Authors: James Richardson
Moon Mask
MOON
MASK
A NOVEL BY
JAMES RICHARDSON
Copyright © 2012 James Richardson
This work is registered with The UK Copyright Service
Registration number
284652075
The right of James Richardson to be identified as the
Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance
with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be
reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted
in any form or my any means, electronic, mechanical,
photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the
prior permission of the copyright owner of this book.
All characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to
actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN-13: 978-1480171541
ISBN-10: 1480171549
First Edition Published in 2012
Second Edition Published in 2013
CONTENTS
‘Time travel maybe possible, but it is not practical.”
STEPHEN HAWKING
PROLOGUE:
Savage Mumbo Jumbo
Off The Coast of Jamaica,
1705
The
stench of death engulfed the ominous black hulk of the slave ship. The
L’aile Raptor
lolled on the swell, her rigging creaking in the breeze. The sky above was as clear as a crystal, shimmering in the heat. Yet, despite the brilliance of the sunlight, the deck of the slave ship seemed swathed in perpetual shadow.
Second Lieutenant Percival Lowe, of His Majesty’s Ship
Swallow,
had read merrily rhyming poems that dared to describe the darkest labyrinths of the devil’s realm. Those words paled in comparison to the hellish pall that enveloped the slave ship.
The deck was deserted, the sails half-mast. It was strewn with debris, dirty. Not a soul was in sight. Even the gulls kept their distance, circling some distance away as though they too felt the menace this ship exuded.
He had heard tales of these ghost ships; ships that were found drifting at sea, their hulls intact, their rigging fine, their galley’s full, yet all of the crew gone. His mind played through numerous fanciful scenarios, picturing sea monsters slithering up the deck, great tentacles dragging every last soul to a watery grave.
He sucked in another lungful of sea air, ordering his stomach to calm itself. He was embarrassed enough already at having shown such weakness in front of the men.
Following one of his boarding parties below deck moments ago, he had been utterly horrified at the sight which greeted him. Two hundred black bodies chained together, wrist to ankle, their skin decaying, their lifeless eyes staring at the low ceiling.
The stench of rotting flesh had slammed into his belly like a hammer blow and he’d spun on the spot, raced back above decks just in time to throw-up over the side of the ship.
Just to make certain that he hadn’t been sucked into the same netherworld as the
Raptor’s
crew, he glanced aft to ensure the
Swallow
remained at station keeping, and beyond her in the distance lay the faint outline of Jamaica’s golden coast.
Satisfied that the remainder of his breakfast wasn’t going to find itself floating on the Caribbean swell, he wiped a handkerchief over his lips and chin.
He glanced at Gil, an old sea dog with a wild mane of grey hair. “They were all slaves,” he said, his voice pitifully weak. Bile burned his throat. “So, where is the crew?”
“Looks to me like the slaves all starved to death, sir,” Gil replied. “We did find one alive, though.”
“Alive?” Lowe was shocked.
“Don’t ask me how the devil he’s alive, sir, but he is.”
Lowe nodded slowly. He wouldn’t put it past these lesser races to resort to cannibalism to survive. “But the crew?” he asked again. “What happened to the crew?”
A call from astern caught his attention and he walked quickly over to one of his men.
“We’ve found them, sir,” he said, his face green and sickly looking.
Lowe’s heart thudded. “And? Are they alive?” he demanded.
The sailor stared at him for long moments, eyes wide. “You better take a look, sir.”
Lowe reluctantly followed the man below decks to the crew barracks. The door was closed but already the stench of decay wafted sickeningly at his nostrils. He demanded his stomach to be stronger this time, to hold on to the remnants of his breakfast as though it was a pirate's treasure.
“Are you ready, sir?” the sailor asked, standing by the door. Gil stood behind him, hand over his mouth. On the lieutenant’s hesitation, the old sailor prompted him.
“Sir?”
“Yes, yes! Get on with it.”
The door opened.
The vision of the staved slaves was nothing compared to the horror that confronted him now.
Whereas the ship’s human cargo had all looked like deceased humans, albeit savage Africans, the crew looked as though they themselves were the monsters that had sealed their own fate.
