The Raven Redux & Other Poems

The Ship of the Starved: The Last Voyage of the Blessed Mary

NTRODUCTION

Dear Reader,

I call upon your attention to hear of a remarkable tale, one that I initially thought untrue, but later verified its facts to be wholly accurate.

A number of years ago, while vacationing on the beaches of Oregon, I stumbled upon a bottle. I almost didn't notice the protruding glassware until the setting sun reflected its light off the bottle's side. The glass bottle was half buried in wet sand.

When I returned to my lovely hotel room that night, I uncorked the bottle and pulled out a letter. This letter told a story of a man - probably the last man alive - on a ship from the early 1800s. As much as I want to tell you what happened, there is no better man to tell the story than the one who was living it. I'm attaching a facsimile of his letter with my correspondence. You'll soon discover something horrible happened to him and everyone on the ship while sailing the high seas.

I didn't believe it at first, because it was too hard to comprehend. However, I had a friend at the local university verify the age of the letter through laboratory testing and the results were conclusive. The paper used for the letter dated to approximately 1815 - 1820 and came from a paper mill in what is now known as West Virginia.

My friend at the university even examined the bottle and concluded it too was from the early 1800s. It was a 12-inch aqua colored bottle made by C.A. Lindgren Co. in Punsch, Stockholm. Armed with this additional information, I knew the letter wasn't a hoax, as some people may try to reason. But I took it a step further and validated the existence of all the persons mentioned in the letter and other facts regarding the ship.

What you are able to read isn't a hoax. The people mentioned in the writer's story were real and the ship set sail prior to the date of the letter. Read on to find out what happened on the ship and why it never safely reached the harbor of its final destination.

Yours truly,Alexander Bentley

THE LETTER

3rd of March, 1819
Dear Sir or Madam,
This letter is intended for anyone who finds the glass bottle in which it is contained. Whoever you are, wherever you might be, I am certain I shall be long dead before this lengthy note reaches your hands.

What started out as a pleasurable trip on a seafaring vessel has turned into a hellish nightmare. My companions and I set out to explore the world. We visited many countries on the way to our final destination, but at this very moment it does not look like we will make it there alive.

On the 22nd day of February, the Blessed Mary - a merchant brigantine from America - left the port of Tamatave in hopes of reaching the Indian continent. In the ship's cargo is a large assortment of fresh fruits from the island nation - its primary reason for traveling the Indian Ocean. The ship's captain was Oscar von Holland - a man well trained and accustomed to the high seas. The ship would have made its return voyage back to America after dropping off its merchandise in India, but that will not happen now.

On the last leg of our tour, one of the ship's crew members contracted something I can only describe as horrific. The sickness lasted for days and when it worsened, we were forced to quarantine him into complete isolation in the ship's brig . The ship was built with two small six by six foot cells to house any travelers that broke maritime law.

We knew the sickness could spread quickly and that it may be a product of airborne germs. For this reason, we tried our damn hardest to contain it. We rigged bed sheets from a few of the cabins to make a wall around the prison cell. We knew it still could escape, but we hoped the barrier would prevent the sickened crew member from coughing on anyone.

His name is Arnold Richardson III. Other crew mates and travelers called him by his nickname - Arnie.

We forced Arnie to take his clothes off and strip down to nothing. With his bare skin showing, we drenched him in buckets of hot water. We splashed him all over, one bucket after another. He may have been in pain, because the water was nearly boiling. His chest, where the water hit the most, turned bright red.

After we were satisfied he was clean - at least temporarily - we condemned him to his makeshift quarantine cabin below deck.

That was only four days ago.

Since then, the situation onboard the ship has grown into a nightmare. I fear the worst is yet to come.

On day two, Arnie turned on those who went below deck. A few of the crew brought him a hearty meal, but he was not interested in that type of food. Overnight, he acquired a craving for human flesh. He bit his fellow crew mates and massacred anyone who went below deck. It was as though he lost his mind. Without a doubt, he was ruthless.

Word spread quickly that he turned into a cannibal. But one of the passengers - a trained medical physician - said he thought it was something else. Something far worse.

