The Pilgrim Strain: Rebellion 

Written by C.P. Edgar 

Copyright © 2025 by C.P. Edgar and October Ninth Books. 

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. 

This is an original work of fiction by C.P. Edgar, and all rights are reserved including sole rights to the characters and concepts herein. 

CHAPTER ONE

 "They were not long in discovering their multitude. The noise of them that came from every side to make their assault was dreadful, yet the suddenness and fierceness of their approach made them more terrible. They were in number about a hundred men, armed with arrows, in which they shot fire, sticks of wood wound about with hemp, which being lighted at one end, they shot up towards the heavens, to light upon the roofs of our houses, which if they had hit, would presently have set them on fire." 

-   Thomas Morton, New English Canaan (1637) 

From the diary of Thomas Bradford, distant cousin to William Bradford himself, a shipmate and apprentice to the ship’s cooper, “Mother, I am scared.  I have traveled across the seas to ‘prentice for skill and trade.  I have suffered a fate of starvation and sickness for fortune. For you and for our family’s prosperity to be changed, I have subjected myself to misery.  This land, however described by sailors and by saints, may be inhabitable by us seeking to colonize.  Savages, mum. 

My dear friend John Aldean set upon the land last eve, along with a small landing party.  When we first made land, we set anchor and put hands and hammer to the shallot which we had stored in pieces.  The shallot was launched at yesterday’s dawn and strapped to our port side while provisions and weapons were loaded.  

John and first mate Mr. Harwich, along with our sergeant at arms and his men, and two other boys for labor, set the oars for shore when the sun touched and broke over the horizon.  The landing party put torches on the bow and aft of the shallot, and I, along with the ship’s crew, watched them make way toward land.  The shore, mum, was a deep forest that stood tall above the lip of the ocean, and then gave way to a rocky, jutted reef which reached outward almost all the way to our anchor set. The landing crew disappeared from view, and we went about with the day’s chores. 

No man was seen during the day as we worked on the decks, nor village, nor smoke from cooking fires.  Barely a bird moved between tree limbs. It appeared to be a virgin forest, the land we have always dreamt of. Land laying wait for claim. 

A fog rolled in during the evening and I went to my quarters after my watch shift.  I awoke at daybreak to the sounds of screams and the ringing of the alert bell.  John was being pulled aboard by a shipmate and was bleeding from a deep wound to his head. 

Mr. Burrow, the ship’s doctor, Mr. Rose, and the Chaplain began attending to John as the crew prepared for attack.  I, myself, as cooper apprentice with no issued weapon, was sent to help bring gunpowder and shot to the gunwale.  I stayed close to John when I had finished ferrying provisions for the gun loaders. 

John told the Chaplain their tale which I write for you.  That the landing crew had entered the forest after beaching the shallot.  They made it a distance and then came upon a clearing with some huts with mats covering the roofs.  They called out, but no man, woman, nor child appeared.  

They searched the huts and upon finding no people, they took the home goods like pottery and metal tools as well as animal furs for trade.  Each man sacked the huts for goods to take back to the ship. 

It was at this time that the first cries rang out from the surrounding woods.  John began to tremble right there on the deck of the ship, and his body trembled as he spoke of this scene and the war cries echoing the clearing.  He said that he and the men stopped at once and took up arms in a clearing in the center of the huts.  

John said he was looking at one of the labor boys, standing close to him but nearer the forest. The boy had his arms full of furs, and he had no way to defend himself other than his silence.  The boy’s eyes were wide, and John put his finger to his lips to make sure he remained quiet. Just as his finger touched his lip, the dense foliage opened, and dark arms pulled him into the woods.  He vanished right before their eyes. John said when the boy stopped screaming, they could hear the club still striking his skull, cracking the bone and their spirits to remain.  They ran for the shallot. 

John, still shivering against the cold on the deck while he spoke, said the savage cried out a word that sounded like ‘Pequot’, which no one had ever heard before. John said he felt them nearing him, and before he could turn to escape, he was hit by a club or a rock.  

Mum, this is such a horrible thing to describe. Forgive me. John told us that he awoke later, half buried with the bodies of the other men, on the shoreline.  The others were hacked and stabbed.  Seeing no savages, he dug himself free and pulled himself along the beach to the shallot, which he slipped into.  With much effort he paddled with a single oar back to the ship as silently as a whisper. 

John died after he retold his story to us. Right then, in my arms, his breath leaving him whilst I held him on that cold wooden deck.  Clutched in his hand was a scroll of paper he had pulled from his breast pocket under his vest as he labored his final breaths.  I got it, mum.  I took the scroll so that John’s wife might receive it, God willing.  I think it may have been written for her by his hand, likely one evening under full sail.  

We have just pulled anchor and are setting sail for Cape Cod. Fast from this place. Fast from these devils in this dark and shadow filled land. 

I sit here now writing this diary of events, all the while the Chaplain makes John’s body ready for honors and burial at sea.  Mum, John’s scroll was a poem, and I would be honored to pass along his words for you as they are loving and speak of a woman, I could only imagine of meeting someday.  The scroll reads, 

“She walks amongst the fire 

Slowly moving toward her destiny 

A heartbeat…” 

James Sandean caressed the page where the diary abruptly ended, his fingertips grazing over the hasty, uneven script as if willing it to reveal more. His touch lingered on the words that trailed off into nothing. He sat with the book open on his lap, his head tilted back, eyes half-closed, as though in prayer to an absent god. 

