The Cannibal King: Ravenous Spirits Series Book 3

Prologue

The island looked as gray and dismal as ever. Even in the height of summer, with green grass and bushes growing up the cliff walls, and trees visible on the surface, there was always something gloomy about it in Mo’s opinion. Now, with winter encroaching and a cold bite in the air, the island looked like a place no one had any business going to. He couldn’t understand how or why a community lived in a place so remote and inhospitable. It wasn’t his cup of tea.

The way into the dock on the island’s western side was not an easy voyage. Many rocks sat like jagged teeth jutting from the ocean. He could only imagine what larger vessels must have endured in the past. Hazards were hidden all around the island, and he had heard that there were many shipwrecks in the area.

Mo’s skiff was a small but sturdy vessel that could manage the journey with little difficulty. He didn’t carry a deep enough draft to hit most of the rocks, and he could easily steer around any he saw coming.

It had been three days since he dropped the two men off on the island. He hoped he would hear from them before he needed to go out, some message that they had found what they needed and were heading back on their own with the boats from the island. But no such luck. The men had been radio-silent for seventy-two hours.

As much as Mo didn’t want to head back to the island, he was a man of his word. He told them he would be there, and so, he was fulfilling his promise. He just hoped that they could hold up their end and meet him once he got to shore.

He wouldn’t admit it to anyone, but something about the island didn’t sit right with him. It was a creepy feeling, but that wasn’t the sort of thing you discussed openly with other adults. It sounded silly, but it’s still what he felt. It was like walking down a dark alley at night or investigating a strange noise in the basement. Your rational mind could tell you that there’s nothing to worry about, but another part tells you to run the other way.

Three boats were tied up on the small, wooden dock near the end of the inlet that led to the island. The same boats were there before when Mo dropped the two men off. At the time, he had been hopeful that they could hitch a ride back on their own. And maybe they had, and they’d just neglected to tell him. If that was the case, he would be properly annoyed. But until he knew otherwise, he was where he promised to be to pick them up and take them home.

The air around the island seemed a little colder. There was no snowfall yet, but it was crisper. Mo got out, tied his boat to the end of the dock, and then walked the length of the wooden slats to where they met the island and its weed-filled crags.

Shane and Frank were supposed to meet him on the dock. Mo was about ten minutes early, so there was a chance they were still held up with something. Maybe they were with the people of the village, so Mo sat on a rock and waited.

Ten minutes passed, and Mo grew impatient. He waited another ten minutes before he decided to have a look for himself. Annoyed as he was, he wouldn’t feel right leaving if he didn’t make sure they weren’t around. Neither man had seemed flighty. They seemed like decent, reliable guys, so he was willing to give them the benefit of the doubt. He would, however, give them grief for making him climb up the side of a cliff to get to the top of the island and look around. Going for a hike had not been part of the deal.

Mo made his way up the zigzagging path carved into the cliff that led to the island and stopped to look around. He had never seen the island from that vantage point. The trail led him to a grassy field. To his left was a forest, but a narrow footpath continued to the right, toward the southern end of the island. He saw no signs of people or civilization.

Mo knew there was a village on the island because he often saw people come to town. The footpath had to lead the way, but it appeared to be a long walk. Another frustration.

Grumbling slightly, Mo set down the path on what he hoped was a short, simple journey to wherever Shane and Frank were. A breeze came in from the eastern side of the island, carrying the smell of salt and maybe a hint of rain. He didn’t want to be on the island when bad weather came in, and he quickened his pace as a result.

It was a shorter trip than he had expected before he saw the little village. It had been built into a depression, almost a crater, that set it away from everything else. Mo wondered why anyone would build there, but it was not his place to question how other people lived.

There were a handful of cabins; some stone and some wood. He saw no signs of life, though, and when he looked closer, it was clear no one had been in the village for years. The cabins were empty of all but a few pieces of trash.

“Well, where the hell is everyone?” he asked aloud.

There were no footprints in the mud around the cabins. The only conclusion he could draw was that there must have been another village on the island, but he had no idea where to look and had no intention of exploring further.

Mo retraced his steps to the boat and got on board, pondering what to do next. He didn’t want to leave anyone stranded, but they had given him little choice.

He took the receiver from his radio and turned the channel.

“Hey Vedder, you got your ears on? Over.”

“Go ahead, Mo. Over,” came the response, crackling and hollow sounding. He had told his friend Vedder back in the harbor where he was going, a safety precaution he adopted any time he went out.

“I’m at Maple Grove, and no one is here. Not just the guys I dropped off, but everyone. There’s a village, but no one’s been here in years. You got any idea where the people are in this place? Over.”

