The dead man grasped Pametum’s leggings. Wide eyed, Pametum quickly pulled away, releasing himself from the dead sailor’s grip while simultaneously spinning on his opposite foot. The knife, which had moments before been pointed at the stone man still lumbering across the ship, was swiftly brought down across the dead man’s forearm. The knife struck the outstretched arm with a sickeningly hollow crack. The gray, frozen arm fell to the deck like a branch breaking from a snow laden pine, yet the dead man made no sound, his face remaining calm and focused on Pametum.
There is no blood.
The dead man let out a low, guttural moan as he continued reaching at Pametum with his remaining hand. It was then that Pametum heard an answering moan – many moans – coming from the bowels of the ship. A small door set in the floor midway across the deck violently shook, as if kicked from below, spraying a powdery mist of snow into the air.
It is time to go.