by Jeff Parish

Resting on a slender twig, the mosquito barely had time to register a small pop before a tiny harpoon skewered it through both eyes.

“Gotcha!” Boddyjon yelled with a cackle.

A sudden swat sent his conical hat flying. He turned, frown withering under the captain’s scowling visage.

“Stop playin’ with the bugs and get back there!” Dimknock growled. He pointed to the rear of the ship. The rest of the crew wrestled with a propeller several times their size that had embedded itself in the wood when they landed.

“Aye, Gob.” He snatched up his red hat and scurried aft.

I ought to leave that one out for the sun. He’d be more useful as a pebble. At least then we could get some work out of him as an anchor, the captain thought while cutting the line loose. Dimknock smoothed his bristling beard. A glance east showed they were nearly out of time. “The sun! Put your backs to it, lads!”

Several terrified squeaks sounded, and their efforts intensified. Dimknock limped to the railing, his enamel peg leg thumping on the deck. He kept an eye on the approaching sun and another on the back of the ship. He chewed on his white beard.

A rounded sliver of orange appeared on the eastern horizon. The propeller shivered, turned and halted, making the boat shudder. The sun’s first rays touched the world. With a lurch, Windbreaker broke free.

Purple smoke belched from a large stack amidships as it rose into the air. It nudged the dead moth, sending the corpse falling to the earth below.

“Which way, Gob?” Nacklebell asked as he dashed to the bridge.

“West, you great pile of flyspeck! West!”

Blades whining, the propeller pushed the ship through the air as it rushed toward the departing night. Dimknock stamped toward the rest of his crew, who leaned against the stern.

“Minniwocket! Zookto! Get yer lazy bones over here!” A pair of slumped figures with oversized feet shambled forward, both twisting their hats in large hands. “You two will feel the lash once we make port. Ten apiece!”

Minniwocket’s mouth worked as he fingered a patch over his left eye. Several scars crisscrossed his face and hands. Zookto, who stood a head shorter, kept his eyes fixed on the deck.

The captain halted any protest with the lift of a bushy eyebrow. “Care to make it twenty apiece?”

“No, Gob,” they muttered in sullen unison.

“It be your fault we’re in this mess, boys. Didn’t I tell you not to be greedy? There was plenty to plunder for everyone, but you had to get into her heart. She died too soon, and now we be runnin’ for our lives. By rights, I ought to leave you out for the sun. So be glad all you’ll be gettin’ is a few kisses from Duvakor’s whip.” He nodded at the bosun, a huge, slow brute whose cone-shaped hat seemed ridiculously small on his large head. Duvakor chuckled, a sound like the earth moving. “All right, lads. Get on yer feet and get starboard. You know what we be lookin’ for. Find it or else you’re all stone!”

They scampered to the rail, eyeing sheer cliffs of wood, stone and glass as they whizzed by. Dimknock cursed the summer heat that had these humans buttoning up their houses. With enough time, they could find a way into any dwelling, but they needed a quick entrance. Be this the day we return to the earth? It wasn’t a cheerful thought, but one every pirate faced.

“Turn back! Turn back!”

The captain started at the squeaky voice. He glanced up at the lookout barrel atop the mast. Ranzle was bouncing and pointing off the stern. “What’s got you all excited, boy?”

“Open window, Gob!”

“Thank Mother Earth!” He raised his voice. “Nacklebell! Hard about! The lookout spotted an open window.” The captain fell to the deck as the ship lurched to port, one hand gripping the rail. She slowly righted herself and buzzed to the window. Dimknock offered a salute to the diminutive lad, still young enough that his beard barely reached his chest.

The room they flew into was blessedly dark, the heavy drapes barely parted to allow passing breezes through. The crew converged at the bow, looking around. Boddyjon spotted their target first. “Sleeper, ho!” he called, pointing off the port bow. A giant snored in the distance, wrapped in a sheet.

Nacklebell nodded and turned the wheel. The propeller’s whine dropped as they slowed for a cautious approach. Dimknock pulled a telescope from a case on his belt and put it to his eye. Running his glass across the slumbering figure, he searched for a way in. Patience, he reminded himself. They always open up eventually. He swept it back and forth, pausing when a bare foot presented itself. “There’s your path, mate,” he said. The ship surged forward, purple smoke all but invisible in the dim cavern.