The good doctor - Albert Hutchinson from Boston, Mass. - said it could be an accelerated form of Starvation, where humans begin to experience extreme hunger for something other than food.

This particular disease spreads from one human to another through bites or flesh wounds. The proper term for a person suffering with this type of disease, according to Dr. Hutchinson, is the "starved."

Dr. Hutchinson said he only heard rumors about the disease and its spread while conducting missionary work in the tropical rainforests of Madagascar. He never encountered one himself, but he was positive the crew members were infected with it. They all had the symptoms: bloodshot eyes with yellow pupils, pale skin with dark red or pink patches, bad breath with a thick drool, and of course, an insatiable hunger for the flesh of people. He mentioned another symptom: an ungodly stench from their decomposing bodies, almost like a mix between ammonia and sulphur.

The smell is most likely linked to the fact the starved die, or at least appear dead, and then become fully animated again. Often times, after their death and unusual resurrection, the starved are more powerful, imbued with a supernatural strength.

After learning about this wretched disease, I had Dr. Hutchinson examine me. I was concerned with a group of spots and abrasions that mysteriously appeared on my arms and legs a few days prior. Fatigue was becoming more prominent in my daily routine and other travelers mentioned I looked slightly pale. Even though I was with my comrades, I felt depressed. I associated it with our long travels at sea.

The doctor said it was not the disease known as Starvation, but a different type of sickness: Scurvy. He said scurvy was curable with citrus fruit, such as oranges, lemons and limes. I was confident in his diagnosis because he said he witnessed many patients over the years become cured by following a daily regimen of citrus fruit consumption. Luckily, our ship was transporting tons of fruit in the cargo hold. I had a ready supply of fresh fruit to eat.

After hearing this news, I was instantly relieved. I had feared I would turn into one of the starved and begin turning on my friends and fellow travelers. It was the only good news I received while aboard the Ship of the Starved.

On the night of day two, a fire started above deck near the wooden lifeboats, which caused them to burn profusely with smoke billowing up in the dark sky. We were able to extinguish the flames after much struggle, but not before they were charred black and partially destroyed. We determined none of the lifeboats would stay afloat even on the calmest current, making them unsalvageable.

We suspect the disaster was caused by a group of starved, whether it was intentional or not, we are not sure. If it was intentional, then these starved are more intelligent than Dr. Hutchinson initially presumed. He said they are very primal, sniffing for blood and human flesh, and were never rumored to show advanced signs of cognizance. He may have been wrong, as it seems they were setting a trap to keep us on this ship.

Also, on that same night, the captain met his demise and came back to life in a newly animated state. But, as all the infected are, he was not quite his original self. He started to devour anyone within arm's reach. Many of the starved, especially those who were part of his crew, took allegiance to him, seeing him as their unspoken leader. This is testimony to the fact the infected exhibit more intelligence than first appearances lead one to believe.

On day three - yesterday - once the starved rapidly increased their numbers, a dozen or more travelers and crew members jumped over board, plunging deep into the icy waters off the Indian Ocean. If the jump did not kill them, then it was only a matter of minutes before the Deep Blue would consume them whole. Surely, the ocean floor will be their grave for all eternity.

I should tell you about one of the most horrific things I have encountered on this ship thus far. It was two nights ago, right after the infection started spreading among the passengers. A mother and her baby were strolling on the upper deck. The night breeze was cool and pleasant to the skin. A beautiful night with the moon glistening in the distance. But that would soon be forgotten.

Almost instantly, the night turned into a nightmare.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a horde of starved moved rapidly across the deck. The mother was caught off guard as I screamed for her to run. She froze in her tracks with a pale expression on her face. They attacked her, bringing her down to the floorboards. She desperately held onto her baby with both arms, trying to protect him with all her might.

She was not strong enough to withhold their strength. Two of the infected - a male and a female - raised the baby in the air. For a few moments, they fought over who would get the baby. All I remember hearing are the infant's loud cries. I heard gnashing of the teeth and painful shrills. Then...

