Dark Seas, Dark Skies

I wrote this story because I enjoy horror and history, and wanted to combine the two genres in an eerie setting which I am familiar with.

• History
• Horror
• Fiction

								
~December 8th, 1904 -- The North Pacific ~
Darkness. Nothing but darkness. It was all-encompassing; as persistent as the lashing rain and the crashing waves that battered their hapless vessel as it pitched and tossed its tortured way towards Japan. Nikolai braced himself against the railing of the signal platform as another wave crashed over the torpedo boat’s deck, spray stinging in his eyes, seawater soaking his uniform. A chill rattled him. His fear of being washed overboard that night had long faded. Instead, it had been replaced by something entirely different . . . the fear of sinking.
Sinking before they came within five hundred miles of the enemy. 
The signalman braced himself again. He knew the breakers’ timing down to the second at that point in the night. Sure enough, their tiny, cigar-shaped warship rolled hard to starboard as the wave struck it with all the anger of the Imperial Japanese Navy, then swung back to port nearly as forcefully as the warship sliced through the wave’s lee side. Nikolai wiped his eyes, red and inflamed. He caught his reflection for a split second as it stared back at him from the polished hood of the searchlight. Even in the near-total darkness of the stormy North Pacific midnight, he could see the weight of the typhoon in his face. It was there in his sunken cheeks, his slackened jaw, his whitened lips, his mustache, typically so neat, matted by saltwater . . .
Although, by that hour, he was far beyond misery, the constant shifting of the deck beneath his boots, the torrents of rain, and the torment of salty spray were much appreciated. They were all that kept him from nodding off to sleep at his post. And though his eyelids begged to embrace one another and seal off the chaos of the world, he dared not let them. He could picture the result of that quite clearly—could feel the ocean’s roiling surface embracing his body, so limp, so tired. Swallowing him with nobody to watch the feast. So he gave thanks to the cold that drove deep into his bones, was laced into every seam of his waterlogged uniform; it served as a reminder. A reminder of how truly fragile he was.
Besides, it was a grateful distraction from the dread brewing in the pit of his stomach; the cold anticipation of battle. Of combat. Of facing the enemy. The previous evening, their ship and seventeen other vessels had set off from Port Arthur to intercept the Japanese Combined Fleet in the Sea of Japan the next morning. And Nikolai felt totally unprepared.
He’d been stationed on the torpedo boat Stariyy for a week, and right from the start he’d felt out of place amongst the older members of the crew. Nikolai had been at sea very little in his life before joining the Imperial Russian forces in Manchuria. Facing conscription into the army, he decided that a life on the waves seemed far more glamorous than one mired in the mud and trenches of land warfare. He couldn’t have been more wrong. The signalman was constantly exposed to the North Pacific’s harsh elements, all its sleet, wind, and rain; his skin itself had taken on a permanently clammy, numb feeling that persisted even when wrapped in the sparse blankets of his bunk belowdecks. Combined with the constant fear of destruction in battle, he was faced with a bleak existence.
And there was something else.
There was a rumor.
A rumor he’d caught wind of during his first days aboard the ship; a rumor that the Stariyy had done something terrible, that the ship and her crew had committed an atrocious crime, an act that couldn’t be reported to the the admiralty . . . something for which Captain Vlasenko threatened the crew with death if they dared to speak a word of. Accordingly, Nikolai had heard only whispers. But the memory of the incident, whatever had really happened, hung about the ship like a sickly mist. Like a curse. 
But thoughts of those rumors were put out of Nikolai’s mind at present. On that frigid night on the North Pacific, as waves and wind battered their little ship, Nikolai knew that the torpedo boat Stariyy and its complement of sixty men were in for a long and arduous eight hours until the sun rose . . . and the Imperial Japanese Navy would bring their destruction or bow to their triumph.
Suddenly, a voice cut through the monotony of the rain and the sea.
“Hey, Niko!”
Nikolai gave a start, then a weary chuckle. The night was getting to him. He made his way to the opposite side of the signal platform and peered over the railing. A grinning face was just visible in the darkness below. A Royal Marine, rifle slung across his back and sword tucked away in its scabbard, peered up at him as water swirled around his boots and sweater trickled down his face. His gloved hands gripped the rim of the platform as another wave battered the vessel. 
“Boris!” Nikolai greeted him. The two men had been assigned to the Stariyy simultaneously during the week before after having taken the same traincar from Moscow and kindling a brotherly bond. “You holding up alright?”
Boris nodded. “We’re really getting swamped,” he laughed. 
Nikolai smiled and scoffed. “If this goes on, the Japanese won’t have much to worry about tomorrow.”
“You can say that again. I had no idea it was this wet above decks.”
Nikolai wrung out his cap. “And I’d no idea the position of signalman would entail such a profound drenching.” They laughed.
Nikolai raised an eyebrow. “Are you even supposed to be up here?”
Boris shrugged with a smirk. “Probably not. But it’s awfully stuffy down there. I needed some fresh air. Besides, you seemed a bit lonely.”
Nikolai nodded his thanks. Presently, the clack-clack sound of boots on the vessel’s rain-slick deck reached his ears. He motioned furiously to Boris. “Quick, hide!”
The burly Marine, holding his cap on with one hand, crouched and ducked behind the fore funnel. Nikolai stood at attention and saluted sharply as an officer in uniform approached him. With one hand on the rail, the sodden Lieutenant barked the following order: “Signalman Vasikoff! I come with express orders from Captain Vlasenko that you are to flash our recognition signal along with the message: ‘Torpedo boat Stariyy requests communication’. Go about your work.”
Nikolai was not one to challenge orders — not since a particularly harsh punishment befell him  — but could not help but reply: “Sir, with all due respect, but is there something amiss with the ship?”
The officer, who was just about to stomp off to the bridge, turned on his heel, scowling. “Nothing of the sort, Signalman Vlasikoff. Now, follow your orders. I shall have you flogged again if any further disobedience–” He was cut off as the crest of a particularly tall wave struck him squarely across the face and knocked his cap off. He sputtered, wiped his eyes, and added “That’s an order!” before storming away into the murky darkness. 
Nikolai bit his lip. The orders given to him could mean only one thing. Lights were almost never revealed after dark, so as not to expose their position to the enemy. Only in the most desperate of situations would that order be given, as they were supposed to be following the protected cruiser Admiral Nakhimov, steaming not too far ahead of their own boat . . .

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