They ran through a gap in the sheet beside the foot, following the contours of one hairy leg. Two huge mountains of flesh appeared ahead of them. The pilot aimed straight for the cleft between them.

“Get to work, lads!” Dimknock called. “You know what to do — load the harpoon. Ready the ropes.” A shame we can’t stay for long, he thought as warm dampness enveloped them, cutting off all light. But he won’t live long. They never do. Until then… “We’re home, mates.”

#

Brian rubbed his jaw and shifted uncomfortably in the waiting room. It felt like he was getting hemorrhoids or something. He awoke with an itching sensation a few days ago that had only gotten worse. Then his teeth started hurting. On top of that, his boss was hammering him to finish a major presentation a month early. He had worked late every night for two weeks and it looked like he would have to work all weekend. That’s probably what did this to me, he thought. Didn’t I read somewhere that sitting too much could give you ‘roids? The stress had made him irregular, and he was having trouble sleeping. What else could go wrong?

“Dr. Smith will see you now, Mr. Peterson,” the receptionist said with a bright smile. “Third door on the left.” In the distance, a drill started up with a high-pitched whine and someone yelled.

Wonderful.

Standing, Brian tossed the magazine back on the table and took a deep breath. He was starting to wish he had gone with sedation dentistry despite the added expense. I hate the dentist. If my teeth didn’t hurt so much, I’d turn around and walk out of here. His jaw clenched at the thought of that hook scraping around in his mouth. He winced and walked into the exam room. Dr. Randal Smith stood next to a tray, arranging his tools.

“Brian, good to see you again,” he said. His mouth twisted in disapproval. “It’s been too long since your last appointment, you know.”

“I know. Too much going on at work, barely time to sleep. You know how it is.”

“If you made the time, perhaps you wouldn’t have to visit on these emergencies.” Dr. Smith motioned him into the chair. “What do you say we get a look at those sore teeth?”

As Brian sat, the dentist clipped a paper napkin around his neck and grabbed his pick and dental mirror.

“So what exactly seems to be the problem?”

“I don’t know. It just started the other day. One minute I’m eating lunch, the next it feels like someone’s digging at my teeth.”

“Is it a constant pain?”

“It always hurts, but every now and then, it gets worse for no apparent reason.” He winced and clutched his jaw.

“Like now?” Dr. Smith asked. Brian nodded. “Open wide.”

Jaws spread, he nervously eyed the tools going in his mouth. He could feel the round edge of the mirror make its way around the gumline. Dr. Smith frowned over his examination with an occasional hmm or ahh.

“I see a great deal of tartar buildup. You haven’t been flossing, have you?” Brian made an incoherent hoot. “I thought not.” The mirror moved to the backside of his teeth. “Hmm. You have some very strange scoring back here. I know I’ve seen it before, but where?”

He pushed back on his stool and sat with one fist on his hip and the other on his chin. Brian worked his jaw side to side and started to ask a question when a bolt of pain shot through his head. He could hear something scraping along one of his molars; the sound seemed to ride along the inside of his skull to his ears. He yelled and clamped both hands to his face. Tears trickled down his face.

In a flash, Dr. Smith had rolled his stool back to the examining chair. He whipped a pair of odd-looking glasses with loupes on the lenses from a pocket and settled them on his nose. Gently prying Brian’s mouth open, he jabbed the mirror inside.

“Where?”

Brian pointed to the back side of his left cheek, squinting in agony. The mirror pushed his tongue aside and slowly moved along the row of teeth. It stopped somewhere near the back molar. Dr. Smith leaned forward, peering through his lenses. He remained still for several moments before reaching in with his hooked pick and taking a vicious swipe that scraped his tooth and took a chunk out of his gums. He yelped.

“Sorry about that.”

