Free Vampirates: Tide of Terror by Justin Somper Page A

come from, its journey through the water has not been smooth. More than one rock has lashed out at it, judging by the marks around its sides. In one corner, there is a hole and he brings an eye to this now, looking down into the darkness within.
    It’s hard to see much. Some seawater has got inside — not yet enough to weigh it down but enough to confuse his vision. He leans away again, contemplating breaking off a bit more wood. Snap. The timber breaks like a bar of chocolate in his fingers and now he has a clear view inside. His eyes come face to face with a boot. It is a sailor’s boot, still laced tight. It is not, after you stare at it for five minutes, the most interesting of sights.
    If only the other end of the coffin had been broken, he thinks, looking up. But the other end is still intact. After another minute in the water, the wood would almost certainly have cracked there too. Because really, if you just reached out your finger and pressed with any kind of strength, you could crack this wood, without even really trying and . . .
    Snap. The feeble wood has broken in his thick hands and a nail buckles. He leans forward. Now he is looking down on part of a face — on an eye that is shut tight, long wet eyelashes resting on the linen-white pillow of a cheek.
    Of course, he wants to see more and since the wood is broken anyway, there’s no harm in prying it loose so he can see the whole of the face. Now he can see that it is a young man, his features fully at rest. The mouth is lifted in a small, frozen smile as if he is dreaming. What might he be dreaming? If only he could speak again, you might ask him this question — and a fair few others besides.
    Thoughts are rushing in now, as fast and as furious as the tide. His hands reach out and make short work of the rest of the lid, until broken shards of wood are piled on the sand like discarded orange peel. Now the coffin is open to the elements. And there lies the young mariner, cooled by the night air again, as once he was in life.
    This is not just a gift. It is a sign. A sign that the tide is turning in his favor — that his plan is the right, true one. He smiles to himself, his gold teeth revealed once more.
    There are things the surfer knows — things, at least, that he has been told, if he can only remember them. Things he wishes now he had paid more heed to. Gestures and incantations that — if he can only focus and squeeze them back to the forefront of his memory — might just yield a result. He looks down at the man before him. From his garb alone, you can tell he was a pirate, even were his hands not folded about a cutlass and even if the skull and bones flag was not tied around his wrist.
    If only he could remember the right procedures. He scratches his shaven head. He must try to remember. He owes it to this pirate now. Now that he has invaded his rest, he owes it to him to try. He closes his eyes, shutting out all distractions as he scours the dark passageways of his memory for the right words.
    He is transported back to a shadowy, smoke-filled den, where incense once pervaded his senses. Now, he is back in that darkness. Once more, cedar and sandalwood lull his mind. He sees again that other face through the gloom, teaching him the ritual. The words are coming back to him. He is not speaking them, only hearing them, letting the other one tell him now as he told him before.
    He feels a growing pressure about his hand. He cannot yet open his eyes, for the ritual is not complete. But the flesh of his hand is being compressed on all sides. As if ...no...as if ... yes — as if another hand is clinging onto his.
    At last he opens his eyes. And, yes, his hand is stretched down to the coffin and, sure enough, a hand has risen out of the darkness and taken his own, much fleshier, hand. And now they pulse together as if they share one heartbeat.
    He looks down at the figure in the coffin, searching for other signs of life. He thinks he sees something