by Steven Bohls
Sprocket pressed a blue button on the control box. A depressurized sound filled the room, and the claw released its treasures. “Riggs, Pobble, help me with this tub,” she said, pushing past Kizer, who stood waiting for a response. “We’ll grab that sofa once we get this to the main deck.”
Riggs and Pobble avoided Jed’s eyes. Great…an hour before they vote whether to throw me overboard, and everyone thinks I’m trying to kill them.
The control box swayed on its chain, red button smiling at Jed. Push me…push me, it taunted.
Yeah, well, I tried.
Even if he went for it again, Kizer would probably shoot him over another tackle.
“You coming or what?” Pobble asked.
“Yeah.” Jed pried his eyes away from the unpressed button and followed.
He hurried to the front to avoid Kizer’s cold stare.
When the tub and couch were on the deck, Captain Bog pointed to the tub. “This is where you’re going to build your fire.”
“You want me to cook inside a bathtub?”
“Do whatever you want in it, but the fire isn’t going anywhere else.”
“Fine.”
Captain Bog ripped off a piece of fabric from the couch and gave it to Riggs. Riggs flipped on his machine, and electricity crackled between the rods. He dipped the fabric into the arc, and the cloth burst into flames.
“Let’s get started,” Captain Bog said, tossing a couch cushion into the bathtub. Riggs added the burning swatch, and the cushion ignited.
Jed gathered the cooking supplies. “Do you have any salt?”
“Salt?” Sprocket said. “What do you need salt for?”
“I got some,” Pobble chirped in. “Cap’n had me spray the stack for slugs two nights ago.” He grabbed a leaf blower from a supply cupboard. The machine had a canister strapped to its handle. Copper hoses looped through the canister and blower.
“What is that?” Jed asked.
Pobble aimed the blower at the deck and flipped a switch. A fan hummed, and salt sprayed from the nozzle. “Pipe cleaner. Kills slugs clogging the tubes.” He reached into the canister and removed a blue container with the words MORTON IODIZED SALT over a picture of a girl in a yellow raincoat holding a white umbrella.
Jed took the canister and shook some salt into his hand. He sprinkled it over the frying pan.
“Whoa!” Kizer rushed forward to block the pan from the white crystals. “What are you doing dumping that scrap in our food?”
Jed smiled. “You’re scared of a little salt?” He waggled the can.
Kizer’s eyes darkened. “You think we’ll let you add slug poison to our meal? I’m not stupid.”
Jed pinched some grains and tossed them into his mouth. “Happy?”
“That doesn’t prove anything,” he said. “Your stomach’s full of gears and scrap.”
Pobble took the salt and poured a pile into his hand, then licked the white grains. His face contorted, and he spit onto the floor. “Uuarahahag!” He scraped his tongue with his fingernails.
Kizer’s eyes went wide, and blood drained from his cheeks. “I knew it! Poison! Poison!”
“It ain’t poison,” Pobble said, wiping the sleeve of his shirt against his tongue. “It’s disgusting!” He spit again, then shuddered. “Why you putting that in food?”
Jed turned to Kizer. “Happy?”
“I won’t be happy until I watch your flailing body hit the junk!”
Jed picked up the frying pan. “Fair enough.” He turned to Captain Bog. “Would you start opening cans with the tool I gave you?”
Captain Bog pulled the can opener from his pocket.
“Great. Open the red peppers in oil and the canned chicken.” Captain Bog opened the cans and handed them to Jed. “I need more fuel for the fire.” Riggs sliced another chunk of fabric from the couch and tossed it on the flames. “Use the couch’s frame instead,” Jed said. “Too much smoke with the fabric. It’ll ruin the taste.”
He waited for the crew to break apart the couch and add slats of wood. When the planks were crackling and the black smoke was gone, he emptied the chicken into the pan and added the red peppers and oil, making sure to coat the chunks of chicken in oil.
As he set the pan atop the flames, Pobble gasped. “You’re burning our food!”
The crew stared at the flames dancing under the iron pan.
Jed grinned. “It’ll be just fine.”
“If you burn a dozen cans of food,” the captain said, “I’ll let Kizer take a few whacks at you with that pan before I toss your corpse overboard.”
