He reached up and began to saw at the noose with his pocketknife, cutting through the strands for the rope would be needed no more. It had done its work.
His fingers touched the neck flesh and he snatched them away, revolted by the icy coldness of the flesh which should still have been warm. He stumbled, fell back, and stared in horror as the body began to swing round, the gallows creaking with the movement. Turning slowly, coming round to face him.
A scream escaped Wolskel's lips as he looked upon those cadaverous features for the first time, dead eyes that found his own and held them with a hypnotic, malevolent stare. The thick lips stretched into a leering grin, mucus bubbling from the flared nostrils.
He tried to scream a second time but the sound became trapped in his throat and he felt his senses beginning to slip from him. For just above the floating orbs was a jagged circular wound out of which slimy greyish matter seeped, streaking the congealed blood; powder burns around the edges where the Hawk’s point-blank bullet had ripped into the skull.
Cannibal Island
(from Graveyard Rendezvous 9)
Only human meat would satisfy their hunger.
The passage across the Pacific had been very calm. To the crew of the "Seagull" it had been almost like a pleasure cruise. Under the blue skies the trawler seemed to sail itself, and only the smell of oil had reminded them that they had engines. It had become lazy, dreamlike. Day after day, the skipper, Jack Dunn, had been able to steer an even course with only his fingertips on the wheel. Often, he thought that if they had been a sailing ship only, they would surely have been becalmed in these glassy waters.
They had a cargo of grain and other goods to unload at Hawaii, and skipper Dunn, no less than the crew, was looking forward to a good time ashore while they were reloading for the return to San Francisco. They had done the voyage many times. It was no exception to have good weather, but they had never had better.
Skipper Jack Dunn was a young man, in spite of his spiky beard and windblown yellow hair. His skin was bronze, his cheeks ruddy, and he had a merry twinkle in his blue eyes. He enjoyed life, particularly this freedom of the seas, when he could wear a faded open necked shirt and greasy shorts and he could sing if he liked at the top of his voice, above the throb of the engine, and the soft splash of the water, as the bows cut their way through the crystal-clearness.
Then, with the suddenness of Pacific storms, a hurricane swept over them. The crew sprang to life at the breath of hot wind. It was always doubtful how bad these storms could be. The still sea began to lash itself into white crested waves. They drew in the sales, secured the hatches, working feverishly to be ready for whatever might come.
It was worse than expected. Far worse. The waves rose to mountainous heights. First they rose to the crest, and then plunged down, down so far that it seemed impossible for the ship to right itself. Skipper Dunn clung to the wheel. He could only pray, for nothing else could save them. When there was a cry of "Man Overboard" they could do nothing about it, they were hopelessly off their course, and he was finding the ship almost impossible to hold. A mast crashed, and they shuddered with the added blow, but all sounds were drowned by the roar of the sea and the screech of the hurricane.
Pitching in all directions the only hope of the crew of "The Seagull" was in their ability to keep the ship afloat. All through the night the hurricane raged on.
They hardly expected to see another dawn. It broke through the black cloud and sheets of rain, angry over an iron grey-sea whose horizon was hidden behind gigantic walls of water.
Then there was a splintering, shuddering crash. The shock of it brought "The Seagull" to a standstill in a tournament of spray. Slowly she groaned and seemed to bend, and then began to heave over, sideways.
Skipper Dunn was thrown away from the wheel when the crash came. For a few moments he was stunned: he scrambled up the sloping floor of the wheelhouse and pushed open the door. It stuck at first, but he flung his whole weight against it. The water was coming over the bridge like a waterfall. He could see nothing except the ship subsiding into the water. Here and there he caught sight of a dark head bobbing about in the waves. But what hope? They had on their life belts. The whole Pacific was shark infested. Supposing they were lucky enough to avoid sharks, what were the chances of being picked up? They had not seen another ship for days and were hundreds of sea-miles from any land.
But what had it struck? Was it an uncharted rock? As Skipper Dunn slid down the almost vertical deck into the water, he took a last look at the landscape. He saw an unending line of spray, which shot up to meet the rain. He had a view of the raging sea. But, at the same time, he noticed that the sea on the other side of the spray was much calmer.
His heart leapt. If this was a reef, this might be a lagoon, and if that was so, there would be an island near.
There was no sign of any of the rest of the crew. In a few seconds, the ship would keel over, and