Then...there...was a deep silence.

I cried that night, longer and harder than ever before in my life. It was the saddest and most horrific thing I encountered and would never wish anyone to see an innocent, defenseless baby die a gruesome death. Not in that manner, not ever.

That deadening silence haunts me more than the starved themselves.

Of the 132 people on board the ship, at last count, only 9 were either not infected or dead.

I know my time is drawing to a close, minute by minute, and I guarantee I will be dead soon. I predict I will survive a few more hours before the starved break into the captain's quarters. I've barricaded myself in here, but their strength is magnified beyond measure. I have a pistol in my possession, so I could easily end my life with a single bullet. A quick suicide would ensure the infected would not bite me and turn me into one of them.

I am responsible for boarding this treacherous ship and must answer to fate. It is important I make a brief mention how my companions and I came to be travelers on the Blessed Mary.
Many months ago, I convinced some of my old friends to take an unexpected trip around the world with me. The idea was to first offer our services for hire, departing from the North American continent. When we traveled to a different country, we would try to earn a pocket full of coin and paper bills in a few days. Sometimes we would miss our ship, because we were busy earning money or wondering the port city. But we were hearty travelers ready to explore the world, so it was never a setback. Each delay was seen as a chance to change our course and reshape our lives. It was our destiny to travel and be free.

When we set out on our journey, there were five companions, including myself. There was Johnny, Hank, Fredrick, and Ramona. Yes, we had a female companion and she is one the wittiest, funniest people I knew. She preferred to be called Mona; surely, she would cut your throat if you called her Ramona. Did I mention she was one of the toughest women I knew? Well, she was, and I wished she was with me now.

I know what you might be thinking, but she did not board this death ship with my male companions. Supposedly, she fell in love with a Frenchman who was traveling solo on the coasts of Cameroon. They wanted to rush back to France, so they could marry before summer arrived. I knew Mona could fend for herself. In her childhood and adolescence, she was a classic tomboy, fighting and wrestling with her three older brothers. Maybe that is why she fit in so well with us.

Unfortunately, my other friends suffered a different fate.

On the night of day three, the four of us were trapped below deck while searching for rations. Our food supply in the cabins were running low and we set out on a dangerous mission to scavenge for more. My friends and I volunteered, because we knew the women and elderly were not fit to venture too far away from safety.

Johnny took the lead as we exited the cabins. He fashioned two flintlock pistols - both 1817 Springfield Model, Type 1s - one in each hand. It was a single shot weapon and would require him to reload after he fired the guns. Luckily, Hank was in possession of a Long Rifle, the kind that was manufactured in Kentucky. He preferred it over other firearms, because it offered him a balanced shot and was made of the finest maple stock.

All four of us made it below deck without a confrontation, not encountering a single walking undead creature. We were in the provisions room counting the last of our food and started to gather what we wanted to carry back. That's when a single starved quietly lurched forward into the archway, bumping into the wall and knocking off a large silver platter. It came crashing down and we all turned in shock. Johnny immediately fired both his pistols.

The starved fell to the ground, leaving its brains splattered on the side of the wall. Most of it stuck except for a small bit of brain matter that slid down the wood's hardened surface. We did not wait, grabbing as much as we could carry in empty potato sacks. We exited the provisions area and hiked it up the stairwell. As we reached a speck of daylight on the stairs, we ran into a small group of undead. Johnny had not reloaded his firearms, but did not hesitate to hit one of the monsters in the skull with his weapon. That sent the starved flying backward into the others, knocking them all to the ground.

We turned around and headed back down the stairs. We ran across to the other side, in hopes the other stairwell was not blocked or occupied with these ungodly creatures.

Our hopes - the little that we had left - were smashed to pieces as starved blocked off the exit. It was our last chance at freedom. The horde began to get closer, circling in around us.

My three friends and I were back-to-back, facing off against them. We threw closed-fist punches, hit them with full potato sacks, jabbed them with sharp knives and blasted them with a rifle. But as each approaching starved fell, another one took its place. The horde seemed to be never ending and only because my friends gave their life for me, did I survive.