The dentist turned and walked to a stereo microscope in one corner. Brian sat up and watched him wipe both sides of the pick on a glass slide, place a cover slip on top and slap it under the microscope. He studied whatever was under the lens for some time, then turned and walked out of the exam room. Where is he going? Scowling, he lay back on the chair and closed his eyes as the pain began to fade. I wonder what’s got him all excited. A yawn escaped. He extended his arms above his head, then paused mid-stretch. What if it’s cancer? The thought seemed ridiculous, but it wouldn’t go away. What else could make him jump like that?

He sat up.

The microscope still held the slide.

He looked around. The doorway remained empty.

Brian stood and walked to the corner, looking over his shoulder every few steps. Once he reached the table, he peered into the dual eyepieces.

All he could see was a red and green blob.

Cursing, he bent over to look for the focusing knobs. He found them and returned his eyes to the microscope. The image slowly focused as he turned the knobs, resolving itself into something vaguely star-shaped.

“Tell me, Brian, have you had trouble going to the bathroom lately?”

He jerked upright. Dr. Smith had come back in the room. He was reading a large tome. Some sort of medical textbook? Brian thought. Must be an old one. Its leather cover was brittle and cracked, its pages yellowed. “Uh, yeah, actually, I have. What does that have to do with my teeth?”

He ignored the question. “I’ve called an associate, a gastroenterologist. You’re scheduled for a colonoscopy on Monday.”

“Wait, wait, wait. I came in here to have you look at my teeth, and you’re sending me to have someone shove a camera up my butt? What have you been smoking? I can’t take off Monday. I’ve got work to do. I barely got time off to come here.”

“Brian, I suspect you have a very serious condition. You need to have it checked out. I think your employer will understand.” He handed over a business card and a brochure. “This is Dr. Frederick Wesson’s address. Your appointment is written on the back.

“The brochure will tell you how to prepare for the procedure. You’re going to need to follow a liquid diet over the weekend. Only clear liquids, mind — nothing with any coloring in it. You can take water, plain coffee or tea, gelatin or broth. Sunday night, be sure to take a laxative so you’re colon’s completely empty.”

“Uh, yeah, OK.”

“Be sure to see Nancy on your way out to schedule another appointment two weeks from today.”

“Sure thing.” He walked out in a daze, barely remembering to stop at the receptionist’s desk.

#

“Elnock’s gone, Gob.” Vand slumped at attention, downcast eyes fixed on the deck. Even the pickax on his shoulder appeared to droop. “We was up yonder mining teeth when the mouth opened all sudden like and this giant steel monster swooped in and snatched him. I waited and called, but he never came back.” He snatched his red hat, blew his bulbous nose with a great honk and slapped it back on his head. “Poor ol’ Elnock.”

“You done well, lad. At least you brought the enamel back with you.” Dimknock clapped him on the arm and turned away with the end of his long, white beard clamped between his teeth. He paced the deck, lost in thought until he bumped into something. Looking up, he saw he had run into his first mate.

“You look worried, sir,” Nacklebell said, falling in step with the captain. “What’s on your mind?”

“I’m wonderin’ how long it’ll be before we have to head out. Vand’s tale tells me someone knows we be here.”

“Aye, Gob, they may. But you know these humans. It’ll be some time before they do anything about it. We’ve got hundreds of heartbeats before we have to leave.”

“Aye.” Dimknock laughed. “You’ve got the truth of it, mate.” Raising his voice, he turned to the rest of the crew. “Minniwocket, Zookto, Boddyjon, you three stay with the ship. The rest of us will take the pram to check the net to make sure it’s still holding, then we’ll head to the heart. I be feeling a mite peckish.”

The three to remain behind grumbled and stamped off to various points of the ship. The others grinned and cheered; a few smacked their lips. They gathered on the starboard side below a wide, flat-bottomed boat dangling from a hoist near the stern. Duvakor hit the pulley brake, and the pram dropped to hover level with the deck. After they boarded, Raulnab shouldered his squat frame to the rear and grabbed a tall, shimmering teardrop of blue metal at the back and spun it with one hand. It fanned out in a spiral with a sharp snap. Another push, and it started spinning.

Nacklebell guided the boat up and around their ship, anchored to a fold on the intestinal wall. Dimknock eyed it with a measure of pride. So long as they took care of her, Windbreaker served them well, no matter the host. Minniwocket and Zookto scrubbed the deck, shifting uncomfortably every now and then as their shirts rubbed against their still-fresh welts. Boddyjon polished the harpoon gun in the prow.

