Read Dead Men Tell No Tales for Free Online

fiend bodies had been piled and set to flame, cremating their cursed flesh to cinders. Soon, the dead from cemeteries, and lonely graves began to rise, and people showed symptoms of the Plague. By Christmastime it had reached London. Not even the Great Fire had stopped it. In less than five months the Plague had spread to mainland Europe, killing off thousand of people and reanimating as much to this evil mockery of life. Some said it was not a disease, but God’s wrath, unleashed on mankind for his sins. Christians had flocked to churches, locking inside, endlessly praying the Lord to save their souls in upcoming Apocalypse. Others blamed the foreign, or the women, or cats, or rats, or whatever came to their blurred minds.
    And everything Drake knew was lost.
    Somehow, the Plague had fall not on the New World, nobody knew why, still they didn’t care. The exodus from the Old world had been a messy affair, in which anarchy had reigned more than civil manners. Bribes and weapons had insured survival to a higher degree than royalty and clerical influence. The New Word had become a place for the merchant, not for the noble.
    Six months ago the first Risen vessel had been spotted near Hispaniola. There had been questionable attacks on small settlements and tiny colonies previously, yet the League had blamed rogues and royalists. However, these bloodthirsty attacks had left no survivors, and had carried away none of the booty from their nightly raids.
    Except people.
    Raided villages appeared desolate and silent to those unfortunate who had berthed their ship in these dead places.
    And the smell of decay had settled in, forever lingering as an evil taint.
    Now, the Risen were approaching quickly, driven by unnatural winds. God only knew how it was possible for that wreck to float, let alone to veer and sail. Yet, it changed tack with swiftness, as a monstrous shark giving chase to tasty morsel.
    “ Leave ship now!” Mac outcried, desperately trying to have his mates abandon the boarded freighter. Drake was already at the tiller, frantically shouting orders to the crew, his gaze frozen on the incoming monstrosity.
    “ In the name of God, do not leave us here!” exclaimed Captain Salazar running to the planks and grabbing Luther’s arm. The hulking German didn’t flinch; he got loose of the hold and punched the Spaniard so hard he fell overboard. At that sight, chaos ensued and more than ninety men hurried toward the smaller brig, recklessly pushing everyone on their path, fighting to reach the intact vessel’s safety.
    “ Come off it,” Drake ordered, eyeing the tattered sails, “Make speed. Bring her about!”
    The Banshee’s Cry maneuvered away from the Santa Esmeralda, causing most of the boarding mariners to plunge down in the frothing waters, while others clung to the keel, yet were easily dealt with by the privateers.
    “ God forgive us,” muttered Mac, taking hold of the helm. Drake nodded, but he knew there was no other choice. The brig had place for seventy men and twenty passengers, there was no space for all that people. He allowed himself a last view of the doomed freighter, before taking his decision.
    “ Make for the Caicos.”
    Mac nodded and shouted, “Ready about!” and all the hands hurried to their duties.
    ****
    Later, they were taking advantage of strong wind to gain distance from the ship of the dead.
    Geist was scanning stern-side, figuring to spot the tattered canvases at any moment. But the dead were not giving chase, and he knew why; they were busy capturing the stranded Spaniard crew. Tall tales said the Risen ate the living.
    He knew better.
    The fiends had no need for eating or drinking. Nope. They liked their victims alive; to abuse and torture ‘em for days, feeding from pain. They only wished for spreading the Plague, until only Death would reign.
    In the morning they tacked southward, entering the Windward Passage, between Cuba and Hispaniola. The sea was rough and winds came and