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now manning the planks with Luther, the large gun master.
    The Spaniard merchantman - the Santa Esmeralda - was a large three-masted trade vessel. Although well armed, the ship had easily fallen prey to the smaller and maneuverable brig. Its crew had surrendered after a short, yet intensive defense, and was now crowding the main deck. Their Captain, Marcelo Salazar, was among them, trying to keep a noble countenance, but clearly shivering into his foppish leggings.
    Drake swung from a rope directly between the two vessels, and landed his boots on the deck, causing the already jumpy Spaniard officer to let loose a soft cry.
    Handsome, in a wild fashion, Daniel ‘Drake’ Davies had clearly seen better days. His curly black hair, steel-gray eyes, and olive-tanned skin, revealed his Spanish blood; features he had inherited from his Andalusian mother. The tall cheekbones framing his face came from his English father. An unkempt and wiry beard covered most of his chin and the jaw-sides.
    “ Ahoy, mateys! Follow rules and nobody will be hurt. We’re not here to kill the crew of this floating barrel; we just want your gold. So, please, line up and collaborate with me lads. Do not, and as sure as me name’s Drake, I’ll have you pay a visit down to Davey Jones’ Locker. And I mean the bottom of the sea,” he addressed the captured mariners, then to underline it, raised his hand and released a shot from the pistol. The sailors seemed to understand, because they immediately formed a line and extended hands forward. Meanwhile, the rest of the boarding party was busy getting down to the hold, eager to put their craving hands on the precious cargo.
    The sun was coloring the horizon in orange strokes when Geist the albino, manning the Banshee crow’s nest, issued an unexpected shout, “Sail Ho!”
    Drake bolted to the rails, his eyes squinting at the sea, yet seeing nothing. Mac put immediately the glass at his eye, scanning the distance. “Shiver me timbers,” he muttered, handing the tool to Drake. “Risen!”
    Drake looked through the spyglass and what saw chilled his blood. Huge holes gaped in the approaching Slaver and rotten boards jutted randomly from the sides. The foremast’s top was broken off and lay on the warped deck, amid dangling and trailing bits of ropes. Yet, what scared him most was not the sailing derelict itself, but the crew manning it. Dressed in filthy rags, they were horrible to behold; rotting away, yet, somehow still holding whole, with strands of algae entangled in their hair or hanging from their gnashing mouths, bony and thin limbed they were belying their powerful nature. Rubbery, dead-cold flesh, crisscrossed by innumerable wounds, hung loose from visible bones. Some were missing an arm or leg, but many had replaced them with other instruments. There he could spot a blade jutting out from the stump of a burned forearm. Another had three sickles protruding as wicked claws.
    “ All aboard!” Drake shouted, “Leave ship now! Whoever lingers shall be left here, hurry up!” He was meaning it. As cruel as it could sound there was no other way. You couldn’t kill the living dead, because they were dead already. Yes, you could delay them by chopping off their limbs and brains, but it was impermanent. Soon, every single body part took a life of its own; even spilled innards. Drake had witnessed a strand of entrails strangling a man before his eyes.
    More, they carried the Plague.
    It had all started ten years before, in now fallen England. Survivors said the Plague was brought into Southampton by the Sea Venture, a Navy frigate captained by Robert H. Hackett. Nobody knew where the crew had caught that unholy disease, besides none cared; they were too busy evacuating the Old World when had realized it was not possible to contain it. At first, the Risen crew had shambled out the docked vessel, causing horror among the inhabitants. They were dealt with by the city militia, at least it seemed so. The