Location: Southern shoreline of Meighen Island
Time: Morning, Day 1 of the Second Expedition
---
The first wave of boats touched shore without resistance.
Six boats in total.
Each was a naval cutter—broad-bottomed, steel-ribbed, fitted with oars and reinforced prow plates. They glided across the unnaturally still water like coffins pushed by unseen hands. No tide pushed back. No current protested.
The moment the first hull grated against the mossy shore, the oarsmen paused, as if waiting for something to go wrong.
Nothing did.
And that made it worse.
Fifty men disembarked with mechanical precision.
Royal Marines in oilcloth greatcoats, red wool showing beneath the folds
Field engineers with sled-loads of steel stakes, wire coils, and gear
A radio operator cradling the parts of a spark transmitter
And near the center, half-out of place, a young priest in a black cassock, holding a small, brass-bound Bible and a crucifix that had already begun to tarnish
Their boots sank into the moss with a quiet, living sound—as though the island breathed under their weight.
The air was mild, like a late English spring, heavy with moisture and filled with a thousand mingled scents.
Gun oil.
Crushed greenery.
Wildflowers.
And something else—something sweet and metallic, like pollen mixed with old blood.
> "Bloody hell," one marine muttered. "The ground's warm."
> "It's like walking on wet wool," said another, poking the moss with his bayonet. "What's under this?"
The moss gave way like thawed meat, not cracking or crunching like permafrost, but bending, folding, releasing faint pockets of scent as it was disturbed.
One engineer removed his glove and pressed his palm into the soil.
He pulled it back and stared.
> "It's alive."
> "Everything's alive."
A Gatling gun was offloaded from the fourth cutter, wheeled down a wooden ramp, and dragged up behind a small moss-covered dune. The barrel was polished, oiled, ready to sing.
Sandbags were offloaded next, forming a half-moon barricade. Two men began hammering in steel stakes. Others rolled out coiled razor wire, anchoring it into the soft earth.
No one said it aloud.
But every soldier there knew—the way you know when a dog is watching you through tall grass:
> They were being watched.
The shoreline, it didn't look like a warzone.
It looked like a garden carved by something divine—or something patient.
Hills rolled up gently into fog-kissed trees.
Flowers grew in clusters: violet, saffron, midnight blue, silver-white. Colors no one had names for.
Birds sat motionless in the high branches. Not fluttering. Not singing. Just… watching.
A breeze drifted in from the deeper wood, strangely warm, scented with pine, wet iron, and something almost perfumed.
> "This place smells like a woman's neck," said one marine, half-laughing, staring too long at a patch of silver-petaled flowers.
> "Or her grave," came the reply from the priest behind him.
The men chuckled.
Nervously.
And began checking their rifles.
Then as they walked further, the marine on point, a Scotsman named Miller, saw it first and froze mid-step, his bayonet lowering slowly as the line behind him stumbled to a halt.
> "Sir... up the slope."
Ten meters away, the moss gave way to dark stone—and something had been built there.
A man's ribcage, split wide, each bone cracked and pinned open with wire and sharpened stakes, formed a grotesque parody of angel wings.
His spine had been straightened, reinforced with twisted rebar and lashed into the dirt.
And atop it, upside down and perfectly balanced, sat the man's skull—jaw wired shut, sockets hollowed out.
A strip of Navy blue cloth hung around the broken sternum like a tattered medal.
Someone had written a name in blood across the man's chest with meticulous care, each letter clean, straight, and precise despite the medium.
> HADDON
One of the missing. A name from the last expedition's manifest.
Now a message.
A sculpture.
A warning.
At the sight of it the line of soldiers fell into silence.
No one stepped forward.
Not until the priest did.
He knelt beside the structure, not to pray—but to look up at it, as though expecting it to speak.
> "My God…" he breathed. "What madness…"
Sergeant Harte stepped past him, rifle still at the low ready.
> "He's not here, padre."
He scanned the treeline.
> "Not here anymore."
Commodore Redgrave stood ten paces behind the firing line, coat pressed and gleaming, hands folded neatly behind his back. The sea breeze caught the edge of his collar and flapped the flag pinned to his satchel.
He didn't blink as the men recoiled from the totem.
He didn't look away.
> "We advance in wedges," he said. "Fifteen meters between each man. Tight spacing favors the hunter."
He tapped his boot on the moss.
> "Sweep and map. Prioritize elevation and tree cover."
He paused.
Then added, with clinical finality:
> "No torches."
The men looked at him.
> "We don't blind what already sees us."
Lieutenant Merrick, younger, leaner, walked a few steps behind Redgrave, his hand hovering near the leather strap of his holstered Webley.
Beside him walked the vicar—still pale, one hand clutching the brass crucifix that seemed heavier now than it had in England.
The silence between them hung like smoke.
Finally, Merrick spoke:
> "Permission to speak freely, sir?"
Redgrave didn't look back.
> "Granted."
Merrick exhaled through his nose.
> "We shouldn't be here."
Redgrave did stop then.
He turned, slowly. Not angry. Not amused.
Just still.
> "No, Mr. Merrick."
> "That's exactly why we should."
As the men moved forward, the moss grew thicker.
The warmth increased.
The birds stopped watching.
And somewhere beneath their boots, a pulse began to build.
Far above, Cain lay flat in the canopy, mask glinting, rifle across his back, hand resting on the old steel frame of a naval scope he'd stolen.
He watched them form lines.
Watched them spread like disease into the greenery.
Watched them whisper about God.
> "Not yet," he whispered.