Their first stop was at the great net, a tight web of spider-silk ropes fastened to harpoons driven into the wall. Each projectile was charged with a simple spell that allowed the puncture to close around it. At least they used the right ones this time, Dimknock thought. Three or four hosts back, an overeager Boddyjon had fired the wrong harpoons for the net. Their host had died before they could settle in. He eyed each knot and connection with care. If it failed, they’d be forced out before they were ready. It happened to every crew, but seldom more than once. Most careless enough to build more than one slipshod net found themselves left in the sun. He spotted a couple of minor gaps, simple repairs from a length of rope stowed in the pram. Satisfied all was in order, Dimknock gave the order to sail for the chest.

He felt his mouth water as the steady beat grew stronger. They lived with that tempting throb constantly, but only ventured inside to harvest the delicacy.

“Thar she is, lads,” he said, admiring the pulsing muscle around them. Their beards swayed back and forth, the only sign of the red current flowing past them.

Nacklebell tied the boat off on a small spike driven carefully in the ventricle’s side wall. He took a pair of sacks from underneath his bench and handed one to the captain. “A good bit of news, Gob. I spotted fat deposits on the outside. She’ll be tender for sure.”

“Aye, mate, and this is a young fella from the looks of it. He should feed us well.” The captain turned to the others. “Nacklebell an’ I will work here.” A curt gesture cut off their grumbling. “We’re the most experienced. I aim to have a feast tonight, not flee because one of you gets too greedy like those last two bumbling idiots. You lads make the rounds and come back here in about ten thousand beats.”

“Aye, Gob,” they murmured in unison before untying the boat and glumly sailing away.

Dimknock drew his sword and grinned at his first mate, who did the same. They clanged blades and set to. He soon lost himself in the work, picking a likely spot, then shaving the wall and putting the meat in his sack before starting all over again. The trick was knowing when to stop and move on to another location, something Minniwocket and Zookto had never learned. He glanced at Nacklebell, eyes widening when he saw a half-full bag strapped to his side. Mother Earth, he’s working fast! And here I’ve only got… He nearly fell from his perch in shock when he looked down. His own bag held even more. Work you enjoy always goes faster. Chuckling, he turned back to the wall of muscle and started slicing.

By the time the crew returned, the pair sat on full bags, laughing and swapping tales. Dimknock nodded with approval at their own collection, jars of bile and bags of bone, marrow and tissue. Vand sat atop an irregular, canvas-covered mound, beaming proudly. The captain looked at him, eyebrows raised, but the miner waved it away.

“Later.”

He frowned, then shrugged and hoisted his sack onto the pram. Nacklebell followed. As soon as they had seated themselves, Raulnab spun the propeller with a flick of his wrist and set the boat moving. Everyone remained quiet on the trip back to the ship, wilted and tired but smiling. The lads have done well. They deserve a celebration.

Peg leg pinging on the deck, Dimknock was first back on board Windbreaker when they docked. Once everyone had disembarked from the pram and Duvakor hoisted it on board, the captain called the crew around him.

“Lads, you’ve done me proud. You’ve earned a bit of merriment. What do you say we get to it?” The men cheered and started passing the jars and bags around.

Their high spirits faltered and devolved into confusion as Vand strode in the midst of the crowd with a piercing whistle. He leaned on his pick and waited, smiling, until every eye focused on him. He remained silent for a few moments longer, then straightened and spread his arms.

“Mates, I won’t take long, but I gots a bit o’ news for ya.” He waved at the covered mound in the pram. Duvakor reached in with one huge paw and whipped the canvass off. Underneath lay a pile of irregular stones ranging from dark green to a refractive white. The crew released a collective hiss.

“Gallstones and kidney stones?” Dimknock said in a low voice. He limped to the pram and fingered the pile with an impressed whistle. “Master Vand, you get the first pick of the heart and bile.” He turned with a huge smile spreading across his face. “What are ya waitin’ for, lads? Dig in!”

