The Slums of the Arabian World

The ship sways and the briny swamp on the floor occasionally splashes up into their faces, and he speaks. Nobody has spoken for days, just bones, shrieks of madness that permeate the stench of death. The heat has done nothing to improve the air. Still enough to hear the splash of the body. The bullish smell of the sharks devouring it. Sometime later, the sound of small boats rub up against the port side, and voices call out in Arabic. With scarves covering their faces, some corsairs descend into the filth. They unshackle the bodies and gather them a dozen at a time into a cargo net. Where they are,