Charles walked through the dim corridor and came to the deck above the Narwhal's water tank. He twisted open the wooden cover and shone his flashlight inside. This was one of his daily inspection tasks as the Captain: to ensure the freshwater supply was in order.
Just as Charles was about to close the hatch, he suddenly felt a prying gaze shoot toward him from the round porthole nearby.
Charles showed no sign of alarm. He slowly closed the hatch, pretending to walk away. The instant he stood up, the flesh-and-bone revolver was already in his hand.
BANG! BANG! BANG! A rapid succession of gunshots rang out. As the porthole glass shattered, a green, webbed hand was torn in two by the bullets.
Charles rushed to the window, only to find that aside from half a grotesque hand, nothing remained but a trail of nauseating purple blood.
Have we already left the safe shipping routes? Is that why all these bizarre things are starting to show up? Charles muttered to himself.
