The Knife or the Sea

“You are all now dead,” he bellowed over the wind and the ringing in our ears. “I have taken your lives. As such, they belong to me!”

We couldn't even see his face past the red, blinding, magnesium light of the flares. We could see the rifles, though. We could all see those clear enough.

“And so now you have a choice,” With the whole world rocking under our feet, he repeats, “You get to choose!” He was laughing in his breath, carefully enunciating. This was a practiced speech.

“Sink with your ship to your rightful graves,” He paused to let the idea sink into our heads, then said, “or serve me and my crew,”

Someone burst into tears, blubbering and falling over. I stood frozen, I stared ahead, trying to think, but my head was filled with mud. It was like one of those dreams where the monsters are coming and you can't run. Like your feet are so heavy and slow and your arms are too weak to open a door and those monsters keep coming.

“Go on! Jump in the ocean if you want!” he shouted, “Jump right in or come and kneel at my feet!”

We all just stood there. One of us was crying. Someone fired a shot. The crying turned into gasping, then a kind of panicked moan, then nothing. None of us moved.

“Right then, put them over!” he called to his men. We rushed forward, throwing ourselves down. The boiling fear and the cold will to live. Fight and flight. There were four of us kneeling. The others were pushed overboard.

I had my palms on the steel of the deck, squeezing my eyes shut. I remember trying to listen for the others, tried to hear them splashing around. Maybe if I could've heard them cry out, heard their last words, they might forgive me. I heard nothing but the ocean and the creaking metal under my hands. They touched the black waters underneath and ceased to be. Taken at once by the night and the sea.

“Four souls so eager to join up! Good lads!” he was so pleased with himself. His crew laughed along. This was the point in the speech where they were supposed to laugh; they obliged with tired chuckles.

“Thing is,” he continued, “we only need three. I expect you lot to sort things out,” He pulled a little knife from his belt and held it out to me. We looked at each other and I took the knife. It was tiny and dull and stank of fish. It was caked in fish gore and offal. A single scale stuck halfway down the blade. I took the knife from him and we all looked at each other. Why'd he give me that knife? Why me? I took the knife and used it. So help me God, I took that knife.