#

Cheeks burning with embarrassment, Brian lay on his left side on an examining table. He had been given some drugs when he came in, but they either hadn’t kicked in yet or they weren’t going to help as much as he had hoped. Maybe I should have gone for general anesthesia after all. He’d never liked the idea of being put under, but it sounded like a good idea right about now. A pretty nurse checking his vital signs smiled at him. He groaned. Please, just kill me now.

“Mr. Peterson, you really need to relax,” the doctor said behind him. “This won’t take long, only an hour or so. Just take a few deep breaths and try to calm down.”

“Easy for you to say,” he muttered. But he did as he was told. Surprisingly, it worked. A little.

“That’s better.”

He heard the doctor adjusting the controls on the colonoscope. When Dr. Wesson had first showed it to him, Brian thought he was going to pass out. The thing looked like some sort of evil, black plumber’s snake. He felt himself tensing up at the memory and tried to think of something else. My heartburn and lower back pain are gone, he thought. Whatever else might be wrong with me, that’s good. He let his eyes slide shut.

A sudden pain ripped through his gut, followed by another. He could feel the scope moving around inside. He grabbed the side of the table and struggled to remain still.

“What’s going on?” he asked through clenched teeth.

“Not now, Mr. Peterson,” the doctor snapped. Another jerk of the scope and the doctor muttered, “You little butt pirate.”

“Excuse me?” Brian yelled. He struggled to rise, but the sedatives made moving difficult. The nurse held him down.

“What? Oh. I wasn’t talking to you. Now, please be still, Mr. Peterson. I will be with you in a moment.”

He withdrew the scope and set it aside. Brian heard him walk off, followed by running water and some splashing. By the time he returned, the nurse had rolled Brian to his right side, facing the now-blank monitor. The doctor sat in a chair and peered at Brian for some time before speaking.

“Are you OK?”

“I’m fine.” He grimaced. “Just a little shook up. It felt like someone was riding a roller coaster in there.”

“I understand,” Dr. Wesson said. His voice took on an urgent note. “Mr. Peterson, you have a very serious condition. You need treatment immediately.”

“What is it? It’s cancer, isn’t it?”

“No. In some ways, that might be easier to treat. What you have is a particularly nasty infestation.”

“Infestation?”

The doctor nodded. He reached into the pocket of his lab coat and pulled out a CD case. Turning, he opened a door on the cabinet beside him to reveal a computer. He placed the disc inside. The computer whirred and beeped for a moment before the monitor sprang to life.

Unable to help himself, Brian laughed. The image was of a short man with a red, conical hat and green coat and pants. A white beard hung to his waist. He lay spread-eagle and looked flattened, as if stepped on by an elephant. A pick lay just beyond one out-flung hand.

“Thanks, doc. I needed a laugh. Now, what’s this about an infestation?”

“This is it,” he said gravely.

“Oh, come on. Enough with the jokes already.”

“I’m not joking, Mr. Peterson.” He pointed at the screen. “That is a picture of what Dr. Smith found inside your mouth.”

“He found a garden gnome digging at my teeth. Right.” He struggled to a sitting position. “Look, Dr. Wesson, if you’re going to keep pulling my leg like this, I’m leaving. I don’t have time for this…”

“You’re not going anywhere until the medication wears off, Mr. Peterson, so you might as well sit still and listen.” He took a deep breath and punched a few keys on a tray underneath the desk. Brian found himself looking at an odd sort of tunnel, sort of like an earthworm turned inside out. “This is the recording of your colonoscopy.” He hit a few more keys. The image jerked and steadied, revealing what looked like a giant cobweb. “This is what’s blocking your colon.”

The camera zoomed in until the web became a fine network of knotted ropes. The image slammed to the right, then backed up. The image jerked side to side and steadied as a pearlescent mass filled the screen. As the camera backed up further, the shape resolved itself into an odd ship with a large smokestack belching purple fumes and an ugly-looking harpoon gun up front. It reminded him of the pictures of old whalers he had seen at the museum. Shapes milled about the deck, gesturing at the scope. Then something flashed and the screen went black.

“That’s where they shot the camera,” he said. He tapped a few keys. The recording rewound and paused. If he squinted, Brian could just make out gnomes of various shapes and sizes, their faces twisted in rage.