It was one of his most coveted possessions—among the artifacts he had meticulously collected, each more invaluable than the last. The leather-bound diary, its edges worn from centuries of existence, radiated a history steeped in blood and conquest. His fingers hovered over the dried, rust-colored stain that marked the final page—a stain left by the blood of its author. James closed his eyes and pressed his lips against the blood-soaked paper. He inhaled deeply, savoring the metallic tang that still clung to the fibers, a scent he had memorized long ago. 

But this time, it wasn’t enough. He needed to feel the pain they had endured. He wanted to consume it, to make it a part of him. He brought the page closer, his lips trembling as they touched the crimson blot. His tongue flicked out, tasting the coppery remnant of a life that had long been extinguished. For a brief moment, the world dissolved into the screams of the past—men and women, pilgrims and natives alike, their agony coursing through him. 

Finally satisfied, James lowered the diary and returned it to its resting place in the chest, nestled between the Diary of John Aldean, a scroll sealed in a glass bottle, and an original colonial treaty, the ink still faintly visible beneath the binding where Massasoit’s signature had marked history. He closed the chest, his hand tracing the craftsmanship of the iron hinges. Douglas made this for me, he thought, a fleeting pang of emotion touching his icy demeanor. What has become of you, Douglas? 

He took a long, deliberate sip of the burgundy wine, swirling it in his mouth, savoring the richness that reminded him of blood. It was his communion, his ritual. Each sip brought him closer to the history he idolized—the blood and sacrifice of those who had once sought a new world, driven by desperation, hunger, and a vision of purity. For as long as James could remember, he had wanted to feel what they had felt. Not just the freedom, but the fear. The pounding of their hearts as they landed on unfamiliar shores, desperate to escape the filth and corruption of overpopulated cities, the rot of tainted beliefs. The relentless drive to forge a new society. 

But those days were behind him now. Ginger Island, once his sanctuary, had become a prison. A place tainted by the very creation he had unleashed. His children—his infected offspring—roamed the island, twisted shells of the future he had imagined. He had been forced to watch as their humanity drained away, replaced by something monstrous. They had been his hope, his experiments, his vision for a new world. And yet, they had become a reminder of his failure. 

He couldn’t stay there. Not with them. Not with the screams that echoed through the jungles at night, the snarls of the infected that once called him father. No, Ginger Island had served its purpose. It was a steppingstone—a place to test his theories, to refine his process. But now, it was time to move on. To return to the place he had always intended to establish as the cradle of his new civilization. 

Plymouth. 

The name lingered in his mind like a promise. The site of the first colony, where men and women had landed, desperate to carve out a new life. It was fitting. It would be fitting. James had always known that his final destination would be where history had begun, where the first seeds of a new world had been sown. The infection would spread from there, from the place where the old world had taken its first breaths. 

His lips curled into a sneer. They succeeded. And now, so will I. 

“James.” 

Madilyn’s voice broke through the silence, calm and efficient as always. 

“Yes, Madilyn?” His gaze lingered on the dark liquid in his glass, watching it swirl as though it held answers to questions he had yet to ask. 

“We are approaching our destination port. Autopilot will be disengaged in five minutes.” 

James stood, his tall frame casting a long shadow over the navigation console. Through the cockpit window of the 145-foot Pendennis Hemisphere, aptly renamed Surmount, he could see the first rays of dawn creeping across the horizon. The ocean shimmered with the promise of a new day, though to him, it was nothing more than the same cycle repeating itself. 

“Disengage autopilot. Place navigation course on monitor one.” 

The mechanical hum of the ship’s automated systems filled the silence. The sails furled neatly into place, their movements precise and methodical, much like everything else in James’s life. He briefly allowed himself a moment of gratitude for the ship’s automation. Without it, I would never have made the journey alone. His crew was gone now, devoured by the infected before the escape from Ginger Island. The memory of their screams flickered in his mind like distant thunder, but he dismissed it with a single thought. It’s just me and Madilyn now. 

An involuntary shudder ran through him, a sensation not unlike the pulse of an electric shock—the kind he imagined running through the veins of the Electrophorus Electricus, the South African electric eel. The comparison brought a bitter taste to his mouth. Empathy, as fleeting as it was, surged within him for a split second before he clenched his jaw, savoring the sour taste of it. Then, just as quickly, he rid himself of the sensation, replacing it with cold determination. 

“What assets do we have in the area of landing zone Plymouth?” His voice was a low, controlled growl. 

“Nova Four has just departed from its docking station at Washington-Warren Field Airport. It will reach its orbit over Plymouth in five minutes at an altitude of eight hundred feet.” Madilyn’s voice echoed through the ship’s intercom system. 

James smiled, but it was a smile devoid of warmth. “Good. And what about ground assets?” 

“James, CAU Fortune is stationed at the Plymouth facility. I have activated their wrist units and am receiving real-time location and biometric data for all seven members.” 

James paused, a thought creeping into his mind like a shadow. “Send orders to CAU Fortune. Tell them to collect four natives for further testing.” 

“Orders sent.” Madilyn’s response was instant, unwavering. 

James placed his glass of wine on the console and gazed out over the approaching shore, his hands resting lightly on the controls. The world was falling apart, and yet here he was, on the brink of something greater. Something final. His own kind of pilgrimage. 

***