C R E S C E N D O
A survival horror roleplay by Cylarn
A survival horror roleplay by Cylarn
0430
Aboard the MV Verrazzano
Somewhere in the Caribbean
Unknown Date 7/17
It was pitch black, on the churning waters of the Caribbean Sea. The violent tempest called "Roxy" was bearing down on this tropical part of the world, bringing with it a hard-bearing, endless rain, and the violence of high winds. This concoction - this natural phenomena capable of inspiring both terror and awe - had been brought to bear against this part of the world. For what purpose? If a deity exists, doth thou will the storms? Or do they just come as they please?
Be that as it may, Roxy was a herald of destruction. Her journey had brought her from the depths of the Atlantic in infancy; from there, Roxy gathered her strength as she traveled through the West Indies. Each day brought more rain and stronger winds to the people of the Caribbean, as Roxy brought herself over the populated islands. Shingles and whole roofs were torn from buildings, ships crashed uncontrollably into piers and harbors, and the streets became flooded with water and detritus from the storm. Eventually, Roxy would move on her way up into the Gulf of Mexico. In her wake were bodies and the remnants of what life had been for many people.
For Roxy, she did not bother herself with mortal affairs. Existence is nothing to an elemental force. The story of the MV Verrazzano concerned her much less.
The cargo freighter rocked and shook violently against the force of the waves, the deck cargo shaking and straining against its restraints. Up and down she went, up above the waves - and then back down to be partially engulfed. Her Colombian flag listed violently to the north-west. The process repeats itself; for the average mariner, this is how a hurricane goes because in what logical way can a human being stop a hurricane? There but for the grace of God, as the saying goes. There is nothing odd about it. What is odd is the seeming lack of lights aboard the Verrazzano, and her lack of direction in the storm.
The Verrazzano was dark - something unacceptable for any merchant ship in the dead of night. No deck lights, no running lights, not even cabin lights; it was as if she were abandoned by her crew. Something was off.
"¡Cualquier persona que quede viva, llega al puente!" a voice at the other end of Javier's walkie-talkie crackled.
The merchant sailor kept running through the pitch-black passages of the ship, running for the life of him as his maglight beam stretched ahead of him. Javier made no efforts to direct the beam, but each movement illuminated the swaths of blood that stained the floors and walls of the passages. Screams and gunshots echoed off of the metal walls that made up the bowels, but Javier did his best to ignore it all. The only shot for salvation for him was to get to the Bridge. The Captain was there, and maybe the rest of the surviving crew. Once they regrouped, there was a chance that they might be able to survive whatever madness they had wandered into. Through corridor after corridor, Javier continued onward.
Just two weeks prior, everything had been normal. The Verrazzano had left Capetown with a full load of cargo; high-end electronics, luxury furniture, and similar items. In the cargo containers that crowded the deck, that's what one might find. Below-deck, packed below endless stacks of crates were the type of good considered to be extremely valuable; artifacts taken from the remains of bygone civilizations. These items were particularly lucrative - as well as particularly dangerous, for two reasons.
The first - Javier knew - was that national governments had a tendency of grabbing up any remnants of "extinct peoples." There were the moral implications of disturbing the dead, but also there was the matter that government officials stood to make money off of artifacts. Legal auctions and the trading of museum pieces often merited big bucks for the men and women who knew how to play the game. It was sheer principle that the unregulated smuggling and sale of artifacts was to be heavily despised by those in power.
The second reason for caution that Javier picked up on were the stories. An altar supposedly recovered from ruins in the Empty Quarter had left a trail of blood in its wake; a plane carrying the altar had crashed, a driver transporting the truck through Africa was found brutally murdered on the side of the road, and two workers in Capetown were injured during a crane accident as they loaded the altar. The Muslim crewmembers were particularly fearful of the altar, spouting stories of long-forgotten cults that should have died back in the days when Muhammad had bashed the idols of the false gods.
Javier, of course, cared little for the ravings. He had other things to worry about.
