The Marquis Papers Volume Two: The Red Hand

To the explorers of the New World who dreamed great dreams, and to you, dear reader, for helping them live on.

Preface

From the editor:

On a rainy Tuesday in the spring of 1967 in Breton, France, my father purchased an old chest inscribed with the chiseled name of Capt. C. Johnson. Whatever craft project the chest was meant for never took place, and it moldered in our attic for many years. Finally a few years ago my father decided it was time at last to move to assisted living, and we cleaned out the attic over several long weekends. In lifting the chest, I was startled that the bottom seemed to have rotted through. On closer inspection, it was made of two thin boards rather than one thick one. Between the boards was sandwiched a wrapped, yellowed, and mouse-eaten manuscript. In a moment of generosity, my father gifted me both rotten chest and smelly manuscript.

I have tried to piece together the manuscript and present it here, retyped to the best of my ability. I have modernized language and spelling, and was forced to complete some sections that were rendered illegible. As to the truthfulness of its claims, I cannot say.

- C. J. Maloney, February 1st, 2017.

1. Heal Or Die!

In September of the year of our Lord 16-

If you recall, I was happily entrenched at Mr. Ramirez’ farm when last we left this, my full confession of my crimes and collaboration with vampires. My thoughts and dreams at this time were entirely engrossed in my extraordinary opportunity to join the priesthood with Mr. Ramirez. For someone without means like myself to receive such a sponsorship from a local priest was a dream beyond anything I’d imagined.

The one spot of sadness arrived one day while I worked in our garden. I looked up and saw Cat and her chaperone. Cat was both the scrawny beggar I’d befriended back on Hispaniola and now a noble girl who had taken an interest in me. She dismounted and strode toward me. We’re off, she said without introduction. My family is returning to England. I’m to be educated as a lady in London. I bowed to her and congratulated her on her good fortune. She nodded. I expect I shan’t be seeing you again, she said. Good luck to you on the priesthood. The word seemed to pain her somewhat, but it was only a momentary thing. You have a good and noble soul, Tom. I expect you’ll make a saint. She clasped my hand, even as her chaperone looked on with clear disapproval. I kept my eyes lowered and bowed lower still. With that she was back on her horse and galloping away out of sight. I felt warmed by her good opinion of me, and promised myself I would do my best to make her wishes of my piety come to fruition.

All the more terrible then were my midnight journeys to the Albatross. My old ship, full of a vampire crew and armored against zombie assault by copper armor within, sailed under the terrible Captain Minuit. I had survived our acquaintance only by the poisoned nature of my blood and Minuit’s interest in discovering its secret. By luck I’d managed to learn a bit of the dark art of Blood Weaving, which allowed me to set a bit of my blood inside the ears of any vampire I’d met. The exceptions were Grutte, my Blood Weaving teacher, and Urchin, the blind lookout of the Albatross, both of whom had sensitivities so acute as to make me fearful they would discover my handiwork and tell the others.

The nature of my handiwork with the vampire crew made it necessary for them to visit me every three or four months for me to refresh the thread that kept it from becoming active. Without this care, they would sicken and likely die. They were my hostages, despite their greater force and deadly power. Our visits were brief and silent as Captain Minuit drained a bit of my blood and I secretly reset the crew’s threads. Only the Captain knew the danger they faced, and had ordered me to silence about it. I relegated the visits to a bad dream that would soon be ending. I planned to undo my handiwork before I left for Europe and inform Captain Minuit of their freedom by letter well after I’d escaped.

So imagine my consternation when a mere month after their second visit Mr. Ramirez and I were awakened by an after-midnight pounding on the door. Without waiting, Captain Minuit and Claw splintered through our thick door as if it were rotten wood and carried Marie, the Captain’s mate, into the room.

Captain Minuit hauled me up from my straw and threw me at Marie’s form. I noticed they all were drenched with salt water. Fix her! He growled at me.

I opened my mouth. Mr. Ramirez was hurriedly lighting a lamp to see by. Minuit grabbed him. Fix her now, or I snap him like a twig.

I focused on Marie. At first glance she seemed to be dead. The left side of her head was coated with the thick ooze that constitutes a vampire’s blood. I searched in vain for any spark of my blood. At last I found it, inside a dense mass of her own thick ooze. The blood had moved from inside her ear to inside her head, and her ear was trying to reform over a head full of blood.

I tried to coax the droplet from inside the oozy mass. But it was too far changed and resisted me. Failure was not an option for my dear Mr. Ramirez. I held out my hand to Claw.

Please prick my finger.

Claw recoiled. The Captain told ye to fix her, not poison me! Keep yer damn blood to yerself!

The Captain cut him off. He needs it to do his work. Use a knife or something.

Claw pulled a fearsome looking blade from his boot. Prick yerself. He turned it handle first toward me. I did so without a pause. Claw made a great show of cleaning the blade.

