splashed up out of them now as the ocean churned below. The flies had departed. 

“Okay,” the older man said. “Drop your coverings and do your business. And be quick abou—”

The galley lurched to one side, and all three men struggled to keep their balance. 

Several prisoners and at least one soldier called out in fright. The ship groaned like a wounded animal.  

Einar moved fast, stepping behind the veteran as he flailed and struggled to stay upright. He grabbed the older man’s wrist and wrenched his arm behind his back. 

The guard squawked in surprise as Einar shoved him forward and pushed him down, driving him toward the heaving deck. The soldier’s helmet slipped from his head and tumbled away.

“Hey,” the youth yelped. “Help!”

The ship groaned again, shuddering. Lightning flashed, seeming to strobe through the interior. It was followed by another blast of thunder and then a loud snap. Men screamed and shouted.

Ignoring it all, Einar drove the older soldier’s head forward, shoving it into one of the toilets. His skull was slightly larger than the hole itself, so Einar pushed harder, putting all his weight behind it. The man’s scalp and skin peeled off against the rough, filthy wood, and his blood allowed for lubrication. Gritting his teeth, Einar shoved him further. He heard the veteran’s jaw crack as his chin disappeared into the hole. Then he leaped to his feet, leaving the man stuck. The guard’s muffled, agonized shrieks were barely audible over the violence of the storm. His arms and legs jittered helplessly as he tried in vain to free himself.

Einar yanked the flailing veteran’s short sword from its scabbard and took a deep breath. He whirled to face the younger soldier and saw that the youth had drawn his weapon. The other guards were trying to make their way toward him, but the ship was rocking so badly now that they kept falling to the deck.

“D-drop it,” the youth stammered.

“You drop yours,” Einar countered. “You get one chance, boy. That’s more than I offer most men, and I won’t offer it again. If you would rather die here than on the field of battle, I’m happy to oblige.”

The young man raised his sword, but the blade trembled in his hands. Tears streamed from his blue eyes. He opened his mouth to speak.

And then the ship rolled again.

This time, it didn’t stop. With a loud groan, the galley tipped over, spilling them all to the deck. The hull cracked open, and the ocean surged inside, bringing the darkness with it. The water slammed into Einar and the young soldier with the force of a charging bull, knocking them both off their feet. The youth was driven backward into the bulkhead. Einar flailed with his free hand, managing to grab the wedged guard’s ankle. The man’s skin was still warm, and he kicked—still alive. The torrent churned and swirled, but the soldier’s head was so firmly lodged inside the toilet hole that the current didn’t dislodge him. Einar used the man’s leg to pull himself upright again. He spat saltwater and shook his dripping bangs from his eyes. 

A sudden storm and a quick catastrophe hadn’t been part of his escape plan, but 

Einar was grateful for both occurrences. He believed in no gods, so he offered no quick prayers for the universe’s provenance, but he was thankful for this unexpected stroke of luck, nevertheless. Granted, these were dire circumstances—the ship appeared to be sinking fast—but his end goal had not changed. He had planned to free himself from bondage and escape into the ocean. The first part of that plan was now accomplished. As for the second part? Well, the sea was far more turbulent now, but he’d figure something out. Since childhood, Einar had learned to adapt and overcome. If life puts a fork in your road, you didn’t waste time thinking about it. You acted and kept moving. Slowing down was for the old, and stopping was something that only happened once you were dead. If your original plan failed, you made up a new one as you went along. The key, as far as 

Einar was concerned, was to never doubt, and never give in. You could think about things and reflect upon them after they happened, but when they were occurring, the best thing was to simply react to them accordingly. And the best reaction was always an action.

Einar braced his back against the wall, spread his legs apart, and bent his knees, fighting to stay standing. He held tight to the stolen short sword and glanced about the flooding quarters. The other guards had scrambled up the ladder to the main deck, abandoning the slaves. Only the youth remained, and he was obviously stunned. He sat slumped against the bulkhead, blinking and gaping, seemingly oblivious to the water rising all around him. His complexion was fish-belly white.

The slaves screamed and yelled, rattling their chains and beating on the oars.

“Einar!” Chuy’s cry was barely audible amidst the clamor. “Einar, the keys!”