For most of the voyage, nothing outwardly malevolent happened. The only thing that classified as "odd" to the crew was a shared feeling of unease that cast itself over the holding areas below-deck. The hold was a large, open area that was made into a maze by the stacks of crates and boxes. The feeling that someone - or something - was watching whomever happened to be in the hold was something quickly dismissed by the captain.
What came next would shake the crew to the core. Awakening one morning, Javier and his mates discovered the grisly sight of a mutilated crewmember in the hold. Accordingly, the command staff launched an investigation, detaining the night crew to their quarters and diverting the course for Aruba.
The storm followed shortly after. Unable to make it to safe port, the Verrazzano continued on its original course as the water and air churned together to create a massive storm. The murder of the crewman was overshadowed by a truly exigent fight for survival against the surges, squalls, and wind that threatened to send the ship down below. In that time, whatever overlooked evil aboard the ship began to manifest itself further. Bulkheads and chambers were sealed inexplicably, forcing the crew to cut their way through the passages of the ship. The tension rose, bringing the crew into altercations with one another.
If it couldn't get any worse, the engines eventually shut off and the Verrazzano was left stranded in open water. After that, the killing started.
Within hours of the engines breaking, mayhem erupted. What had begun as a verbal argument between the kitchen staff transformed into the cook being vivisected with a gutting knife by a kitchen hand. Further incidents followed quickly after; the Chief Engineer was thrown overboard, the Navigator was shot and wounded, and men were hunted by their fellow crewmen through the winding passages and corridors below deck.
Javier would die if he didn't reach the stairs.
He ignored the echoing shouts and demented laughter that was peppered by pleas for mercy and blood-curdling screams. He knew them all; the killers and their tainted black eyes, and their victims. No thoughts could be wasted as Javier sprinted through the passages, leaping over lifeless corpse after lifeless corpse. A crack resounded through the chambers; a pistol, Javier thought as he ignored the static in his ears. Three more crack followed in rapid succession. Even within the metal confines of the Verrazzano, Javier caught on that the shots were very close by. His suspicions were at least partially confirmed when he heard a crack. It wasn't the sound of gunpowder igniting; it was mixed with a distinct squishing sound - followed by a thud - that could only have come from a blunt object striking a human skull.
Javier knew what was going on - his pursuers were nearby. Their laughs were only dark reassurances that they were indeed nearby. Possessed, maniacal laughter mixed with hysterical crying. His flight paid off; before him was a set of metal stairs, stairs that led all the way up to the bridge. The seaman felt a mood of cautious relief as he refused to slow down. The stairs were right there, cast in the beam of his flashlight.
"Ahora no es este un crucero maravilloso, ¿verdad, Javier?" a male voice called out. Javier froze in his tracks as a chill shot through his entire body.
"¡Te cansarás, amigo! Mejor tomar un descanso, ¿sí?" the same voice said.
Javier knew the voice: Santiago, one of the engineers and Javier's drinking friend. Despite the strange distortion in his voice, Javier could detect that unmistakable Dominican dialect belonging to Santiago. Javier slowly turned around, slowly stepping back towards the stairwell. The doorway that he had just passed through was shrouded in darkness - yet Javier could hear the distinct sound of boots stomping on the metal floor, and the scraping of an object along the floor. From the darkness came Santiago, his yellow jumpsuit stained with blood. In fact, Santiago was covered in dark red blood from head to toe, as if he had immersed himself in a vat of blood.
The eyes of the possessed engineer were dark-black with a strange ichor, blood pooling in the tear ducts before they formed a distinct red stream down his ashen, blank face. Even amid the blood, Javier could see six holes in his jumpsuit, along with what appeared to be copper wire tightened in a ring around his neck, digging into his flesh. Down by his right side, clutched in his right hand was a fire axe, its flesh-caked blade resting on the floor. The flashlight caught Santiago directly in the light - yet it did not penetrate the darkness behind him.
