The Catacombs of the Sea

Bruce was awoken by a frantic knocking at his door. His snoring was quickly broken, and he shuffled out of bed. He donned his dressing gown and lumbered down the stairs. The knocking at the door grew louder and more troubled. When he reached the door, Bruce opened it, to find a young family standing there.

“Thank you, sir, thank you!” the father cried. The man, thirtyish with brown hair and blue eyes was panting frantically. Behind him stood his wife, cradling a sleeping baby. Beside her stood a boy and a girl, both about eight years old. They were sobbing silently, their tears illuminated by the flickering candlelight from inside.

“What’s going on at this ungodly hour?” Bruce asked.

“We were in Rimmington. We moved there in the economy crisis, in some abandoned home. No one claimed it so we just stayed there... and now it’s gone!”

“Gone?” Bruce asked. The man nodded. “You’d better come in. I won’t have you people freezing outdoors in the small hours.”

“Thank you,” the man said again, as his family walked inside. Bruce closed the door behind them as they entered the lounge.

“Please, take a seat.” The family sat down. “Now, what’s going on?”

“Well, we came to Rimmington two months ago. Two weeks ago we started hearing things about monsters on the shore. Then they started to come inland. Buildings were damaged, things were smashed. Then finally we started hearing about people disappearing. We tried contacting the Slayer’s Union, but the routes are still barricaded until the kingdoms’ internal economies are restored. And tonight Rimmington was attacked. Eleanor, me, and the kids got out safely, and we’ve been running for ages, trying to find somewhere safe. Your house is the first house we found, and... Well, you know the rest.”

“Okay, calm down. What’re your names?”

“We’re the Carter family. My wife Eleanor, my son Terry, my daughter, Rose, and my baby daughter Anna. My name’s William. And your name, sir?”

“Brysworth. Bruce Brysworth.” At this the boy, Bobby, looked at Terry. His eyes were wide as saucers in adulation.

“The Bruce Brysworth? Adventurer extraordinaire?”

“The one and only,” Bruce replied.

“My son is a great fan,” William whispered.

“Mr Brysworth, I’m your number one fan! I’ve got all your books, pictures – everything!”

“Well, Terry,” Bruce said, “While I’m off to solve your monster problem, I’m letting you and your family take care of this house. Is that okay?”

Terry nodded frantically. William wasn’t so sure. “Mr Brysworth, sir, I’m sure that the authorities can deal with these monsters. I don’t want you to risk your life just to impress my son.”

“Impress? There’s a job to do! Now, get comfortable whilst I get my adventuring gear on.” Bruce left the family and returned to his bedroom. Five minutes later he returned in his kit, his new bag slung over his back.

“If I’m not back by dusk call the authorities, okay? But don’t worry about me if I’m gone longer than that – it won’t be the first time a quick adventure turns into a months-long wild goose chase. So expect me back soon, okay?”

“Thank you, sir.”

“No problem, Mr Carter. Oh, what’s your favourite drink?”

“Sorry?” William asked.

“Your favourite drink. You know – glug, glug, glug?”

“Oh! I’m okay with beer and wine.”

Bruce threw him a set of keys. “The store cupboard in the cellar. Some of the best drinks in the three kingdoms mostly matured. Oh, and one more thing –” he dropped his voice to a whisper – “Keep your kids out of the attic.

Neither of us would want Terry to get his hands on my armour cache.”

“Gotcha.”

“Well, goodbye everyone!” Bruce said.

The family waved him off as he shut the door and proceeded down the path in the cool darkness.

It took half an hour for Bruce to reach the outskirts of Rimmington. Across the path a barricade had been set, guarded by a couple of soldiers in Spartan armour. On walked up to Bruce, stopping him.

“Sorry sir. No entrance to Rimmington. The government’s put a lockdown there.”

“Bruce Brysworth,” said Bruce, flashing a card at them, “As a licensed adventurer I can void restraints passed on to civilians.”

The sergeant of the guard studied the card, then gave it back.

“Let him through,” he barked at the soldiers.

“Thank you sir,” Bruce said.

“Are you sure you want to go in without an escort, Mr Brysworth?” the sergeant asked. Bruce pulled out a large sword from its sheath on his belt.

“Whatever’s there, I’m fine. But thank you anyway, sergeant.”

Bruce walked on into the night.