Grunting, Einar plunged his free hand into the water and felt around until he found the soldier’s pouch. He opened it, and his fingers closed over the key. He pulled it free, and his fist curled around it. Raising it aloft, he laughed triumphantly. Then he fought his way over to a barrel that was still upright and above water and clambered atop. He quickly undid the rest of his chains and then glanced around. 

The ship listed further to the side. He estimated that within the next few minutes, men would begin to drown. He would not have time to free them all, and while he held them no debt, he was loath to see helpless captives drown. It was true that none of them had taken steps to free themselves from bondage the way he had, but that didn’t warrant such a death. Better they drown as free men than in chains.

He jumped off the barrel and paddled over to the young guard. The youth was nearly submerged now but was regaining his senses. His complexion, while still pale, was slowly returning.

“Boy!” Einar gently slapped the guard’s cheek. “What is your name?”

“M… Mathias…”

“Okay, Mathias. Do you want to die?”

The youth stared at him, blinking. Einar leaned closer to him.

“I said, do you want to die?”

“N…no!”

“Good. Do you have a key for these chains?”

Mathias nodded. “We all do.”

“Then get to work freeing these men. If you do, you may yet live. If you don’t, I’ll cut your hamstrings so that you can’t swim, and you will drown.” Einar turned and faced the prisoners. “Ho! You men! This lad is going to work freeing you from your chains. If you attack him, then the men next to you will drown.”

“That is no matter to me,” yelled a slave at the end of the row closest to him. “I know none of these men!”

Nodding, Einar swam over to him and plunged his sword into the man’s chest, piercing his heart. The prisoner’s eyes bulged, and he drew a long, shuddering sigh as Einar pulled the blade free. The man slumped over at the oar. Einar held the bloody weapon high.

“Does anyone else feel like not working together? If so, sound off now!”

The prisoners murmured amongst themselves but did not reply.

“Good.” Einar nodded. “We can’t swim out through that hole. The force of the water is too great. We’ll need to make for the upper decks, and surely our captors will put up a fight. We need numbers to overwhelm them.”

He plunged through the water, noticing with some alarm that it was deeper than it had been just moments before. He quickly swam to his row and found the men there now sitting at an angle and desperately clinging to the oar. He fought his way forward, pushing past grasping hands and ignoring the pleas of those seated at the front of the row.

“You’ll get your turn,” he snapped. “Make way!”

When he reached Chuy, the merchant grinned.

“You are resourceful, Einar. I’ll give you that. When we get out of this predicament, how would you like to come to work for me? I suspect you’ve never had steady employment. It can be quite lucrative. Settle down. Plant some roots? Get yourself a wife or two and a gaggle of children.”

Einar undid Chuy’s bonds. “You couldn’t afford me.”

“Don’t be so sure, my friend. You don’t know how much I’m worth.”

“And you don’t know how resourceful I am.” Grinning, Einar turned to Rasto. “How about you, Rat? Are you resourceful?”

Rat held up his skinny wrists. “Undo these chains and put me to work, barbarian.”
Chuckling, Einar freed the smaller man. Then he handed the key to him. “Start freeing the others.”

Nodding, Rat rubbed his forearms. The manacles had left behind bright red welts on his skin. “What are you going to do?”

Einar shrugged. “I don’t know…yet. Finding a way off this wreck before it sinks to the bottom will be a good start.”

Chuy led the way down the row, and Einar quickly followed him. Rat stayed behind, hurriedly unlocking each man he passed. His hands shook. The vessel groaned again and then shuddered, heaving violently. All three men fell into the water and were submerged.

Einar opened his eyes beneath the surface and saw that the hull had buckled even more. Now the sea poured in from two holes, and the rest of the wood was beginning to crack and splinter. He kicked upward and sputtered as his head emerged. Chuy treaded water next to him. He glanced around and saw that Mathias had freed about a dozen men. Rat floated above the surface and then dove again. When he reappeared, a freed prisoner was beside him. Pausing only to take another deep breath, he dove down once more. One of the freed slaves grasped and shrieked, unable to swim. Another grabbed hold of him and kept him aloft.

“That’s good,” Einar shouted. “Help each other. Make your way over here to the ladder!”