“So you’re telling me I’ve got an infestation of gnomes in a ship sailing around my colon,” Brian said, his voice flat.

The gastroenterologist nodded. “Pirata annulus,” he said. “More commonly known as butt pirates. It’s a breed of micro-gnome.” He stood and walked to a bookshelf on the far wall. “All gnomes have to avoid sunlight. It turns them into stone. Most live in the earth, but a few have adapted to live in other environments. Pirata annulus is one of the nastier ones. They sail in through the rectum at night, travel up the colon until they find a place to dock and set up a web to block the colon so they don’t get pushed out.” He returned carrying a large, ancient book.

“Dr. Smith had a book like that. I thought it was from medical school or something.”

“Or something,” Dr. Wesson said with a smile. “It’s a grimoire. There’s always few medical professionals who get a little bit of extra training in these matters; not many are interested in the arcane branches of medicine. We use this to identify the more…unusual conditions.”

“What do they want?” Brian asked, curious despite himself. It can’t be that serious if he’s keeping the joke up like this.

“The same thing most living things want: Shelter.” He paused. “Food.” Brian gulped. “Indeed. They also mine the teeth and will take any gallstones and kidney stones they find. They seem to have a special fondness for cardiac muscle. The most common cause of death from this particular condition is a heart wall so weakened that it blows out. Any chest pains, Mr. Peterson?”

“A little,” he whispered, trembling.

“Well, you’re young, and they can’t have been in there long. I’m sure you’ll be just fine so long as we get them out of there soon.”

“How?”

“With these.” He reached into another pocket and removed a vial that rattled as it shifted and handed it out.

Taking the glass tube, Brian squinted inside. “Looks like rocks,” he said, giving it back.

“In a manner of speaking. They’re nanotrolls, the gnomes’ natural enemy. We administer them via suppository and wait while they fight it out.”

“You’re going to start a war down there?”

“It’s the only way to be sure we get them all. I could probably destroy the net and flush the ship out, but what if the gnomes are elsewhere? They’d die eventually, but not without taking you with them.” He paused. “Mr. Peterson — Brian — I won’t lie to you. This is a risky procedure. Trolls and gnomes are nasty fighters. You’ll likely suffer some serious internal injuries. But we can probably repair those. We can’t bring you back from the dead.”

Brian shook his head. What’s going on here? Why am I listening to this quack? Gnomes? Trolls? Get real! “That’s enough.” He slid off the table and stood on wobbly legs. “I don’t know why I’m even listening to this. I’ve got to get home and find a real doctor.” He scooped up his clothes and made his way out of the exam room, clutching the wall for support. “Then I’m going to call a lawyer. You’ll be lucky to keep your license after this.”

He staggered through the waiting room, still clothed in the hospital gown.

#

Dimknock watched the giant serpent retreat. His beard bristled with anger as he turned to Boddyjon and clapped the gunner on the back. “Nice work, mate.” Boddyjon nodded and reloaded the harpoon gun. Letting rage fuel his voice to a roar, the captain addressed the rest of the crew: “They know we’re here, lads. They’ve already tried to destroy the net. It’ll be the trolls next, mark my word!”

“What’ll we do, Gob?” Ranzle squeaked from the lookout.

“We grab everything we can and set sail before they get here.” He jabbed his fingers at the crewmen. “Boddyjon, man the gun in case they send anything else after us. Ranzle, you let him know if anything’s coming. Vand, get as much enamel as you can. Minniwocket, Zookto, Raulnab, you boys make the rounds and set to carving. Nacklebell and Duvakor will take you around in the Windbreaker and come back to pick you up and load the booty.”

“Where are you going, Gob?” Nacklebell asked.

“I be headin’ to the heart.” He drew his sword and limped to the pram. “Move, lads. I’ll meet you back here when I’m done.”

He pushed off, barely acknowledging their salutes as he sped away. He seethed at the thought of having to depart another host prematurely. We may be leaving, but we be leaving rich. A savage grin spread across his face, and he urged the pram to greater speed. He crossed paths with Windbreaker several times; each pass showed a growing pile of booty and food on the deck.