Javier took one backwards step up the stairs, still staring at Santiago.
"¡No eres Santiago, demonio!" he half-heartedly yelled at his lost friend. While his left hand directed the beam at the six-four lunatic standing not but three or four meters from him, his right hand reached into the small of his back. He gripped the familiar metal and checkered-wood handle of his .45. His hand trembled, thumb reaching up to pull the hammer down as his arm retracted his hand - and gun - from his waistband.
Santiago cracked a smile; an uncomfortably wide and toothy smile that revealed teeth that were not supposed to be sharp.
"Usted tiene una pistola detrás de su espalda, una que está a punto de dispararme. ¿No ves la evidencia en contra de eso?"
Javier ignored the warning, instead drawing the weapon forward and aiming with one hand. His shaky hand fired three shots; two missed, one struck home directly between Santiago's eyes. The possessed man flew backwards, an explosion of gore erupting from the back of his head before his body slammed into the metal. Javier quickly turned away, charging up the stairs. There were many flights of stairs, but Javier cared little about that. All he cared about was getting to the top.
As Javier bounded up onto the surface deck, an iron crowbar would jut out from the darkness and slam into Javier, knocking him back down the steps. Despair took over as Javier fell back down to the bottom of the steps, landing with a thud that would send pain coursing through his body. Most notably, Javier screamed out in pain, gripping his left ankle and gritting his teeth against the pain. He knew instantly that he wasn't going anywhere. He had dropped the flashlight and his gun; the beam was gone, leaving him stranded in darkness. His breathing increased, head darting around as he heard more footsteps, coming closer and closer. Javier unclipped his walkie-talkie and looked at it, noticing the absence of a glowing screen. He turned pale, as he heard Santiago once more.
"Lo último que debes hacer es luchar, Javier. Después de todo, somos amigos. Deberías confiar en tus amigos, ¿verdad?"
In an instant, a powerful grip seized him by the leg. Javier cried out once more as he tried to struggle, his assailant dragging him off into the darkness, wailing all the way as he traveled to an unknown, terrifying fate.
1950
New Anglia Police Department
New Anglia, Florida
07/24/17
The sky was gray, the clouds were moving fast through the sky, carried by the wind like the smell of the salt seas. The orange hue that made Floridian sunsets almost unforgettable was but a faint blur in the horizon as the overcast darkened New Anglia. Main Street, with all of its window-front boutiques and cobblestones, was abuzz with traffic. High-priced SUVs and sedans were mixed among the minivans and trucks of the locals as both parties attempted to leave town ahead of the storm. Horns blared and bright-lights were shone by angry motorists into the vehicles of other angry motorists, as the general sense of hurricane panic/thrill contributed to a stall in traffic at the intersection of Main and Highway 357 - the road that contained the Palance Bridge, which linked road traffic from New Anglia to the rest of the Keys. Two black-and-white Police Caprices were parked at opposite ends of the stoplight, approaching the congestion in order to try and direct some semblance of traffic.
What sucked was that it was less than ten minutes before those two "Brown-and-Tans" would be able to join the traffic off-island with their families. Here they were, clearing up a traffic jam in the midst of a coming barrage of high winds and rain, when they could have been boarding their windows and leaving town like most everyone else.
Poor fucking bastards.
Those were the words in the head of Sal Ayala as he directed his Explorer onto a sidestreet, hoping to take an alternative route past Main and 357, using the back streets to navigate to the station. His window was open, a cigarette grasp between the index and middle fingers of his left hand as his right controlled the steering wheel. His radio hummed with Nowell singing "Wrong Way," accompanied by the familiar concoction of ska and punk, the mixture that made Sublime catchy, even for a cop to listen to. His fingers tapped to the beat on the steering wheel as he took a drag from his cigarette, the ash burning down to encompass half of the cigarette. Sal kept his eyes focused on the road, and allowed himself to think.