He swam over to the location he’d just indicated. Chuy followed him, struggling and panting. The two men stared up into darkness—punctuated only by brief flashes of lightning. More water streamed down from the deck above.

“Do you see any soldiers?” Chuy asked.

“No.” Einar shook his head. “But I hear them—shouting orders and screaming.”

“That doesn’t bode well.”

“Let’s give them something to really scream about.” Einar raised his stolen short sword over his head and waved it back and forth. “Mathias and Rat, keep working on those locks. Those of you who are free? To me!”

As the men began to swim over to them, Chuy grabbed Einar’s shoulder and leaned in close to whisper. “I’ve seen ships sink before. If we don’t get clear soon, it will suck us down with it.”

“Aye,” Einar agreed. “It will.”

Another blast of thunder boomed outside, and the vessel seemed to lurch from the force of it. The freed slaves gathered around, splashing and paddling in place. Einar then realized that his feet were no longer touching the deck and that he, too, was paddling. 

“I need two volunteers,” he hollered. “Two men to sneak up to the deck above and see what the situation is.”

The men jostled and argued amongst themselves, all clamoring for the position. 

Finally, two of them forced their way alongside him.

“Right,” Einar told them. “Up you go. See what is happening and then report back to us.”

Nodding, the men pulled themselves from the water and scrambled up the ladder. 

Einar checked again and saw that both Mathias and Rat were struggling now. He was about to call out to them when he heard a muffled shriek from above. Seconds later, the head of the second man who’d rushed up the ladder came tumbling back down. It splashed into the churning water and rolled, face up, bobbing on the current. The eyes blinked once, and the mouth worked soundlessly.

Chuy made a peculiar gesture with his hands.

“Don’t be superstitious,” Einar told him. “That happens often. The head remains alive for up to a minute after being cut off from the rest of the body.”

“I know that,” Chuy argued. 

“Then what are you doing?”

“I’m asking my god for good luck and good fortune in the moments ahead.”

“Who is your god?” 

“I’m not sure.” Chuy shrugged. “I didn’t really have one until just now.”

Cruel laughter echoed from above. The body of the other man plummeted down the ladder and crashed atop the severed head. He’d been disemboweled, cut from chin to groin, and his bloody entrails fanned around his corpse. Einar recognized the handiwork as that of a battle-axe. The attacker had struck the man in the throat and then yanked the weapon downward in one savage stroke.

Einar gripped the sword and started up the ladder. “Okay, time for a different plan.”

“What do you have in mind?” Chuy asked.

Scowling, Einar turned and faced the assemblage. “You men! Listen up. We are going to charge as one and swarm the deck.”

One of them—a large fellow with a shaved scalp, two golden hooped earrings and a physique that matched Einar’s—shook his head and pointed at the corpses floating in the water.  

“That didn’t work out so well for these two.” 

“Aye,” Einar agreed, “but they were only a pair. We are an army. They can’t stab all of us at once.”

“Help,” an older man gasped further aft. “I can’t swim!”

“Somebody help him to the front,” Einar said. “If you can’t swim then that’s all the more reason to go up the ladder.” 

The big man paddled closer and stared at him without blinking. “And I suppose you’ll hold back to command us from the rear?”

“Hell no,” Einar growled. “I’m leading the charge. Though I could use your strength at my side.”

The bald man’s eyes widened in surprise. Slowly, he grinned. Then he swam forward and stuck out his hand. 

“I will join you. What are you called?”

“Einar.”

“I am Fhad.” 

Einar nodded at the man’s dark skin. “I have spent a short time on the borders of your lands. You are a long way from home.”

“As are you,” Fhad countered. “Let us both return to where we belong.” 

“We don’t have any weapons,” Chuy said.

“Mathias,” Einar called out. “Give Fhad your sword.”

The youth looked up from unlocking another set of chains. “But then I’ll be unarmed! What’s to stop these men from killing me?”

“You’ve spent the last five minutes freeing them,” Chuy said. “And this ship is sinking. I think they’ll be far more interested in getting away than in revenge.”

Mathias’s shoulders slumped. Without a word, he unsheathed his sword and handed it forward. When it reached the front, Fhad gripped it, testing the weapon’s weight.

