The Sea of Wrath: a semi-allohistorical tale

So, for much of my free time I write. Doesn't really matter what, could be fiction, poetry, alternate-history:)cool:), but I wrote this not too long ago, and though I have no idea what a possible POD would be, it has certain flavors of Alternate History sprinkled onto it. The general premise is a Pirate Cowboy (yes, I know they don't actually exist, but I made one damn it!) named Ezekiel. I guess the POD would need to be before the Age of Exploration, because of the way I imagine the world being. The New World is known as The Other Side, the Azores are known as the Norster Islands, there are lots others, I just can't list them all.

As a disclaimer, don't expect this to be updated often. But here is the beginning. Lemme know whatcha think.

The Sea of Wrath

Chapter One:

All seemed lost.

The cool, blue waves rolled up the pink sand and licked his black, soggy boots and drenched his torn denims. The hot Sun bore down through the cloudless sky, but the brim of his black cowboy hat shaded his eyes that stared into the crystal water searchingly. The man did not match the scene he was in. His shoulders were hunched and weighed down from invisible pressure: a burden unknown to any but the barer.

All seemed lost as he sat there on the beach.

Could agony manifest into a single being? His long hair fell over his long face, which seemed worn and aged beyond its years. Scraggle and stubble darkened his jaw and lined his lips that moved in the incoherent language of silence and despair. His horse browsed about in the green tropical plants behind him. The affects that once helped give him meaning in this mad world were dangling from the branches of palmetto trees. His guns glistened in the Sun, his jacket swayed in the wind, and his rucksack swung, swollen from promises given, though not received. His shirt and vest lay in the sand and left his scarred back bare to the world about it. Bullet wounds made constellations and sword slashes knit valleys of soft pink tissue. The dried blood-springs, torn open by scourges and closed by time, writhed along his shoulders and crept down his arms with their prying fingers. The tattoos on his chest, the blue dragonfly and the gun, which were once proud signs of allegiance and destiny were now cracked and torn apart by the brutality of former enemies.

All seemed lost to Ezekiel as he stared into the blue horizon.

But as some may say, fate is a stubborn mistress.

A gunshot rang in the distance. The horse perked his head up from the scrumptious greenery about him and erected his ears alertly. Ezekiel did not move, however; he was a crumbled statue of former glory and present failure. A warm breeze brushed his face, as if consoling him and gently attempting to convince Ezekiel to get up, there was still more to come for him.

Another gunshot broke out from the jungle, and followed by a scream. This time Ezekiel roused. He stood up, weary and swaying. He looked back at the jungle behind him. The desperate shrieks of a woman being dragged away clawed into his ears and grabbed his attention. It was a noise that in its harsh resonance brought something of the fire back into Ezekiel’s blood. He curled his lip and threw on his sandy shirt and vest, not bothering to button them. The dusty man that did not match his tropical surroundings grabbed his gun-belt and fastened it around his waste. The rest he left with the horse; he couldn’t take it all into the deep green, and there surely wasn’t enough room in the jungle to ride with any efficiency.

The shrieks continued, and he saw smoke begin to rise above the forest. As he marched into the jungle, following the black pillar in the sky, he checked the wheels of his revolvers and loaded them with bullets.

He could not allow the same agony that befell him to infest another person’s life.

The world blurred into green, his peripheral vision almost gone; speed became an element beneath his boots. The wings of fallen souls forced his mad dash inland. Ezekiel may well have crushed a few crabs in his stride, too slow in their odd scuttle to dodge his falling feet. Branches slapped his face, and rocks berated his heels, but nothing could stop him save the cold kiss of death itself.

What is death anyway? The haunting whispers hissed from passed ages.

Ezekiel hesitated to take another step. The cold, serpentine whisper sent an icy shiver through his skin.

Your pain is only relative to your fear, because you don’t remember what lies beyond the black veil.

Ezekiel shook the words from his head, and they snickered as they shrank into the back of his mind.

The bandits howled in laughter. They ransacked everything. They took off with the horses, and set the carriage alight. The woman’s cries for help were quickly gagged, and she was dragged away, while her husband lay on the side of the road, drenched in blood. Bedlam was the world.