Johnny was able to load one of his pistols after he was bitten. He turned the gun on himself and placed it in his open mouth. His teeth locked down on the short barrel. Because time was of the essence, he pulled the trigger quickly and that was when he fell backward. He committed suicide like our lives depended on it. He had no foreknowledge to know Hank and Fredrick would suffer bites and turn into starved within minutes of his death.

I escaped around the side of the horde, because my two friends mustered all their strength to hold them back. As I briefly looked back, I saw the starved bite their gritty teeth into the forearms of Hank and Fredrick. Red blood and thick drool mixed in a horrific display of violence.The disease spread quickly and for that next hour, I thought I might be the only survivor on the ship. I hid in dark places, between stacks of barrels, anywhere I could. I kept as quiet as humanly possible.

In the few days since the outbreak, I learned a couple things: the starved thrived on a collective intelligence and they responded primarily to auditory versus optical stimuli. Any kind of noise attracts them and when they are close enough, their olfactory sense becomes heightened. They are aware if another starved or a human is nearby strictly from their sense of smell.

My knowledge of the starved is limited and what I know is based on first-hand experience while trapped on this ship. Well, except, for one key piece of information that Dr. Hutchinson was able to share before he jumped overboard. I feel obligated to write about it in some detail now, since I want this knowledge to become public. The survival of mankind may depend on it.

Dr. Hutchinson advised a small group of us, before the outbreak escalated, that the disease originated on the island of Haiti. He ran into a medicine woman who practiced Vodou - pronounced voodoo. She revealed that Haitians were kidnapped off the streets and experimented on by Vodouists - practitioners of the dark art.

The human subjects were fed different concoctions of herbs and chemical compounds as the Vodouists cursed their victims. Somehow, which is beyond my intelligence, they were able to rob the subjects of their souls, completely removing the humanity from their bodies. The Vodouists wanted to build an army of undead that could be controlled, but something went horribly wrong in the process.

The starved turned on the Vodouists. Biting and infecting them, too. Many of the Vodouists were able to escape, and then later returned to redeem control.

Those that remained unbitten devised a plan to rid themselves of the escalating problem. The starved were chained, sold and shipped away with a small population of Haitian slaves. The ship departed with a sole destination: Madagascar.

When the good doctor told me where those starved were shipped, I immediately knew we encountered the spawn of these first starved along our journey. The Vodouists' wild experiment had now infected others and spread well beyond the shores of Haiti and the jungles of Madagascar.

Although, I know there is a high probability that those starved are still roaming Madagascar, I have devised my own plan. I will blow up this ship and take down all its passengers - undead or not. Everything will be turned to ruins, giving our species a chance of survival.

In the under belly of the ship are large wooden crates of gunpowder. At first, I thought this was highly dangerous to carry on board a vessel sailing on open waters. But I now see it as a blessing, as it will be the end of these creatures.

I carried back with me enough gunpowder and fuses to blow a hole in the ship's side. The captain's quarters, at least on this particular floating vessel, is partially below water level. This is good news for my plan, because I can light the fuse here. Then, I shall wait for the explosion to rip apart the ship's barrier and let gushing water rush in.

Before I carry out my master plan and fulfill my destiny, I feel it necessary to reveal who I am and share a bit of my personal history.

My name is Roger Updike, a twenty-eight year old male, born and raised in Virginia. In my earlier years, when adolescent boys were heading off to university, I joined the Navy of the United States of America. I gained valuable experience steering and navigating ships in my youth. I faithfully served for three years before I was honorably discharged for medical reasons.

My mother's name is Rebecca Marie and my father is Wilbur Henry Updike, although his friends and colleagues call him Wil. Both my parents taught at the university until they retired last year to the countryside in the western part of Virginia. If this message reaches you - the recipient of fate - within the first couple years dated on this letter, please see to it that my parents know their son was a fighter to the bitter end.