Once he reached the heart, Dimknock beached the hull against the muscle and set to slashing with his sword, taking care even in his haste not to cut too deep in any one spot.

The measured beats continued steady for some time with a ponderous lub-dub, lub-dub. As he continued, the great muscle sped up, gradually at first, then with greater urgency until the beats ran together — lub-dub, lub-dublub-dublubdublubdub.

“You know I’m here, don’t you? Scared? Good.” He stabbed and fell over when his blade pierced all the way through. “Well, now. You’ve been a fine host, mate, but I see it be time to go.” He made a mock bow, sheathed his sword and jumped in the boat, dragging a sack of flesh behind him.

The beating faltered and resumed with an odd, swishing note. Dimknock raced through the host, looking for his ship. He saw signs of his crew’s activity — a cored bone here, a slashed organ there — but no sign of the men themselves. Maybe they’re waiting for me near the net. He increased the pram’s speed until it shuddered. Got to get out before he dies. Finally, the net came into view. He slowed as he approached the meeting place.

No one was there.

His head swiveled, searching for any glimpse of Windbreaker. Did the dogs leave without me? No. They wouldn’t dare.

The heartbeat stuttered, picked up again and died. Dimknock felt the flesh around him shudder and sag. Not much time left. Where are they?

A sudden popping sound jerked his attention upward. More staccato bursts followed. A piece of webbing drifted down and landed in his lap.

The net was failing.

The wall in front of him creaked and bulged slightly. Growling under his breath, he reached back with one hand and started the propeller spinning. He crouched low in the boat as it lifted and started down the long tunnel. Tonight, I find another host. Give me a few beats, and I’ll find another ship — one not crewed by a bunch of panicked fleas that hop away at the first sign of trouble. I’ll…

Something rocketed past him, upsetting the boat and nearly knocking him out. Did the net fail already? He looked up, straight into Duvakor’s broad, blank features. The bosun grabbed the pram and hauled it on board with a mighty heave. The boat crashed into the deck, spilling Dimknock to dash against the mast. Raulnab helped him up with a gap-toothed grin.

“Didja think we’d left ya, Gob?”

“Aye. But yer here now; I take back most of the nasty things I thought about you.” He slapped him on the back and stamped over to Nacklebell at the helm. “Cuttin’ things a tad close, don’t you think, mate?”

Eyes fixed on the path ahead, the first mate didn’t answer beyond jerking his head at something behind Dimknock. He turned and saw Vand wearing a sickly grin and wringing his hat.

“That’d be my fault, Gob. I found another cache of stones in the other kidney. I couldn’t just leave ‘em behind.”

The captain scowled. Vand sweated. Face twitching, Dimknock let his expression dissolve into a smile. “So long as you had a good reason, mate.”

A great ripping noise behind them brought every head to attention. They knew what that sound meant. “Net’s gone, Nacklebell. Get us out of here!”

He nodded. “Hang on.”

Windbreaker leapt forward. Purple smoke poured from her stack in a steady stream. The crew grabbed onto whatever was handy to keep from falling over. Dimknock looked back to see the filth their web had been holding back bearing down on them. He closed his eyes and waited for the avalanche to bury them.

Nothing happened.

He opened one eye and found himself staring at something white. He opened the other and saw a hard corner. They hovered against a great expanse of wall near the ceiling. Free! We made it out! “A fine bit of sailing, mate,” he called to Nacklebell and walked to the other side of the ship.

Far below, an open window revealed the remains of a dying day. The light hurt his eyes, but remained far enough away that it posed no real threat. He glanced around the room and saw their host curled up on a reclining chair, hands pressed to his chest. He wore some kind of odd, backless robe. A look of surprise had etched itself into his face.

“Clean that mess up, lads,” he shouted, gesturing at their meat and booty scattered across the deck. “Get it in the hold. Then get some rest. We’ve got a busy night ahead of us.”

© 2009 Jeff Parish
Original fiction debuting in Residential Aliens.

Tags: dark fantasy, Jeff Parish, short story

This entry was posted on Thursday, October 1st, 2009 at 5:00 AM and is filed under Volume 3 - Issue 4. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.