“What happened to no whining, no squealing?” Jed said.
Captain Bog smirked. “I suppose this is your funeral party. Burn away.”
When the oil started to sizzle, Jed swirled the chicken until its edges were crispy and brown. “Now hand me mushrooms, spinach, and fire-roasted tomato halves.”
Captain Bog sliced off the lids and gave him the cans. Jed added a quarter of the spinach, half the mushrooms, and all the tomatoes. When all the contents were finely seared, he poured in the tomato sauce and waited for it to bubble.
The crew watched in horror as Jed stirred the contents. “Does anyone have a spoon?” he asked.
Sprocket fetched a spoon, and Jed tasted the mix. He motioned for the salt and added three more pinches. When he tasted it again, he nodded.
“Is it ready?” Pobble asked, confused.
“As ready as it can be, I guess.” His stomach clenched as he watched the appalled expressions. This wasn’t playing out the way it had in his mind. The crew was supposed to take one whiff of the cooking food and suddenly realize how tragic their every meal had been up until this point. Probably too much to ask, but at least they weren’t supposed to be so disgusted just by the preparation. A sick sensation jabbed at his stomach. He glanced at the tug’s railing and pictured himself tipping over it. Falling…falling…until—
“I’ll get some plates,” Pobble said.
“Yeah, okay. Thanks,” Jed said.
When Pobble returned, Jed scooped out a portion and handed it to Captain Bog. “Give it a try.”
The captain looked confused. He opened his mouth, but no words ventured free.
“What’s wrong?”
The captain eyed the wisps of steam as if they were swaying cobras. “It’s—well—it’s been in the fire. It’ll burn in my mouth. I can’t eat that right now.”
Jed scooped a bite off the captain’s plate and ate. “See? I didn’t get burned. And I’m just a scrawny wimp, remember?”
The captain offered a sly smirk, then scooped up a bite of his own. He looked at each crew member, then put the spoon in his mouth and chewed.
He gazed into the sky, chewing…chewing. “Hmm…” he said finally.
Hmm? And?
Jed waited, but the captain didn’t elaborate. At this, the crew lined up and shoved their plates toward the pan. As Jed served them, his heart felt like an angry lion trapped in the cage of his chest. He’d expected the captain to smile or grimace, or anything except Hmm…
What was it with these people and hmm…?
Kizer refused to take a bite. Pobble shoveled food into his cheeks as fast as it would go. Sprocket poked tentatively at the chicken before testing small bits. And Riggs ate at a steady pace that didn’t hint at anything.
Silence filled the deck, bothered only by clinking silverware and the rattling engine. Riggs spoke first. “Is there any more?” He held up an empty plate. Relief burst through Jed. He grinned and piled seconds onto the plate.
When the plates were clean, Captain Bog stood and addressed the crew. “It’s time we put this to a vote.”
Kizer—plate still untouched—stood. He turned the dish vertical. Food slid to the deck, splashing at his feet. “Tastes like scrap. I vote no.”
“Riggs?” Captain Bog said.
Riggs licked the rim of his plate. “Whew, I’m stuffed,” he said, patting his belly. “Can’t remember the last time I ate so much in one
sitting.”
“So is that a yes?” Captain Bog asked.
“Course not!” Riggs said, dragging his thumb along the last spot of sauce on the plate. Chin lifted and eyes closed, he sucked off the sauce and savored the flavor. “I’m with Kizer. Pile of scrap. Utter waste. Terrible. Toss the kid off the side.” He looked at Jed, and his eye twitched in a mischievous wink that Jed interpreted as This is what happens when you don’t do what I ask.
Captain Bog nodded. “Two for no and—”
“Is there any left?” Riggs asked, smacking his lips extra loud.
Captain Bog peeked inside the pan. “A few bites.”
Riggs scampered to the pan and scraped the rest onto his plate.
The captain chuckled and turned to Pobble. “What’s your vote?”
Pobble held his plate against his mouth, scooping up the last bits of mushroom and chicken. Tomato sauce streamed down his chin. His cheeks looked like they each held an apple. He opened his mouth, but Kizer hissed. Pobble looked over and Kizer glared, tightening his fist. Threat burned in his eyes, and his head made the slightest of shakes.