I was a good son, but I did not follow in my father's footsteps as a respected professor. Educating people was not my calling. I always had a drive to explore the world, which is one of the reasons I skipped university and enlisted in the Navy. A naval vocation afforded me the opportunity to travel and see new things, including the cafes of Paris, France, the ruins of the fallen Roman Empire, and the Great Pyramid of Giza in Egypt. All these sights were beautiful and I certainly want to see them again.

When I returned from the Navy, I took up a job like most folks. In fact, I had a number of jobs, all of which I did not particularly like. The worst job was sitting behind a desk all day, stamping letters for the postal service. At the post office in which I worked, for only three full weeks, I was responsible for stamping both departing and arriving letters with our official insignia.

My frustration with mundane jobs is what prompted my ambition to travel the world with my friends.

The night before Mona departed from our group, she came to me in tears, privately. She revealed a secret she was keeping from me.

Mona is pregnant with our baby.

Before she met the Frenchman, we had a few months of wildly passionate sexual escapades. The two of us would drink in libation to our world travels and romantically celebrate our mutual company. Our incessant fighting ruined our deepening of intimacy.

It is ironic she chose a Frenchman, because I first confessed my love for her in the open plaza outside the Louvre Palace in Paris, France. When she left with the Frenchman, I was bitter, but I kept it to myself.

At first, I was not convinced she was pregnant with my child. But, as she cried and spoke to me in private quarters, she assured me she did not have sexual relations with anyone but me. Not even her new French boyfriend.

Mona estimated she was between one to two months pregnant with our child and was starting to have the wretched morning sickness that is so common with pregnancy. Thinking back now, if I could assign the child a name, and if it was a male child, I would call him "Gaetano." Upon my worldly travels, I learned the name is Italian and means "sweet boy."

Until I take my last breath, he will always be my sweet boy. My sweet child. With a life of possibilities in front of him. I believe in the deepest recesses of my heart that he will make a name for himself and become a dignified, noble man.

If I was not foolish, I would have stopped Mona from running off with her new boyfriend and I would not be on this miserable ship today. I should have put up a fight, at least to show that I loved her. But like I said I was foolish, as well as stubborn and hurt. A bitterness that is my curse. I could focus on what could have been, but I must now resign myself to the fact I will never escape this cursed ship.

Please - whoever you are - if you get this letter in time, track down my next of kin and tell the child, maybe even grown by the time you get this letter, that his or her father was a brave and heroic man.

In truth, I am sacred. Utterly afraid and alone. I have no more friends and no one here to save me.

I need to close out this letter soon, though. I apologize for its length, as I have already scribbled my terrible penmanship across countless leafs of paper. But, please know, these truths needed to be recorded.

The situation on board has dramatically escalated in the last hour while penning this letter. I had to reinforce the cabin door with wood planks stolen from the captain's bed frame. The starved have been clawing at the door, breaking wooden pieces from it. Through its cracks, I can see and smell these wretched creatures, craving nothing more but to eat my flesh and blood. O how they would love to tear me to pieces!

Not today. Not while I still have breath in my body.

I must bid you farewell - whoever you are - and hope this letter reaches you in pleasant spirits. If anything, myself and the passengers of the Blessed Mary will be a fading memory in Father Time and not make it into the pages of history.

Godspeed.

Truthfully yours,Roger A. Updike

P.S. The fuse is ready for ignition, but I will first throw a bottle - with this letter as its contents - into the expansive ocean, praying it finds the hands of man once again.

CONCLUSION
Just as you might be - I'm astonished every time I read this remarkable letter. I keep it tucked away in my finest personal belongings and revisit it from time to time.

Years ago, I tried locating Mr. Updike's ex-lover Mona and their next of kin, but this became exceedingly impossible. The difficulty lies in not knowing Mona's maiden name or her acquired surname through marriage. Alas, the first name of the French gentleman that Mona ran off with is not mentioned in the letter either. I hired both a private investigator and genealogist to locate possible matches, but to date we have no leads.

I was able to confirm other facts in the story and have compiled those in a fact sheet. This supplemental document sheds more light on the existence of the ship and its passengers. I hope you will find it to your complete satisfaction.

