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At the other end Lydia was reaching the stream. She could hear the peaceful babbling of the small brook that ringed the Sturbridge Village compound. The brook ran through the make-shift sawmill near the parking lot and finally into the surrounding rolling hills. The air grew damp and pungent-smelling. If only... "There she is!" Rick shouted."Oh God!" Lydia cried, shrinking back toward the stream. They'd spotted her. Her heart skipped a beat as she turned and ran toward the stream. Behind her she could hear the sounds of corn plants being ripped aside and trampled."Don't let her get near the stream!" someone shouted loudly.Lydia managed to reach the end of the cornfield. To the right was a small, wooden, plank bridge leading across the tiny brook in front of her. At that point Lydia saw Doug crossing the bridge stopping in the middle of it and looking around. Lydia backed quickly into the darkness of the field, dropping to her knees and biting her fingers to keep from screaming in. His protruding tongue was now black and swollen. Fetid gases had bloated his grotesque torso and split open his clothing.Robert's older brother and red-headed Michael Quinn crouched against opposite rails near the foremast, facing each other, both with one ankle manacled to a turnbolt by a length of chain. Each prized a piece of worn sail to use as a shelter. The Irishmen had been huddled at their lonely stations for as long as the younger O'Malley had been dead, rotating and decomposing. They seemed unable to stop watching the grotesque body bouncing off the mast or becoming entangled in a fold of the sail when the huge boom swung across the holystoned deck. Both wore fresh bruises on their faces and on their backs festered the scabbing welts of two dozen lashes. Like the swaying corpse, they were barefoot.The "Lune" had circled back, helped by the gusting Westerlies, but had not found Benjamin in the gray-blue water. His body had been slowly sinking toward the cold sea layers far.
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