The New Captain

The walk to the bridge took an eternity.

Rourke moved like a marionette with tangled strings. His left leg dragged. His right hand was still clutched tight around the idol, which was now pulsing with a faint, sickly heat.

He needed to get to the radio. He needed to warn Miller. *Quarantine. Torpedo the ship. Don't let it leave.*

He reached the watertight door to the Bridge. He slammed his body against the lever, heaving it open.

The Bridge was lit by the ghostly glow of the radar screens. The fog outside pressed against the glass, swirling in shapes that looked like drowning men.

Rourke stumbled to the console. He caught his reflection in the dark glass of the navigation monitor.

He froze.

It was his face. But it wasn't him.

His skin had turned the color of gray putty. His eyes... the whites were gone. They were entirely black, weeping a thick, dark ichor that trailed down his cheeks like tears of oil.

And he was smiling.

It was a rictus grin, wide and feral, exposing teeth that looked too sharp, too yellow.

"No," Rourke whispered. But the word came out distorted, overlaid with the rasp of the dead pirate.

He reached for the radio handset with his left hand—the hand that was still mostly his. His fingers trembled.

"Miller," he choked out.

"Jack!" Miller’s voice was panicked. "Jack, thank God. I was about to call the Coast Guard. What’s happening? Is the asset secure?"

Rourke stared at the radio. The battle for his mind was reaching its apex. The black tide was cresting. He felt the Entity settling into the driver's seat of his brain, adjusting the mirrors, checking the controls.

*Tell him,* Malachi commanded. *Tell him to come aboard. We need hands to work the sails.*

"Run," Rourke tried to say. He bit his tongue, hard. The pain gave him a second of clarity. "Miller... get away..."

His right hand moved on its own. It grabbed his left wrist, squeezing with bone-crushing force.

*“Quiet, boy,”* Malachi hissed in his mind. *“The ship must sail.”*

Rourke looked at his reflection. The black eyes widened. The grin stretched to an impossible width.

He felt his "strong" will—the pride of his life—betray him. It was a container. A sturdy, watertight container. And now that Malachi was inside, that strength ensured he would never get out. Rourke was the perfect prison for himself.

The tremor in his hand stopped.

Rourke stood up straight. His posture changed. He didn't stand like a cop anymore; he stood like a king on a quarterdeck.

He lifted the radio to his lips. The blood from his bitten tongue tasted sweet, like copper and victory.

"Jack?" Miller asked. "Talk to me."

"The asset is secure," Rourke said. His voice was deep, commanding, and echoed with the weight of three centuries of salt and slaughter. "The situation is contained. Bring the zodiac alongside. Come aboard, Mr. Miller."

"Copy that, Jack. I'm coming in."

"Good," the thing wearing Rourke’s skin said. "Bring the others. We have a long voyage ahead."

He dropped the handset. It dangled by its cord, swaying with the rhythm of the ocean.

Detective Jackson Rourke screamed in the silent, locked room of his own mind.

Captain Malachi ignored him. He walked to the window, staring out at the endless gray sea. His hand rested on the holstered service pistol at his hip.

"A fine ship," he murmured to the empty bridge. "A fine ship indeed."

He waited by the door for the fresh meat to arrive.