As the men worked, Robert searched for a good place to build cabins. Occasionally he glanced at the pond, searching the bodies for anyone he knew or something that might make sense of the quarry flooding. Only clothing and torn flesh, reminiscent of the battlefield. War was obscene, and the damage done to men was horrific, but this was wrong. Men did not deserve to be pulled through stone caverns like garbage sluiced down a drain. It was too frightening a vision to understand or contemplate.
Robert realized he was unwilling to look at the bodies. Angered by his own weakness, Robert stared at the pond, then tilted his head.
Something was wrong.
Something about the bodies was odd.
Shaking his head, Robert pushed the thought away and continued his search. On this end of the pond there were more oak trees, the shield of evergreens thinning. He liked forests with fewer pine trees; it was harder for someone to sneak up behind you.
That was enough. In exasperation, Robert sat on a large stone and gazed at the pond as he chided himself. This fear of a piece of land was absurd. This was only an island with a foolish legend visited by tragedy. If he continued to behave like an old woman jumping at shadows, Robert would lose the respect, then control, of the men leading to destruction and death. None of them would go home. They end buried on this forsaken island.
There was no Robber King, only a sadistic little bastard determined to fight his version of war against unarmed men.
At least General Cornell was getting concerned over Pace’s behavior.
A shot echoed in the woods, followed by a jubilant whoop. There would be meat for supper.
Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.
A man stepped out of the forest on the side of the pond. Robert stood on the rock and pointed to the forest behind him. This was where they would shelter tonight, Robert’s decision more a defiance of his fear than the suitability of the campsite.
The prisoner waved acknowledgment, then dragged a sizeable branch from the woods and pulled the wood to the campsite.
Another shot rang deep into the woods as Robert watched the soldier drag the branch. He paid no true attention to the sky, woods, or pond, and it took him a few minutes for the oddity to come to Robert’s attention. His mouth opened in shock when Robert realized what he was seeing.
As the soldier approached floating bodies, they would sink below the surface of the pond, then rise once the living had passed. One after the next corpses submerged to the ignorance of the working soldier.
After five of the strange bobbing events, Robert climbed from the rock and walked to the shore of the pond. Scrub pines and weeds rose from the water, the plants dying from prolonged submersion, hiding a corpse until Robert stood with his boots touching the water.
Surrounded by weeds, the corpse did not sink. It floated face down and tattered, seemingly at peace with the present condition.
Robert could deny this place and believe there was nothing wrong with the island or he could listen to the warning screaming in his mind. It was instinct that grew in war, of all Robert’s experiences, and instinct lent survival to a dangerous world.
Strange feelings. Sinking bodies. Shifting shadows. It all spoke of danger.
It was time to listen to instinct.
The noise generated by men piling wood broke Robert from his thoughts.
The men had tried not to disturb the Major as he stared at the pond. All of them knew the flood had hurt Major Cane, but they held faith Robert would recover his composure and lead them home.
The camp grew quickly, shelter built and dinner cooking before sunset. Smoke from the fire hung over the pond in a thin layer, a wisp of cloud resembling fog.
The only worry to the evening, beyond the general sense of unease, was the missing search party. The two men had never returned. Either lost on an island, or they had rejoined General Cornell’s party. There was no definite answer, and that bothered Robert.
In the middle of the night, distant screams woke the men.