Holland flicked the spent cigarette into the Sunless Sea, watching as the embered tip disappeared into the abyss below. Then, without a second glance, he turned and started down the makeshift wooden pier—planks haphazardly assembled, patched over time with whatever materials were available. Each step required caution; one misplaced foot could send him plunging straight into the dark waters below.
He lifted his gaze, taking in the towering rock spire that loomed above him. The settlement clung precariously to its jagged surface—wooden structures fastened to the cliffsides, a chaotic web of rope bridges and rickety ladders connecting homes stacked one upon another. A fragile existence, yet resilient.
At the far end of the pier, a small wooden outpost stood, barely more than a shack. As Holland approached, Matthew stepped out to meet him.
"We're about twenty kilometers from New Marrakesh," Matthew reported. "This place started as a temporary fishing outpost, but when the 'thing' attacked the Nile settlements, refugees from the city fled here and turned it into a permanent community. It doesn't even have a name yet."
Holland gave a curt nod. "Do they have fuel?"
Matthew exhaled heavily, shaking his head. "That's the problem. Since the mainland supply chains collapsed and the capital's fuel stations were abandoned, fuel prices for submersibles skyrocketed. These people rely on their boats for survival. They can't afford to sell what little they have."
Holland's eyes flicked toward the dock, where he spotted Esther standing at the edge. She had pulled the hood of her orange coat over her head, shielding herself from the bitter sea wind.
"Hold off on letting the crew disembark," he instructed Matthew. "Tell Hector to keep the ship secured."
With that, he made his way toward the girl.
She was staring up, eyes wide with wonder, tracing the jagged silhouette of the colossal stone spire overhead. "If this is an open-sea formation, the minimum depth here must be at least a thousand meters. And that means this rock… it's even taller than that. Can stalagmites even grow this high?"
"I didn't tell you to follow me," Holland said, his voice flat.
"You're not negotiating for fuel?" she countered, still gazing skyward.
Holland sighed. "You want to come along?"
"I want to see it."
Finally, she turned to meet his gaze. As she did, the wind caught her hood, pulling it back and sending strands of golden hair whipping through the salty air.
Holland found himself recalling the first time he had seen her, standing alone in the grand hall of the Under D.C. Museum. Her hair had been shorter then, her clothes newer, but the determination in her eyes had remained unchanged.
He let out a long breath, then turned on his heel.
"Then keep up."
Without another word, they began their climb, ascending the steep, winding ladders toward the heart of the nameless settlement.
…
Holland kept his left hand pressed firmly against the rocky wall as he ascended the narrow wooden steps. If he so much as glanced to his right, he could just barely make out the blackened water far below—though, thankfully, the perpetual darkness of the Sunless World and his lack of vertigo made it easy to ignore.
The girl following behind him, however, was not so fortunate.
He cast a glance over his shoulder to find Esther struggling up the stairs in a half-crawl, gripping each rung as if one misstep would send her plummeting into the abyss.
"Why didn't they build railings on these things?" she muttered between ragged breaths, noticing his gaze.
"That's just how fishing villages are," he replied, extending a hand toward her.
Esther hesitated, clearly reluctant. "I—I can manage."
"If you slip and die, I'll be the one explaining it to your father," he said dryly.
That seemed to do the trick. After another moment's hesitation, she took his hand. Her fingers were ice-cold.
They continued their climb in silence.
Then, without warning, she spoke again.
"Who are you?"
Holland furrowed his brows. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Before you became the captain of this ship… what were you doing?"
He considered his answer for a moment. "I was a helmsman. Served on a submarine for the navy."
"Then why would the U.S. government choose you to captain this mission?"
"How the hell should I know?"
"Then why did you accept this job?" she pressed. "Why agree to lead a voyage this dangerous?"
Holland very nearly sighed in relief when he spotted the glow of lanterns ahead, their light flickering at the crest of the staircase.
"We're here," he announced, cutting the conversation short.
Both of them stepped onto a wide wooden platform, which served as a main walkway connecting various structures clinging precariously to the rock face. Bridges of rope and wood, along with vertical ladders, crisscrossed the settlement like a tangled web. People moved through these precarious pathways with a familiarity that defied reason.
"How do they even walk on those things?" Esther murmured in awe.
Holland reached out and stopped a passing villager. "Excuse me. Where can I buy fuel?"
The woman, without meeting his gaze, gestured vaguely toward a wooden structure at the far end of the walkway.
"Thanks," he muttered before turning to Esther, who had wandered over to a makeshift fish stall, inspecting the silver-scaled creatures on display. He grabbed her by the sleeve and pulled her along toward their destination.
"The people here seem… strange," she murmured as they walked.
Holland didn't break stride. "What do you mean?"
"Look around." She lowered her voice. "They're so… quiet. No one's talking, no one's smiling."
At her words, Holland's eyes flickered back to the woman he had stopped earlier, then scanned the rest of the villagers. Their clothes were tattered, patched together with whatever scraps they could find—a common sight in fishing settlements and refugee camps. That much wasn't unusual.
But she was right. No one greeted each other. No one made eye contact. Every person who passed them kept their gaze fixed to the ground, moving with a detached, mechanical purpose, as if they were sleepwalking through their daily routines.
It could have been the natural weariness of those who had lost their homes, forced into survival mode after their world had been reduced to ruin. But Holland didn't believe in coincidence.
Without a word, his hand dipped into his coat pocket, quietly disengaging the safety on his revolver.
As they reached the wooden door of their destination, he stopped abruptly, raising a hand to signal Esther to do the same. Not that it helped—she walked straight into his back with a muffled thud.