“Kind of a small weapon,” he muttered, “but it will do.”

“That’s all very fine,” said a man treading water next to them, “but what about the rest of us? What are we supposed to do?” 

“When their bodies hit the deck, you men scramble along behind us and snatch up whatever weapon you can grab. Until then, you have hands and feet and teeth. Use them. Fight. Kick. Punch. Bite. Strangle. It’s that or stay here and drown.” 

“Have you looked outside?” Rat gestured at the water streaming into the galley. “We’re probably going to drown anyway.”

“Well, then at least you can take a few of the bastards that put us in chains along with you on your way to the bottom.” Einar turned to Fhad. “Are you ready?”

The big man nodded.

Another peal of thunder blasted from above.

Einar clambered up the ladder, and Fhad proceeded close behind him. Einar glanced back once. Below them, the other men lined up to follow. Mathias and Rat hurriedly worked to finish freeing the rest.

“The youth kept his word,” Einar told the assemblage. “He could have fled and joined the other soldiers above, but instead, he’s helped free you lot. Any man that kills him will have to deal with me.”

Then he turned and charged. Bellowing, he sprang from the hatch and onto the rocking, rain-slicked deck. Three soldiers were there to meet him, lying in wait to see if any more prisoners emerged from below. One of them held a long pike. The other two were armed with short swords. Einar’s booming cry distracted them for a split second, during which he grabbed the end of the pike with his free hand and ducked low, sliding forward on his back. He slipped between the soldier’s widespread legs, dragging the pike with him, and slammed it hard against the man’s testicles. The pikeman’s eyes went wide, and he slumped forward with a groan. 

Einar leaped to his feet, fighting to keep his balance on the rocking, slippery deck. Rain pelted his skin like stones, and the wind roared with fury. Thunder and lightning seemed to be everywhere, and the darkness had swallowed the ocean.

Terrified soldiers ran around in panic. Some jumped overboard. Others were knocked over the sides by crushing waves that swept over the vessel. A few more noticed the fray and converged on his location. One of them hefted a battle-axe with blood dripping from its blade. 

The pikeman writhed on the deck, cradling his smashed genitals. Einar stepped forward onto the man’s face and ground his boot heel back and forth, pulping the soldier’s nose and lips beneath his foot like fruit. He raised his sword as the man’s two companions advanced on him.

“Come on, dogs!”

Fhad charged up behind the soldier on Einar’s left and shoved his short sword through the man’s back. With a yell, Fhad lifted the victim off the lurching deck. The man jittered and kicked, held aloft by the blade. Then Fhad wrenched his body to the right and flung the impaled soldier into the third. Both toppled to the deck.

Chuy and Rat clambered from the hatch next. Both snatched up the fallen soldiers’ weapons and glanced around in shock. More men streamed out behind them. 

Upon seeing that the prisoners were free, the remaining soldiers turned and fled, focusing instead on escaping the ship. The prisoners began chasing them down, and struggles ensued across the length of the galley. The sound of metal striking metal and metal cleaving flesh rang out beneath the noise of the storm.

The soldier with the axe advanced on Einar, squaring off. Einar was about to engage when he noticed two things. 

The first was a large wooden crate big enough to hold a sizeable animal or perhaps several men inside. It was covered in strange, mystical runes. Squinting, he tried to decipher them, but they were unlike anything he’d ever seen on his travels. 

A small group of soldiers stood guard over the crate. Their expressions showed that they were clearly unhappy with this duty. He wondered what cargo could be so important that they would risk their lives in this way rather than abandon ship with the others.

The second thing he noticed was a shape looming out in the darkness. As it raced closer, his eyes widened. Cresting atop the roiling sea was a massive wave—one that easily towered over the vessel.

Alarmed, Einar pointed at it and cried out a warning to his fellow escapees. The others had time to look in that direction, and then the wave slammed into the galley, tipping it over in an explosion of timber and iron. Friend and foe alike spilled into the sea. So did their blood.

Einar fell into the darkness and felt it envelop him. Then he was lost in it.

Reviews

"Island of the Dead takes a dive into isolation and zombie horror while also weaving in a rich tapestry of history and giant creatures."
— Rebekah McKendry, director of Glorious and editor-in-chief of Blumhouse.com