Eventually, Bruce arrived in Rimmington. The buildings were ruined, and rubble was piled on the ground. Evidently everyone had been able to escape, but the soldiers who had assisted them had not set up an outpost – instead they had merely sealed off the whole peninsula. Bruce must be the only human on the entire of the barricaded zone. But certainly not the only living thing.

Something shuffled behind him. Bruce spun round, trying to see what was there. Something was definitely close by all right, but very well hidden – Bruce had brilliant night vision. He probed the air around him. He felt something, tensed – but it was just a tree. He relaxed and walked onwards. He tripped on a root, stumbled and fell, hitting the ground. He started to get up but heard shuffling around him. He froze. He heard footsteps – slow, heavy footsteps. And lots of them. The movement of the feet was slow, laboured. His mind raced to try and find what he was dealing with. When he made the match, he couldn’t believe it. But he had to believe it, for suddenly he was being touched by pallid, rotten hands.

Bruce realised that he actually was the only living thing on the peninsula.

Immediately, he leapt up, swinging his sword up and tearing through three animated corpses. He started running, trying to get back to the barricade. The authorities needed to know that somehow zombies had overrun the peninsula. But first he would have to get out safely, which seemed difficult.

Out from the bushes ahead two skeletons in armour leapt out at him. Bruce stopped, turned, ran the other way.

Rotten bodies started to poke out from either side, as he pelted down to the end of the peninsula, hoping he could escape to the dungeon and swim out to safety. Eventually he found himself at the trap door, yanked it open, leapt inside and started running. The old caves were deserted, and thankfully all the skeletons here were very immobile. But Bruce didn’t let himself stop running – he was nowhere near safe. He kept going, hoping to run through the now forever stilled ice caverns and escape via a secret passage to a grotto beneath the sea.

Bruce reached the grotto safe and sound – but found a new route, which he had never seen before. He decided to sneak through it. The small passage opened out into a larger one, a gigantic rocky artery with hundreds of little routes leading off from it.

Bruce had never seen this before. He continued through the rocky maze, going deeper and deeper. He could feel he was underwater now, and getting ever lower. The walls were wet and slippery from the condensed moisture down here. Suddenly, he lost his grip and slipped.

He fell a huge distance, some thirty metres into complete darkness. But by an amazing chance he didn’t die – he landed on a bed of seaweed that broke his fall with almost no pain. Bruce clambered out. He saw a mysterious figure at the end of a light cave, then fell unconscious.

Eventually, he awoke, on a sandy floor. He was bound up, and his bag had been removed. His vision was blurry, but he could make out he was in a well-lit cave – and there was an ominous silhouette standing above him. He looked at it, and as his vision returned the image sharpened. A tall woman in black stood above him.

“So, you are awake at last,” the woman said. “I’m glad to see this. Who are you, intruder?”

“Where am I?” asked Bruce, nervously.

“You are beneath the sea, between Rimmington and Karamja. The hiding place for my army.”

“Your army? Who are you?”

“My name,” the woman said, “Is Hecate. I am a necromancer for the Dark Lord. But I am the one asking questions here. Your name, intruder, is...?”

“Bruce Brysworth.”

“Never heard of you.”

Bruce breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank goodness someone doesn’t know me after all.”

“How did you get here?”

“A young family from Rimmington came to my house, asking for help. I said I would find out what is going on for them. I found a zombie horde.”

“My zombie horde. I am raising an army for a conquest.”

“A bit late then. You could have joined Lathas in his attack two months back.”

“Lathas is a fool. His overconfidence and insanity were doomed from the start. It is a shame Lord Zamorak must count fools such as him amongst his cohorts. No, if my Lord is to gain a foothold it must be through proper intelligence and scheming. I set my aims low. Yes, I am out for conquest, but not for so foolish a target as the whole world.”

“Oh? Then what are you going for?”

“The island of Karamja. With my minions I shall rebuild it into a paradise for us Zamorackians. It shall be our new holy land, and then as we will not be plotting against the rest of the world we may even learn tolerance.”

“You don’t sound like an average Zamorackian, then.”

“No. I feel that if Zamorak is to dominate the pantheon, then he must change his ways. But what of you, Bruce Brysworth? What faith do you follow?”

“I was brought up as a Saradominist, but being an adventurer can have your faith sorely tested. I go without complete devotion to any god, so I may work with anyone.”

“I like you, Bruce Brysworth,” Hecate said.

“I like you too,” said Bruce.