"Ouch."
"Watch where you're going. And stay quiet," he muttered.
Pressing his back against the wall, he edged toward a nearby window and peered inside.
A dim glow flickered from a fireplace. Voices echoed from deeper within the building—five or six of them, judging by the sound. Holland pulled his revolver from inside his coat, its polished barrel catching a sliver of light from the lanterns above. It was an old piece, an antique by any measure. No amount of careful maintenance could conceal its age. The grip was ivory—a relic of an extinct species, from a time when the world was still lit by the sun.
He flipped open the cylinder, checked the ammunition, and snapped it back into place.
"Are you planning to kill them all and steal their fuel?" Esther asked, her voice low but sharp.
"What kind of novels have you been reading?" Holland shot Esther a disapproving glance before pushing open the wooden door and stepping inside.
The first thing he noticed was the clutter of empty glass bottles strewn across the floor. As the door swung wider, a few rolled lazily, clinking against each other in the silence. The interior of the wooden building stretched into a long, dimly lit hall, lined with a single table running its entire length. Scattered along it were human figures, most of them slumped forward, faces buried in folded arms.
"Who the hell are you!?" A sharp voice called from the far end of the table.
Holland turned his gaze to the speaker—an unusually short man, smaller even than Esther. A dwarf, he surmised.
"What do you want?" Another voice, deeper and heavier, came from his left. A stout man, still seated, though his thick fingers had slid toward the grip of a pistol resting on the table.
"I'm Captain Holland of the Washington. I'm here to purchase fuel from your settlement," he said, keeping his words clipped and precise. His own hand remained loose, but poised, ready to react. The distance wasn't in his favor. If the man on the left reached for his gun first, Holland wouldn't have the time to draw and fire before a bullet left the barrel.
"You think we have fuel to spare, you bastard!?" The dwarf on the right screeched.
"Go back the way you came, and get the hell out," the fat man spat, his grip tightening.
"Gentlemen, that's enough."
A new voice emerged from the farthest end of the table—one untouched by the candlelight flickering through the room. The darkness obscured the speaker, but the tone carried weight, smooth yet grave, a voice accustomed to control.
"This is hardly the way to welcome a guest, wouldn't you say?"
Instantly, both the dwarf and the fat man fell silent. Fear flickered across their faces, their hostility dissolving in the span of a heartbeat.
"Now then," the unseen man continued, "let me have a word with Captain Holland. You said you needed fuel, is that correct?"
Holland shifted his stance slightly, recalculating. He couldn't see the man, but he estimated his location from the voice. If a fight broke out, that was where his first shot would go.
"Are you the one in charge here?" he asked.
A low, rasping chuckle answered. "Something like that, Captain. Let's just say I have the authority to make decisions on behalf of this community. Anyone here care to object?"
The slumped figures at the table all shook their heads in eerie synchronization.
A cold unease settled in Holland's gut. His instincts screamed at him to back away, to leave before things took a turn. But Esther stood behind him—too close, too vulnerable.
"I'd be more than happy to provide you with the fuel you need, Captain Holland. But there is one small condition." The voice in the dark resumed, each word deliberate.
"You'll need to sink a ship for me."
Holland's brow furrowed. The unease thickened into something heavier, something dangerous.
"That depends on which ship you want to sink." he said, voice guarded.
The unseen figure leaned forward just enough for the candlelight to catch the edges of his grin.
"It's a ghost ship, Captain Holland. A ghost ship that was once the Aurora."
A ghost ship—the most classic of all seafarers' tales. The stories were always the same: a ship devoid of crew, drifting across the endless seas of the Sunless World, answering to no master. Any fool who dared step aboard was never seen again. That was the foundation of all these legends.
Holland found it amusing. "I don't believe in ghosts."
"I believe this ship docked at New Marrakesh just before the attack of... whatever that was," the low voice continued, unshaken by Holland's skepticism. "According to the last report I received, it has been abandoned ever since."
"Let me guess—it started drifting toward your shore all on its own?" Holland tried for a joke, but no one laughed. No one even looked up from the surface of the table. A heavy silence settled in, thick with dread.
"It came for us, Captain Holland. And it has been hunting our fishing boats one by one. We're down to three now. No one dares set sail anymore."
Holland narrowed his eyes. "And how exactly do you know it's the ghost ship's doing?"
"The last crew to disappear radioed in before they were lost. They gave the name written on the hull." The man leaned forward, his voice just above a whisper. "When I searched for records, I found out that ship shouldn't have a crew. It shouldn't even be out at sea. But I don't believe in ghosts either, Captain. I believe there's someone using that ship to hunt us down."
That made more sense. Holland rubbed his jaw in thought. "How big is it?"
"A Soviet transport freighter. Fully metal-hulled. Our wooden fishing boats don't stand a chance against it."
That also made sense. A steel freighter would crush a wooden boat without effort. And if the ship's bridge was built high above the deck, no one could board it easily. That explained why they needed him.
"How much are you offering?" Holland asked.
"Five thousand gallons of diesel. A fair price for one torpedo, wouldn't you say?"
A very fair price, considering they would only need a single synthetic torpedo to sink the ship. Holland gave a slow nod. "Agreed. Do you know where it is now?"
The unseen man in the darkness let out a quiet chuckle. "I'll send one of my men with you. He'll guide you to the ship and ensure that you really destroy it."
A pause. Then, "Take Tiny."
"It's Tony…" the dwarf muttered in a barely audible grumble.
And so, the three of them left the decrepit, eerie old tavern together.