Vedder’s laughter answered him.

“Man, I do not go to hippie island. No idea what they do there. They’re probably all frolicking in a field somewhere. Over.”

Mo sighed and looked back the way he had come.

“I don’t know what’s going on here. These boys seemed like good guys, you know? Worried something went down out here. Over.”

“I don’t know what to tell you, but the forecast is grim. I wouldn’t stay out too long if I were you. Over,” Vedder replied.

“Yeah, the water is already getting some chop. The rocks out here aren’t friendly. I think I’m going to head back. They have boats and radios; they know to hit channel sixteen if they need help. I’ll see you shortly. Out.”

He hung up the handset and stepped back off the boat, removing the mooring lines in preparation to leave. When he turned the key in the ignition, the boat remained silent. He tried it again, and still nothing.

“God, what now?” He headed down to the bilge to check on the engine. It wasn’t the newest boat, but it had been reliable for years, and he rarely had engine trouble.

Mo was barely below deck when he saw that someone had gutted the engine. Hoses and cables were not just removed but torn to pieces. The shaft was yanked out and bent, and fragments of metal, wood, and plastic were strewn about the bilge.

Anger flared in Mo’s chest, but he said nothing. He raced back to the cabin and retrieved the radio handset.

“Mayday, mayday, mayday, this is the Red Sturgeon docked at Maple Grove Island. My vessel has been disabled and—” He looked at the radio handset. The cable was no longer connected to the radio. It had been cut.

Mo turned around, looking out at the dock and the other boats. He had turned his back for seconds. Seconds! How had someone gotten on deck without him noticing?

The radio crackled, and static filled the cabin, overwhelming the sound of the sea.

“It’s time…” a husky voice whispered. Mo stared in confusion and switched the radio off. It crackled again anyway.

“…to die,” the voice finished.

Mo backed away from the radio, and the boat lurched under his feet as though a massive wave had hit the side, even though the water was calm. He heard wood splinter, and water began flowing in below deck. Something had broken through the hull.

Mo saw a shape in the dark, a figure in the rushing water, and backed away. The figure was bigger than anything on his boat should have been. He turned quickly, jumping back onto the dock and watching as his boat lurched to one side, taking on water swiftly until she listed to the side and collapsed.

More shapes moved in the water as Mo watched his boat sink. He thought they were fish at first, or maybe sharks from the size of them. But no fins broke the surface, only shadows moving about in the churning, frigid water.

He looked over the edge at the figures swimming along at his side next to the dock and realized they were not fish but men. Not even men. They looked dead. They were bloated bodies with pale flesh pulling away from their skeletons. Some didn’t even have eyes; others had been chewed on by sea life, with pieces of their bodies and faces missing, exposing muscle and bone beneath.

Mo stumbled backing away. A scream was trapped in his throat, and he thought his heart might beat out of his chest. He’d never seen anything so horrifying. He had seen dead men in the past, but never anything like this.

Some of the bodies crawled up the hull of his sinking boat. They tore away pieces, punched their fists through the wood, and reduced it to debris in moments. Others crawled over the decks of the boats still tied to the dock. There were dozens of them, all coming toward Mo.

He turned to face the island and ran. The wood clicked loudly underfoot as he quickly crossed the dock and headed for dry land. A terrible wind blew down from above, storm clouds as black as night rolled in, and snow began to fall. There was no gentle transition or buildup. It was as though hell itself had suddenly opened and decided to freeze the world.

Snow battered against Mo, carrying on brutal winds. He pushed onward, desperate to escape the things in the water. He didn’t understand where the storm came from, or how it built so quickly and powerfully. Nothing made sense anymore, and all he knew was that he needed to get away.

A man appeared on the path before him, seemingly from nowhere. He was impossibly tall, and lithe like an athlete. His features were obscured in shadows, but nothing could hide the mane of shaggy hair atop his head and the two, great, high-reaching antlers that rose from his skull toward the sky.

Mo jerked to a halt in front of him, still too close to the sea for comfort. Something was covering the man’s face.

“Please—”

The man’s hand was on Mo’s throat, and he plucked him from the ground with ease. Mo kicked and choked, prying an ice-cold hand away from his neck. A single eye stared at him, hidden away in the darkness, and then something tore into his chest. The man had stabbed him.

A blade that was so cold it burned into Mo’s breastbone and cracked ribs. Down it pulled, slicing and crunching, gutting him as it reached his stomach and continued deeper. The things from the water scrambled up on shore, and the last thing Mo saw was their wet, slimy hands pulling apart his insides and pushing them into their mouths.

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