Moving the droplet into the mass of Marie’s blood was a terrible task. I forced my little droplet deeper, but on all sides bits of ooze detached themselves and tried to break down my droplet. I struggled for a long moment, but my droplet disintegrated and was consumed. I was sweating heavily now. Two droplets were now dispersed in Marie's brain. I pricked another finger and let another drop fall. I could feel the eyes of Captain Minuit upon me. I knew Mr. Ramirez would not survive his fury and I was unlikely to live out the night if Marie died.

My new droplet I sent in swiftly, speeding toward the encased droplet. I could feel the ooze detach and come after my droplet, but I was moving too quickly for it to engulf me. As I approached the ball, I felt my second droplet begin to move toward its rescuer. It took me a moment to realize that my droplet was now pursued by the ooze from behind and the ball before. I dodged the ball, and, lacking options, brought my droplet as rapidly as I could toward the outside of the wound. I wish I could say that I planned what happened next, but I was too busy trying to keep my droplet from disintegrating to consider the repercussions of my actions. It was only when my droplet cleared the wound, followed by gout of ooze and a ball the size of a musket shot, that I realized what I'd done. As the ball released, Marie’s body started healing itself. It was magnificent to watch her head reforming correctly before our eyes.

Marie gave a scream and clutched the side of her head. Grasping the ball, she hurled it from her and stood in one fluid motion.

Merde, that hurt! She looked at me darkly. I call first blood on your spineless little carcass. How dare you infect me with your nasty poisoned blood?

I stood helpless, but Captain Minuit clutched her arm. We are all infected ma cherie. Without him, we will all die.

How can we live with a ball that size in our heads, Jacques? Marie turned to him. And how can the little wretch maintain them all? Not even Grutte could maintain a ball that size for months. Let me kill the little devil and we'll dig out the balls from each other.

No, my love, we cannot take the chance. It was a blow from that Red-Hand made blade that set you off. Perhaps trauma sets off the balls.

Argh! Marie looked at me fiercely. When we do figure out how to undo this wretch's devil work, I will personally bury his body parts on six different islands!

Capt. Minuit looked at me. If his eyes could have taken my life, he would have. Is Marie fully well? There is no more blood in her?

I nodded. I have nothing left in Marie.

Capt. Minuit turned. Let's go.

Marie looked venomously at me. She seemed determined to end my life before she left for the Albatross. Both Claw and Capt. Minuit grasped her by the arms and silently dragged her from the room.

2. Chronic Attack

Well, said Mr. Ramirez, that was exciting. His Mesmerized state kept his emotions in check so he couldn't express the relief and terror I felt at the sudden visitation of the vampire crew.

I examined Marie's sputum ball in the lantern light. It had altered and changed my blood to be unrecognizable. Without asking, I picked up a spade and buried the ball back behind the house.

If I had thought clearly, I would have thrown the damned ball into the sea, or concealed it aboard the next sailing vessel leaving the island. I have no doubt that the ball led the Chronic Zombies to us. Our poor settlement on the north side of the island was to suffer the wrath of my foolishness.

It was more than a week later, after dark, when we had dinner interrupted by a furious pounding on our just repaired door. It was the weasel-faced storekeeper, the one I was sure was a spy for Captain Minuit. He was ashen, shaking, and his clothing was torn in several places. His chest heaved while he struggled for breath.

Although Mr. Ramirez was the official authority of the house, the storekeeper looked straight at me. He wheezed out one word, Chronics!

Immediately my mind was filled with images of those canny zombies, capable of planning and navigation. The horror of their attacks on the Albatross oozed up out of my memory like a festering pustule.

Where? I glanced nervously past him.

He pointed behind him. Over ran the town after they crashed on the black rocks. Everyone put to the sword or eaten. Coming this way. I nodded. I’d heard as much from the vampire crew. It was the Chronics’ method to replicate the actions of ruthless pirates. No one missed the brain of a burned, beheaded corpse.

Did they take the miller's place? I knew the miller kept a small boat near his mill to ferry the full sacks of flour around the island to the other settlements. His mill was also made of stone, so could longer withstand the ferocious attacks of zombies.

Don't know. Said the weasel-faced man.

I looked at Mr. Ramirez. He nodded slowly. We took our machetes, and our planting poles. I considered locking the cabin but realized the Chronics would be more likely to burn our cabin rather than try and break in. We left the cabin open and raced toward the miller's stone mill.

When we sighted the mill, there were torches staked out in a wide circle around it. Two men hailed us with loud voices. I called back to them, and they waved at the upper windows of the mill. We could see muskets being withdrawn.

The miller's wife met us at the door. She had lit lanterns and examined us closely. The storekeeper had cuts and tears. She handed him a musket and ordered him outside. He nodded. We could not afford to have anyone start changing inside the mill.

Mr. Ramirez and I were set to loading muskets. Evidently the miller had been stockpiling muskets and hard tack for his personal use against pirates. He had gathered quite a collection, but they had suffered in the Island air. So we