Their faces and bodies were distorted with hideous whelps, blisters and even what looked like burns. Many of the blisters had burst and seeped over the deck before drying into a sticky residue. Human hair, large tufts which had fallen from scalps before the natural decomposition of death had begun, stuck to the grotesque glue.
Dead eyes stared at him accusingly as he staggered back, out of the room. He felt his breakfast race up his throat but swallowed it forcefully, retaining a tiny modicum of pride.
“It’s a plague ship,” Gil exclaimed. “The crew must have succumbed, then, without anyone to feed them, the slaves staved.”
“Lieutenant Lowe, sir!” a loud voice bellowed from above. Lowe gratefully used the call as an excuse to rush back on deck once more and suck in the fresh salty sea air. He relished the touch of sunlight on his face.
“We’ve found another live one, sir,” the man who had shouted said urgently.
“A . . . another live one?” Lowe stammered. He felt his body trembling.
A plague ship?
“Yes sir, looks like the cap’n . . . but you better come see.”
With heavy footsteps, Lowe followed the boson across the deserted deck to the captain’s cabin. Cautiously, he creaked open the door and stepped in.
Sat, cross-legged on the floor, in the middle of the room, rocking back and forward, his eyes distant and wild, Captain Edward Pryce, his head bald and blistered, his skin cracked and bleeding, cradled a brightly coloured mask in his arms and mumbled softly to himself.
“Savage mumbo-jumbo,” he said again and again. “Savage mumbo-jumbo, savage mumbo-jumbo, savage mumbo-jumbo . . .”
1:
Jane Doe
Baltimore,
Maryland, U.S.A,
Present Day
Emmett
Braun hauled the steering wheel around to the left and the Ford Mercury sedan slewed across the road in response. A cacophony of horns blared in his wake as he cut across Orleans Street and barrelled down Hillen towards the Interstate.
Wind rushed through the shattered rear window and he knew that, embedded in the back of the passenger seat, were at least two spent bullets.
He hadn’t felt any satisfaction at having cheated death by mere inches. He was an old man and knew he didn’t have long left on this earth. Nevertheless, he planned to die in bed in the arms of his wife, or at least relaxing out at sea, a fishing line in the water and the gentle waves lapping at his small boat’s blue hull. He had no intention of allowing a couple of CIA assassins, disguised as lowlife criminals, shoot him in the parking lot of John Hopkins Hospital.
He might have believed the cover himself. Baltimore was a big city and old men were mugged and killed all the time. But he had seen the face of one of his would-be assassins, lamely concealed by a navy-blue ‘hoody’. It was the same man who had come to his house not twenty four hours ago.
He had been out fishing at the time, enjoying the serenity of the gentle swell rocking him back and forth. He never went far and, from his canvas chair on the deck, with his feet up on his chiller box and a bottle of Bud in his hand, he could see his house on the shore. Gulls circled lazily above, waiting for the frenzy that his catch would instil in them.
Then his radio had hissed to life. It was Martha, his wife. In a flap. Two men, flashing CIA badges, were insisting on speaking with him. They gave all the usual crap about national security but Emmett had retired from the navy a long time ago. He had done his duty. He had gone beyond it in fact. A pre-eminent specialist on radiation-related illness, he had seen the legacy of the splitting of the atom and had devoted his life to developing better treatments against the ultimate evil.
He had left the navy, disgusted with the U.S. military’s blatant disregard for the dangers of radiation, and gone into civilian health care. He had treated men, women and children whose lives had been torn apart by a serial killer they could not see. Hiroshima, Nagasaki, Chernobyl. He had come out of retirement and flown to Japan to assist with the men and women endangered by the meltdown of Fukushima following the 2011 earthquake and tidal wave.
Nevertheless, however disgusted he was with the establishment, he couldn’t turn a deaf ear to the pleas of sick and dying U.S. service men and women either. While he was rarely given any information about the missions which had subjected them to harmful doses of radiation, he had been called in time and time again to clean up the military’s mess, even if he could do no more than make his patients final days on god’s earth a little more comfortable.
