Arrival at Dunsbrough

Posted on Thu Jun 5th, 2025 @ 2:32pm by René Rouen & Juliet Parrish & Cassandra Lennox & Dmitri Volodin & Bartholomew Addington
Edited on on Tue Aug 19th, 2025 @ 4:06pm

1,374 words; about a 7 minute read

Mission: Safe Harbour
Location: SeaSprite/Dunsbrough
Timeline: 02 December 2012

Cassie looked out across the steel-grey ocean as the ship rocked rhythmically beneath her boots. The wind bit at her cheeks, sharp as glass, and her scarf—already damp from earlier snow—snapped behind her like a sail. It was a freezing day, the kind that made fingers feel brittle and breath hang heavy in the air, but at least they had finally sailed far enough from the mainland for the snowfall to thin into occasional flurries, more a suggestion than a threat. Still, her coat was soaked at the hem, and the salt spray did not help.

She hated the motion of the sea. The rise and fall of the deck beneath her feet made her stomach twist, and every creak of the hull set her neves jangling. But there was no other way to reach Dunsbrough safely. The ship, for all its discomfort, was the only sensible choice with the undead and them wanting to get there and back silently. And she had made that call. She clenched her jaw and planted her hands on the rail. If she was going to lead, she could not flinch every time the sea groaned beneath them.

Juliet was at the helm what with being the most accomplished of the group in sailing due to her upbringing in sailing and yachting with her family along the Long Island Sound growing up. She occasionally looked at the newcomer René to see how he was faring with the sails.

René was not a seaman, but he could follow instructions well. He'd been able to run up the sail with Juliet’s orders and he had sharp eyes. He pointed off to the left towards the shoreline. "Mademoiselle Grant, Mademoiselle Lennox there's a small harbor off to the left front quarter."

Juliet looked to port and saw what he was pointing at. She glanced at the chart before calling Cassandra over. "I think our courier friend is right. That should be Dunsbough."

For a fleeting moment, the world shifted. The scent of diesel that Cassandra had hauled onboard earlier for them to get out of trouble if needed was replaced by the comforting tang of fish and brine, the rhythmic thump of waves against wood steadier, friendlier. She was twelve again, clinging to the rail of her grandfather’s fishing vessel as it cut through the calm waters just off Thornsea Point. The sun had been high, the air warm. Her grandfather’s laughter carried over the wind like a gull’s cry.

But the moment cracked like ice beneath her boots. She opened her eyes just in time to see a shadow fall across the deck and a voice that interrupted her thoughts. "He is right." The woman commented as she came over. "It has not changed." She added quietly.

"So are we going in silent or sounding the horn to see what comes out and pick them off?" Barthelomew asked coming up from the small below, that they had cleaned out to store supplies in.

René's sharp eyes swept over the harbor and small hamlet that lay behind it. There wasn't any moment to indicate that Dunsbough was even inhabited. He looked aft to the small tow behind dingy and turned to Cassandra, Bartholomew and Juliet. "We could send two people ashore. Do a quick recce for inhabitants and the presence of Soulless. The SeaSprite could drop anchor then come up to the dock under diesel power."

"I will go," Cassandra said quietly. She would never ask more of her people than she’s willing to give herself. She looked around, and Barthelomew shook his head.

"I'll go, Cass." He said firmly. He was not taking no for an answer either. The woman did a lot, but this was more his thing from his police office days.

René nodded to Bartholomew before to Cassandra. "You're the leader of your community. It's to risky for you to go ashore first. I should be the one to go. I'm not a permanent resident, and therefore, expendable."

The woman looked at the man, her expression hardening for a moment as his words settled in. Then, with a quiet breath, she shook her head—firmly, deliberately. “No one is expendable,” she said, her voice low but unwavering. It wasn’t anger, exactly, but something more rooted—conviction, maybe, or weariness from too many losses already borne. But then, after a beat, her stance softened just slightly. Her shoulders lowered by a fraction. She gave a small nod, conceding—not in defeat, but in recognition of truth.

“You’re right,” she admitted. “I can’t do everything myself. I shouldn’t try. It’s not weakness to let people help… and it’s not bad leadership to trust them to handle their share.” The words tasted unfamiliar, but they were honest.

"No, it is not bad leadership," Barthelomew said, smiling as he glanced at René and nodded. He knew that Cassandra wasn’t used to letting go. Not when so many people depended on her.

Juliet glanced at René and wondered why he would even say such a thing. He was a stranger, that was true, but he had proven that he was someone who could contribute to the community. René had risked his own life to rescue two children from the Dead, delivered a package and correspondence to Cassandra, splitand stacked three days worth of wood for Cassandra's stove and fireplace and had agreed to come along on the foraging mission.

Dmitri came up from the tiny hold and looked around. He’d never been much of a sailor; if he was honest with himself, he didn’t care much about being on the water. He’d always found an attachment to land…regardless of the environment he found himself in. There was something oddly comforting in being able to read terrain or track a person that Dmitri had realized was absent from water. Water was…just…water. Despite the conversation, he scooted to the front of the boat and took up station on the prow. While he would readily admit that he knew nothing about boats or the water, he did know how to read land. From what he could see, the small community the others had called Dunsbough.

These English and their names, Dmitri mused to himself. At home, villages and towns were named after anything from their Patron saint to a land feature. To him, it just made sense. Here, though, the words were from another time…maybe even a different version of English… wherever they came from, they didn’t make sense to Dmitri. Dmitri scanned the village, looking for signs of life or, worse yet, signs of death. He couldn’t pick out details yet, as their boat was still some distance from the harbor, but as his gaze roamed across the horizon, an old familiar feeling crept up the base of Dmitri’s neck. He reached down to the deck and retrieved his bow, not taking his eyes from the village.

“Uhm…I don’t to interrupt,” Dmitri said over his shoulder “but I have bad feeling.” Dmitri unconsciously narrowed his eyes, scanning for the thing or things that gave him this feeling, and reached for an arrow. He reflexively nocked the arrow but didn’t draw it.

René had been always one to follow his instincts. While he was not feeling bothered by the current situation. Something had put Dmitri on high alert. He scanned the shoreline for any movement or sign of danger. Nothing registered, at least on a conscious level.

"I know and so do I, but we need the supplies." Cassandra pointed out softly. They needed so much to survive this winter. They had stored and pickled so much, but there was so much more that they needed, like medicine and core ingredients and tools that they could use to expand.

“Well let’s go then.” Bart said making his way to the rig they had connected for this very purpose.

Rene joined the scouting party. It took about ten minutes to row into the small harbor, tie the dingy to the pier and disembark. Silence greeted the scouting party as the stepped from the dock to solid ground.

 

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