Gunmage-Chapter 11: Eye of the abyss

"Dammit, kid!"

The horde of former humans was almost upon them. There weren't many left—twenty, maybe a little more—but even that number was overwhelming when considering their opposition: two disoriented men and a half-dead child.

There should have been no incident. There could have been no incident.

But then, several grenades sailed through the air.

Explosions reverberated through the ship creating a raw chaotic border of concussive force, shrapnel, and fire.

By the time the smoke cleared, the trio had disappeared into the ship's labyrinthine corridors.

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The narrow passageways worked to their advantage. In these tight confines, precise aiming became less critical—welcome news for the two men still reeling from disorientation.

The walls also negated the horde's numbers; a human wave strategy was useless when the enemy could only come in single file.

But, a simple fire, uncontrolled and hungry, could easily negate all these advantages—a scenario the spies had desperately hoped to avoid.

If these things, whatever they were, understood fire as a weapon, then their already dwindling odds would plummet to nothing.

That was why they had engaged the creatures in the open first. They had to force them into a predictable pattern. But the battle had spiraled beyond control, and now, their retreat had been reduced to a gamble.

Captain Veyland braced himself in a corner, raising his rifle. He was still fighting through the haze, but in these corridors, there was only one direction to aim—straight ahead.

He waited.

And waited.

Nothing.

The creatures should have followed. That was the behavior they had demonstrated thus far—relentless, unceasing pursuit. Yet now, inexplicably, they had stopped.

"Why aren't they coming?"

Veyland muttered under his breath.

No answer came. The unnatural silence that followed filled him with a vague sense of unease.

Shaking off the feeling, he moved toward where his partner was stationed, guarding the 14-year-old stowaway—who was, against all logic, still alive.

"Can you walk?" the brown-haired spy asked.

Lugh's expression was unreadable, his gaze distant yet eerily sharp.

"Yes," he answered after a beat, pushing himself upright with slow, mechanical precision.

He wobbled slightly but steadied himself, eyes scanning his body as if running a diagnostic.

He was weak, but nothing seemed to be permanently damaged. His hands drifted to his face, feeling for blood. Most of it had been wiped away—by the spy, judging by the rust-colored stains on the man's sleeves.

Lugh took note of the red tinge still lingering in his vision. A side effect of the blood?

"Anyone know what happened back there?"

He asked.

"Who can tell? Maybe some kind of spell?"

The brown-haired man replied instantly.

"I've never heard of a spell like that"

Veyland shot back, his tone tight.

"And I've never heard of an army of unfeeling soldiers who keep fighting regardless of how many times you shoot them in the—"

He made a fair point.

The argument faded into background noise as Lugh's gaze drifted toward a nearby porthole. His disorientation was secondary to something far more pressing, the ocean beyond.

The water was glowing red.

Not just glowing it was churning.

"Hey."

His voice was low, calm.

"You need to see this."

The two spies moved beside him, their faces pressing against the glass.

Their expressions darkened immediately.

"...This is not good"

One of them breathed.

Out in the vast, night-darkened sea, an impossibly massive whirlpool had begun to form.

The vortex was growing rapidly, spanning dozens of kilometers and gaining power with terrifying speed.

"This is bad"

The brown-haired spy hissed, gripping his rifle with white-knuckled tension.

"This is really bad. We need to get to the wheelhouse. Now."

He didn't wait for agreement. He was already moving, boots pounding against the metal.

Lugh and Veyland followed without hesitation, their faces unreadable but their minds already calculating the worst.

Rolling onto the main deck, they raised their rifles in one fluid motion.

Nothing.

The unnatural stillness persisted.

The creatures—the horde that had been hunting them relentlessly—were nowhere to be seen.

Lugh's unease deepened. Silence had never felt so threatening.

Their path to the bridge was unimpeded, but instead of relief, each step only tightened the weight of dread pressing down on them.

When they finally reached the steering room—the wheelhouse—they found it empty.

"All right, man. Do your thing,"

The second spy said, clapping Veyland on the back with forced confidence.

The captain didn't respond. His eyes flicked to the telegraph machine—useless. There was no one in the engine room to receive orders.

He turned the wheel hard to port, eyes constantly monitoring the angle indicator.

They were already moving along the edges of the whirlpool. Normally, escape should have been impossible. But, this wasn't a sailboat. This was a steam-powered warship, boasting an average shaft horsepower of over 20,000.

They were fully confident in its capabilities. It was just that...

"We're losing speed. Fast."

The words hit like a gunshot.

"What do you mean we're losing speed?!"

The brown-haired spy snapped, panic lacing his voice.

"I mean exactly what I said,"

Veyland gritted out.

"We should be breaking free, but something's wrong with the engine."

"Perfect. Perfect!"

The spy ran a hand through his hair in frustration. Lugh, meanwhile, was silent, his head tilting slightly.

The creatures hadn't pursued. They had stopped. They had waited.

And now, the engine had failed.

Coincidence?

Most definitely not.

"Come on,"

The brown-haired spy gritted out.

"We're checking the engine room."

Lugh was already moving before the order was given.

By the time they reached the rear of the ship, they found them.

The former humans.

Except something was... different.

Veyland's partner inhaled sharply. "Tell me you see that."

"Oh, I see it,"

Veyland muttered grimly.

They stood in perfect formation—silent, still, unnatural. Their bodies were rigid, their dull eyes scanning the ship's corridors with eerie precision.

But that wasn't the problem.

The problem was that every single one of them was armed.

Rifles in hand.

Waiting.

A new strategy. A new level of awareness.

The game had changed again. And not in their favor.