Driving was second-nature to him by now. He had always enjoyed driving, even before he became a cop, a job which involves more than a fair share of driving solitary in a vehicle. He could not only remain aware of the road and his surroundings, but driving gave Sal an inner peace that he could use to retreat inward and think without consequence. Thinking and driving were two things that were familiar to Sal; he had plenty to think about.
Right then, you have nothing to worry about, Sal. Oscar Luis is with your folks in North Carolina, hundreds of miles away from the last two crazy bitches I'd trust him with - Tata and Roxy. Heh, that's a good one. Gonna be an uneventful couple of days; just make sure you don't drown or anything.
Sal chuckled at his own thoughts as he pulled up to the main gate leading to the employee parking area behind the two-story, modern police station. He placed the cigarette in his mouth and drew his work ID from his pocket, using it to swipe a scanner which in turn opened the solid metal barrier. Slowly, the Explorer pulled into the lot, driving past the Crown Vics and Caprices, and the other cars that happened to be in the lot. Once he brought his car to a stop, Sal looked up at the rearview mirror, taking a moment to look at himself.
Like many of the other officers in the wake of Roxy, he had forsook the standard NAPD uniform for his own duty wear. A long-sleeve black raid shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. On both arms of the shirt, in large white letters, was "POLICE." The front had a single emblem of the NAPD on the left breast, and the back of the shirt read - in large white letters - "NEW ANGLIA POLICE," across the back. The shirt was tucked into a pair of tan cargo pants, which were themselves tucked into a pair of black waterproof boots, made of canvas and rubber. His pistol was secured within a black plastic retention holster, attached to his belt along with a retractable baton, handcuffs care, two spare magazines, and a pocket flashlight contained within a canvas case. It wasn't a standard loadout, nor did Sal wear a standard duty belt. As a Lieutenant, he was allowed to pick his gear.
Showtime. Gonna meet with Flores, then we're gonna do the shift change.
After turning off and securing his vehicle, Sal grabbed his black duffel bag and entered the station. Civilian employees, officers, and detectives alike were running back and forth as they attempted to complete their work with as much haste as possible. The Cuban officer smirked as he walked through the hallway, brushing past everyone on his way to his second-floor office.
It was your standard supervisor's office; a glass room shut off from the rest of the office floor, which contained a desk, chairs, filing cabinet, and bookshelf. Not much thought was needed for Sal as he unlocked the door with his ID and tossed his duffel into a chair, and left the door to close itself. After all, LT Stephanie Flores was likely wanting to go home as much as anybody else. Sal walked past the desks and cubicles that belonged to the detectives, officers, and office workers, taking an abrupt right into a conference room where a blonde-haired, middle-aged woman sat on a table, his sunken, tired eyes staring at Sal as she took a sip of her coffee. A faint smile appeared on her face.
"You look like shit, Flores," Sal stated, his voice carrying fluent, clear English with a strong Havanian accent.
Flores sighed, her left hand adjusting her windbreaker.
"Arguing with Mike again," she said. "He skipped work but still made me take time from here to go pick them up. Got stuck behind a jack-knifed trailer and dealt with that for an hour before I got the kids home - and lo an-"
Sal held up his right hand, prompting Flores to halt her explanation of her day and offer a wry smile.
"Thought so, Sal," she said, taking a sip of her coffee. "What about you? Keeping your son with you?"
Sal chuckled and shook his head, pulling a chair from against the wall - not from the rows of chairs arranged in front of Flores - and pulling it beside of her table.
"He's up in North Carolina; town called Blowing Rock, I think it's called. Parents have a cabin up in the mountains, so they picked him up this morning - made the detour from Boca and everything. That takes some shit off of me. What time are you and yours leaving?"
"Whenever we can get through this fucking shift report?" Flores stated, holding up a piece of paper for Sal to see.
"What's new in 'ole New Anglia?"
"Fucking traffic, probably won't clear up until ten. Other than that, Chief wants us to track any flooding. Other than that, just standard shit."
"Mhm..."
Sal looked up at the clock. They should be showing up now.