“This’ll bring in a nice price,” one said to another, holding up a dress from a chest, the contents of which were strewn everywhere.

“As will these,” the other giggled as he pulled out a pair of women’s silk undergarments.

The driver, a shaky old man, shouted and begged for mercy as the bandits stripped him, bound his wrists behind his back, and lit his hairpiece on fire. They cackled like hyenas as he ran about, shrieking in pain, and he eventually fell to the ground. His death-throws sent embers into the smoke filled air.

“In the name of God, stop this!” a man barked, but a musket butt knocked the wind out of him.

A boy, likely his son, growled and attacked the bandit who dared to strike his father. His fist slammed into the bandit’s jaw. The assault stunned the bandit long enough for the boy to slip a knife from his enemy’s belt, and drive it into flesh. Blood splashed his young face for the first time, and the bandit fell to the ground. But the boy and his father were subdued and tied to a tree.

“You’ll get it for that, you snot,” One wearing a tricorn hat licked his lips and drew a dagger. “I’m gonna gut you like a fish!”

A gunshot.

It was so contiguous with the chaos yet somehow distinct. It forced a momentary silence in its wake… Then, unleashed a maelstrom unlike anything the bandits could imagine, even before their first could hit the ground, and his dagger buried itself in the mud.

He looked like a ghost at first—a flash of silver with a skull for a face. He exploded from the jungle and tore through the bandits, firing shot after shot at speeds unknown to anyone present. Six men were down before anyone could even lift a weapon against him. He had guns in each hand, pistols of some kind. A black hat, the kind they wear in the New West that made shadows dance across his face. The wind pushed his unbuttoned shirt and vest back from his scarred and tattooed skin. He was a living nightmare.

“Shit!” A bandit upon a horse cursed, and he rode away without a second thought.

Another bang. He fell off his horse and thudded onto the ground.

A bandit came up from behind the ghost-fighter with a bayonet raised. The bandit received a bullet in the gut, without the giver having even turned around to see his surprised face.

“Who are you?” The bandit groaned as he writhed on the ground with his hands over his wound.

Without turning around, much in the same manner he had shot the man now on the ground, he calmly blasted from his lips:

“Ezekiel.”

The last of the bandits fled, trying to take with them what they could. Ezekiel let them go. The rats would lead him to their hole, where they would be holding the woman. Then, once he found them, the world would be purged of at least one more brood of parasites.

“You saved us!” The man tied to the tree exclaimed.

“The woman,” Ezekiel spoke slowly, “was she married?”

“Olivia?” the boy said as though he hadn’t expected the question.

“Yes. She married my oldest son. Jonathan’s over there,” the man began to sob. “They slit his throat.”

“She was Jonathan’s?” Ezekiel asked as he checked the wheels of his revolvers.

“Yes…” The man chokes up.

Ezekiel picked up a knife from the ground, and walked toward the survivors. He cut them loose and asked, “What are your names?”

“I’m Harold Northlake,” the man said, “and this is my boy, Victor.”

“My horse and supplies are on the beach,” Ezekiel said. “About a mile East of here. I’m going to bring them here. If you ever want to see your daughter-in-law again, I suggest you stay here.”

“How did you do that?” The boy asked. “I’ve never seen anything like that in my life!”

“Victor!” His father scolded.

Ezekiel looked the boy in the eye. He took off his shirt and vest, revealing to him the horrible collection of scars across his skin, and said:

“Pray—Pray that you don’t see such violence again.”
 
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I like it. You should write a book.

But this doesn't belong in Before 1900. The Alternate History Writer's Forum would be a more appropriate place. Or if I were you, I'd not post any more, and write a book with this character.
 
I like it. You should write a book.

But this doesn't belong in Before 1900. The Alternate History Writer's Forum would be a more appropriate place. Or if I were you, I'd not post any more, and write a book with this character.

I would if I could ever finish anything I start.

And the Before 1900 is my comfort zone anyway. I don't think I will post any more, maybe another here and there if the urge comes about. It's not on the top of my priorities.

But I was kinda curious if the fine folk of AH.com would put on their creative caps and imagine some possible PODs for this story, just for shits and giggles
 
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