1886 A.D.
The Atlantic Ocean
A thick veil of mist hung low over the Atlantic Ocean, swallowing the ship as it ploughed its way through the waves; the atmosphere abord the S.S Empress of London was suffocating, yet calm, the hum of the engines below deck, the only sound that broke the mournful wail of wind, it was as though the ship itself understood the inevitability of the unseen horrors lurking within its hull that night.
George Smythe leaned against the aft railing in silence, his unblinking eyes fixed on the moonlit expanse of the dark water below, his austere features seemed carved from stone, each furrow of his brow spoke of a life of devotion to the Imperium, to the will of a higher power, so ancient and malevolent that it bent even the firmest of realities.
George was no mere man; he was trained by the Imperium’s best and brightest, from a child to his present years; he had spent the past two decades learning, training; he was a servant, a weapon for their shadowy operations, a killer yes, but he was much more than that, he had risen the ranks to lead the Cult of the Minotaur, the most influential voice upon the Imperium’s council and controlled one of Britain’s wealthiest business operations; often he had been referred to a Zealot.
His stoicism concealed a dark reservoir of skill and brutality, one that was only tapped under a necessity.
The meeting in New York had confirmed the Imperium’s next step; the Minotaur would be expanding its operations; the council had murmured of plans grander than before with its new leadership beneath Victor; though George was unhappy of the plan to turn the United States into the centre of the Imperium base of operations, it would see the decline of the Empire, something George vowed to interfere against if such plans were to be put in motion.
George’s decision to return to Britain had disrupted that meeting, it set things in motion that would conflict with those plans they had been discussing, it was purposely done, it was to send a message to Victor that George would not sacrifice Britain in exchange for America.
Taking a deep breath in, he reflected on words from his late father on the importance of the Imperium’s grander goals; but there was still a sense of loyalty to what was the worlds most powerful Empire, it simply worked in their favour.
Creeping through the maze of hallways that crisscrossed the lower bunk decks like a predator; Albert Williams was on the move, he had boarded the ship with false papers, blending in seamlessly with a crowd of tired travellers desperate to return to England; the authorities in Pennsylvania had discovered his latest masterpiece – a dismembered bank clerk displayed in grotesque artistry, and the dogs were closing in, the Atlantic offered the perfect opportunity to escape.
Albert found his work rather amusing, a game of life and death where he always held the joker in a deck stacked against his victims; each kill brought new inspiration to his collection of macabre acts, but the ocean voyage left him with no fresh canvas, no innocent traveller ‘worthy’ of his craftsmanship; until tonight.
While silently observing from the shadows, he’d seen George earlier; there was something distinct about the man, something humourless and detached, something that challenged Albert to test himself; that blank severe face inflamed Albert’s loathing and curiosity in equal measure.
There could be no other target, by midnight, Albert had picked out the choke point, a secluded deck swept with mist, forgotten by anyone else onboard.
He slithered into the empty expanse, moonlight glinting off the blade in his hand, in the silence ahead, George stood like an immovable statue, his back turned, unarmed, unguarded; too easy.
Albert lunged, his blade arcing forwards; time slowed; yet George was no statue; he was a storm waiting to break.
As though sensing the murderous intent before steel could graze flesh, George pivoted; his long coat sweeping like an ominous curtain; his cold icy eyes locked onto Albert’s in an instant; the smile Albert had prepared – the predatory charm he used to sow fear, froze in place.
The killer met another kind, George’s reaction was not human, it was something ancient, feral and precise.
Before the blade reached him, George seized Albert’s wrist with a grip like iron; a sickening crack resounded, following by the wet squelch of steel hitting the deck, Albert yelped in surprise and pain, but his shock had no time to ripen before George’s forehead collided with his nose.
Blood spurted like a crimson geyser, and Albert staggered, his back slammed against the fog-slick railing “Amateur” George muttered, his voice was a scold as the abyss
Albert tried to recover, rage igniting him at the indignity; he reached for a second knife, a curved dagger he would use with intimate precision on his victims; he slashed wildly, the blade whispering through the mist; but George did not retreat, instead he stepped inwards, he closed the gap so quickly that Alberts breath caught in his throat.
The fight dissolved into grotesquerie; George moved like a shadow given flesh, his strikes deliberate and devasting; one elbow jab shattered Albert’s cheekbone, a knee to the abdomen empties his lungs; the knife clattered to the deck far too easily because Albert’s fingers were already dislocated, bent backwards with exact efficiency – every move was clinical, each strike was made not with passion but with chilling pragmatism.
No screams; Albert realised, this man – this thing, hadn’t flinched once, cried out or scowled; there was no pleasure in his violence, and somehow that made the ordeal infinitely worse; George wasn’t defending himself, he was neutralising Albert like he would a pest.
Blood polled between them as George struck Albert again and again, a burst of calculated brutality that defied even Alberts capacity for horror, a firm grip on Albert’s throat forced him back against the railing, the edge biting into his lower back; the Atlantic wind howled like a dirge
“You thought yourself a predator” George said, he leaned in closer; this close Albert could see his own reflection in this cold mans eyes, he saw not scorn, not anger; but measured indifference, it was as though George weighed Albert’s werth and deemed him hollow “Do you know what you remind me of?” George querried, almost conversationally, squeezing tighter so Albert’s airways faltered “A stray dog; you bite because you must; you kill because you crave to see fear”
Albert clawed weakly at the grip around his throat, no longer attempting retaliation but for survival
“Let me show you what lies beyond fear” with an almost casual motion, George released Albert – but not backwards onto safety, but forwards, directly over the railings; the murderer’s body plummeted like discarded rubbish, swallowed instantly by the darkness below
For a moment George remained at the rail, watching the frothing water churn where Albert had disappeared; no cries came from beneath the waves, a killer of Albert’s calibre might have fought his way to the surface under normal circumstances, but George did not give him that chance.
A shard of the knife was glinting in George’s hand, blooded from its surgical plunge into Albert’s stomach, even if Albert somehow survived the fall, the open world would ensure the Atlantic claimed him soon.
George discarded the bloody shard over the side, turning back towards the misty deck as though nothing had transpired, his walk – his night – had been ruined, but such interruptions were inevitable,
While Albert’s death had been an unwelcome diversion, George had not been displeased by the opportunity to reaffirm the strength of his training; his father would still criticize though.
By the time the run would rise over the Atlantic, blanketing the upper decks in a soft glow, George was seated at his own table alone; others whispered amongst themselves, rumours of screams carried on the night wind.
When crewmen declared a passenger missing, George ate with the same joyless precision he conducted most things.
The Atlantic had taken what was left of Albert Williams, it would answer for the crime should anyone care to ask.
George never looked back
Written by: Westley H.
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