He touched the handle of a tripwire made of gut and razorbone.
> "Let them walk a little farther."
---
On Meighen Island, it was Late Morning now as the men walked up the dense forest covered slope.
And the deeper they moved inland, the quieter it got.
The air hung still. Warm. Almost pleasant.
It should have been snow. Ice. Arctic wind.
Instead, it smelled like dirt and flowers and something sickly sweet—like warm honey poured over rotting meat.
Private Weller muttered under his breath, "It's too soft."
"What is?" asked the marine beside him.
"The moss. The trees. The air. All of it. It's like the whole island's... waiting."
The priest didn't reply. He walked silently, clutching his crucifix tighter with every step.
Then they began to see it. The first markings were subtle. Spirals in the undergrowth. Split-circle symbols scratched into bark. Petals pressed into unnerving shapes beneath boots. Still nothing overtly hostile. Just wrong.
But then they reached a clearing.
And stopped.
There, hanging from a crooked iron rod planted in the moss, was a child-sized figure—noosed by its ankles, dangling upside-down.
Its limbs were stitched together from different bodies. Arms didn't match in length. The skin had different shades, some dark and pale, others blotched and peeling. It wore what looked like the upper half of a navy uniform—crudely cut to fit. The face was made of stitched skin, but had no eyes.
Two smooth, gray river stones had been sewn into the sockets.
And across its chest, burned in deep black:
"WATCHING"
Someone whispered, "What the hell…"
Another backed away. "Sir, permission to retreat."
Lieutenant Merrick didn't wait for Redgrave.
He turned to the Commodore, eyes wide. "We need to go. This isn't—this isn't war. This is something else."
Redgrave didn't argue.
He stared at the doll for a moment, unreadable.
Then nodded once.
"Back to the boats."
The squads moved quickly now—tighter than before. No more jokes. No more casual glances.
Rifles up. Eyes scanning every leaf, every flower, every crooked tree.
The warmth that had felt pleasant on the shoreline now pressed down on them like a fever. Sweat pooled in their collars. Their coats stuck to their backs. The path ahead had changed—no longer gentle. It twisted, like a serpent. They moved in circles without realizing it.
The island was leading them somewhere.
Or nowhere at all.
Then it began.
A snap—too high, too sudden.
A whistle.
Then—crack.
A scream was cut short as a marine in the rear vanished upward. He didn't fall. He was taken—yanked into the trees on a hidden counterweight.
A second later, his body dropped from above.
Not to the ground.
Onto a sharpened branch, planted upright, barbed like a harpoon.
The spike entered through his spine and exited his throat.
His mouth opened, gasping.
Then he stopped moving.
Blood soaked the moss in an instant.
Men screamed.
Two opened fire into the woods—blindly, reflexively.
The trees didn't shoot back.
But something else did.
A click from underfoot.
A burst.
A buried bolt-action rifle, rigged with tripwire, fired from a hidden trench—upward, over the squad's heads.
The bullet whistled past a helmet and shattered a tree behind them.
> "WE'RE UNDER FIRE!"
Another gun trap went off—this time from behind, striking nothing but causing panic. Another. Then another.
The squad spun in every direction.
Bullets were flying.
But no enemy was visible.
> "AMBUSH! WE'RE SURROUNDED!"
> "THEY'RE IN THE TREES!"
They weren't.
Cain wasn't there.
Not really.
He was above them, perched in the crook of a massive tree on the far ridge, wrapped in moss and bone-stitched camouflage.
He had pulled the first spike trap himself.
The rest?
Clockwork. Triggers. Traps made from their own weapons, their own shells.
Now he moved.
Down the ridge. Past the clearing. Toward the shattered black gun emplacement he had rebuilt from the Enduring Grace's wreckage.
He slipped behind it, pulled the covered sheet away, revealing a salvaged cannon—its barrel cleaned, its breech loaded.
He adjusted the aim—not at the camp.
Not at the soldiers.
But into the woods, behind them.
A thunderous blast shattered the island's quiet.
Smoke burst from the cliffside. The cannonball struck rock and exploded harmlessly into stone and moss.
The soldiers below screamed again, ducking.
> "THEY HAVE ARTILLERY!"
They didn't.
Only Cain did.
He wasn't finished.
He ran to the second emplacement.
The Gatling gun, recovered and mounted behind a blind of bark and bloodstained sailcloth, waited silently.
Cain cranked it.
And let it roar.
Bullets ripped into the tree line—not at the soldiers, but around them, over them, behind them.
The sound was deafening.
Men dropped, crawling through moss, diving for cover.
The priest was on his belly, clutching his Bible with both hands. Harte dragged a wounded man toward a ditch. Merrick screamed orders—no one listened.
> "PULL BACK! FALL BACK TO SHORE!"
They ran.
Some dropped gear.
One man dropped his rifle and screamed as he sprinted through a thorned patch, getting sliced, tearing his face open on a bramble Cain had tied with broken wire.
The woods howled around them.
But Cain didn't chase.
He stopped firing.
He wiped his hands.
And vanished.
By the time the soldiers reached the shoreline again—panting, bleeding, dragging the wounded—Cain was already gone.
Smoke drifted from the forest.
They didn't know where he'd gone.
They didn't know they had just fought no one.
And as the sun fell behind the cliffs and the sea went quiet once more, Cain stood in the shallows—barefoot, masked, silent.
He looked at the boats rocking gently beside the hulls of the fleet.
He would board tonight.
He would burn them all.
And by the time the soldiers realized where the war had gone—
It would already be too late.