I must let you draw your own conclusions about the letter writer's bold claims, but I feel you wouldn't have a clear picture and understanding without my additional research.

Please see the enclosed sheet.

Warmest regards,Alexander Bentley

DATA RESEARCH SHEET

Ship Name: Blessed MaryShip Type: Merchant BrigantineShip Manufacturer: Pierre Rolland Co. Laid Down: May 1816, Amesbury, Mass.Launch Date: 8 November 1817Final Voyage: 18 December 1818Originating Location: Boston, Mass.Captain's Name: Oscar von HollandNumber of Passengers: 135 people (approx.)Number of Crew: 13 crew members, including captain and chief officerShip Capacity: 160 people (maximum)Last Seen: Newspaper clipping from that time period states a witness recalled seeing the merchant ship leave the port of Tamatave (now known as Toamasina). Article dated 15 March 1819.

FURTHER DETAILSThe ocean-fairing vessel's manifest listed a number of items held in cargo. Here is a list of the most interesting:

FRUITS - Apples: 1,300 lbs.Lemons: 616 lbs.Mangos: 1.3 tonsPlantains: 803 lbs. Coconuts: 1,210 lbs.

VEGETABLES -Taro: 987 lbs.Water yams: 435 lbs.Ginger root: 720 lbs.Potatoes: 505 lbs.
LIVESTOCK -Chickens: 50 (live)Pigs: 15 (live)

MISC. - Salt granules: 3 tonsCoffee bean: 2.5 tonsShrimp: 550 lbs. Fish (mixed variety): 300 lbs. Coins (assorted): 15 tonsGunpowder: 434 lbs. (approx. 35 crates)
There is a note scribbled on the back of the manifest that indicated the ship was in receipt of African slaves, but did not include them on the official manifest lists. The handwritten note reads:

"We received 15 tons of mixed coins, from all places on earth, the steepest payment I have ever received as a captain of a merchant ship, for the safe passage of 25 African slaves from Madagascar to the Indian continent. The peculiar man who paid me was adamant we take the slaves and kept raising the fee until I accepted his offer. I am reluctant to include them on the manifest, because these slaves are ghastly sick, almost to the point where their pigmentation has altered color in patches on their dark skin. - O. vH."

This manifest did not make it onto the ship for the last bit of its final voyage. Three years ago, a dear friend of mine was able to procure it from a financially troubled museum in Madagascar and the complete two-page manifest sits in my private collection of cherished antiques.

The captain's short note, signed "O. vH," seems to confirm the existence of sickly passengers. I cannot bear to think of them as slaves, although by the inhumane cultural standards of their time period, they were.

The letter writer - Roger A. Updike - was not privy to the details contained on the manifest. It seems only the captain of the ship, and possibly his chief officer and a couple crew members, knew about the infected slaves. This brings to mind further questions, ones that I've been wrestling with for a number of years.

Did the first victim - Arnold Richardson III - get bitten by one of the slaves? Was he snooping around where he shouldn't have been and unknowingly started an epidemic?

Mr. Updike seemed to think the infection came from Madagascar when Mr. Richardson was touring the island in the deepest parts of the rainforest. However, I propose the more likely theory that he received his bite and thus contracted the disease from the slaves in the cargo hold area. A disease, which I believe, is what we would refer to as zombies.

Since discovering Mr. Updike's letter, I have never read a report where the shipwreck of the Blessed Mary was found in the oceans, seas, reefs or land. It leaves a bit of mystery to the mind.
I would like to think that Mr. Updike lived up to his word and blew up the ship. We know the bottle containing the letter escaped the ship, but was he able to follow through with his plan? Did he have second thoughts? Or, did the zombies finally break down the door and eat him alive?

Surely, for any person, it is a grueling decision to commit suicide, even when it's a heroic attempt to save others - quite possibly all of mankind.

I personally think he blew up the ship. Maybe one day, someone will discover the last remains of the Blessed Mary off the coast of Madagascar or India. Only time will tell, unless the ocean decided to swallow the ship's wreckage forever.

As I stated before, I will let you draw your own conclusions, and I will say no more.