The chime was low and reverberating, and louder than all other sounds. It overpowered her heavy, frenzied breaths for air, and it seized the beating of her heart in her ears. She felt as though she were a sail held taut.
The low reverberation echoed in her bones, rattling her chest and legs and arms as though she had whacked a heavy stick with all her might against a metal beam. She let go of her sword, still stuck in the chest of the man who rang the bell, and staggered back from the pain of that noise.
As the bell rang, the low unnatural tone shifted and changed into a high pitch. The slow change could have been beautiful, as though she were present in the most compelling and evocative opera she had ever had the privilege of attending. Instead, the high pitch split her skull in twain with its crescendo. The noise became Anne's world. There was nothing but her and the noise.
The instinct to stop the noise subdued all other thoughts and overpowered her self-preservation. It compelled her to cover her ears, fall to her knees, and close her eyes to quell the melody of that bell.
After a moment, after an eternal, painful moment, the din subsided, and Anne opened her eyes and unclamped her ears, the world returning to her.
Silence had fallen in her absence from the world. Silence of the dead, or the soon to be.
The man Anne had killed inside the tower held fast to the rope with his death's rigour, keeping the striker of the bell at bay. Her golden cutlass still protruded from his chest, drops of blood pattering to the wooden floor. She eased him up gently to allow the striker to stay at rest before she cut him down so the bell could not sound again.
She stepped outside to see William and some of the other crewmates scattered about on the road leading back to the general store, eyes flickering back and forth. From the looks on their faces, even William's, the bell had rattled them just as much as her.
In that confusion in the wake of the bells cresting, Anne needed to be the rock that held the crew together. She took a deep breath, held in her frustrations, anger, and questions, and snuffed them out.
Just as she was about to issue orders to scout for more of the enemy crew, she swallowed her words when a tone similar to the golden bell rang out from the interior of the island. Though far off, it was clear and just as strange and ominous. Thankfully the volume of the ringing was low and didn't have the same effect as it had earlier.
A signal then, Anne thought. Some of the tension left her shoulders as she understood the reason behind the bells. It didn't change the fact that they had been found out by the enemy, but knowing what the bell was for eased some worry in her mind.
A few more tones sounded from different places on the island, one after the other. From what Anne could tell, there were four distinct rings, which meant there were at least four other bells. After another moment, the sounds faded, and silence returned.
The second element that robbed Anne of her speech was something altogether different. A door of a nearby home opened, and one of the residents of the hamlet stepped out. His slow, shuffling feet broke through the silence once more.
Anne moved to meet him. "You should head back inside," she said, and then she remembered the strange way they had been acting earlier. She gripped her cutlass tighter. "It's late, sir, you should be in bed."
He took another shuffling step forward. His face was pale in the moonlight. The shadows of some trees overhead shaded his eyes.
Another door creaked, splitting the silence again. Anne saw motion at another home down the dirt road.
She gripped her cutlass tighter still. Something wasn't right. "Back to the general store, now!" she ordered.
The man came closer, and Anne saw his eyes. They were hollow and lifeless, and there was no recognition of a spirit within them. Anne had only seen something similar in the eyes of men and women broken in one way or another through trauma, left in the world like husks, their bodies and minds forever torn.
The crew were stuck in place, watching the man as he came closer and closer to them, as though caught in the trance of those dead eyes. They couldn't tear themselves away from the spectacle, invisible tethers holding their feet in place.
The hollow man sprang into action, sprinting towards Anne, William, and crew. He moved quicker than Anne would have thought possible. He burst through the wooden fence between his house and the road, sending wooden chunks flying away with force.
The crew were too slow to react, and before they could move, the man hit a crewmate in the chest with a punch. The sailor toppled backwards as though hit with a cannonball, and Anne heard the distinct pop of bones breaking. The crewmate rolled back onto his side, clutching his chest and gasping for breath.
Anne's mind reeled with sudden realization. The golden bell was a trigger, a trigger for an even deeper trance, one that washed away all reason in the brain, perhaps washed away even the reason that kept one from utilizing the full power of their own muscles to avoid injury. And on top of that, these people with untold strength, stamina, and speed were hostile.
"William, help James back to the store," she ordered. "Everyone, run! Run, you fools!"
The crew, back in their right minds after seeing their mate attacked, followed orders and dashed back to the store. The hollow man, drawn to the movement, ran after the first who went into action. He leapt onto another crewmate and ravaged him with blow after horrifying blow.
The crewmates ahead kept running,