“Look at me,” Pobble said, sloshing his belly with both arms. “You think I’d turn down food that good? I’d lick a hundred toilets if I could eat like that every day.” He belched, then wiped his mouth and cocked his head. “Even that burp tasted good. My vote’s yes.”
“Two for no, one for yes,” the captain said. “Sprocket?”
She scooped up the last bit of chicken. “Yes,” she said, stuffing the food in her mouth. “That’s my vote.”
Captain Bog nodded. “That makes two for yes and two for no.”
Jed’s stomach tightened. He stared at the captain, thoughts bouncing around his head like loose springs.
No. Not him. How was it down to him? Riggs was supposed to say yes, but now the captain would chuck him overboard for a bit of “evening entertainment.”
Scattered thoughts pulled together in Jed’s mind, and he plotted.
Sprocket’s shatterbox… The sidearm dangled in a holster near her knee. I can get to it, he told himself. Two steps. Maybe three. He only needed a distraction. The bathtub. He could push it over, and while the crew scrambled to put out the fire, he’d get the weapon. No one would expect it.
“Scrap, huh?” Captain Bog said to no one in particular. “If this is scrap, it’s the best scrap I’ve ever eaten. And I say Jed’s sticking around to make more of it!”
Jed rested against the ship’s railing. Stars glittered overhead. Constellations he’d never seen looped through the dark sky as horned elephants and upside-down bicycles and lemon trees in full bloom. The clean air filled his lungs with cool relief. It smelled like cedar and spot-welded metal. It was a good smell. He was alive, and he would likely stay alive for a few days.
As he gathered the dirty dishes from the bathtub, a soft red light pulsed in the darkness. He walked to the smokestack. Red glowed from the side of Captain Spyglass’s head. The empty socket somehow stared at him.
“I know your secret, little boy,” it said. “Such a…delicious secret. Makes you smell…nice. If Father would let me, I’d slurp up your soup in three slurps.”
Jed grabbed a crate and climbed on top of it.
The face followed him.
“What secret? What are you talking about?”
It chewed on its withered lip as if itching for something to taste.
“He wants you all to himself. It’s not fair. Not fair at all!”
“Who? Who wants me?”
It was then that Jed noticed that the red light was actually a small button. He reached up and pressed it. The light vanished, but nothing else happened.
“Soon,” Spyglass said. “Soon.”
“Soon what?” Jed asked.
The head smiled and turned away. Its gears slowed, and it fell silent.
“Hello?” He waited but it didn’t look at him again. “Great. Say a bunch of cryptic scrap and then stop working. Perfect. Even some shriveled head seems to know more about me than me.”
He walked back to the bathtub and continued scrubbing dirty dishes. Thoughts of home crept through him. The key in his shoe suddenly felt twice as irritating. He touched the lemon in his pocket. The rind was starting to stiffen. He pulled it out and scratched it, then breathed in the smell of citrus.
His passage home was buried. Lost. Forever hidden. His mom’s flower-spotted aprons, the box of spices his father gave him last year…all of it gone. Probably forever. Every memory he had of his parents lost in a covered hole.
He stacked the clean plates and walked to the mess. The crew was asleep, but he preferred things that way. Nighttime solitude was soothing—the feeling that the whole world was sleeping while he was still awake. It felt like freedom and possibility and independence all wrapped up into one.
As he pushed open the mess-hall door with his hip, a faint creak echoed in the room, followed by a soft click. He froze, steadying the dishes so the stack wouldn’t wobble. The thought of dread skulking in the darkness made his fingers cold and rigid.
The porthole on the far side of the room cast weak beams of moonlight onto the uneven deck boards. He squinted, but nothing stirred. The empty room stayed quiet as the night.
He inched inside and put the dishes into an empty barrel. When his eyes had adjusted to the darkness, he grabbed a can of black beans from the shelf and stabbed it open with a screwdriver. Black were always the best beans. He scooped out a spoonful, but before he could bring it to his mouth, something creaked below him. Riggs? No. Riggs had gone to the engine room.
Another creak—this one fainter than the last. And then another.
Footsteps. Small and soft.
He searched the floor and saw the outline of a trapdoor.
The trapdoor Riggs had mentioned? To the stowaway cabin…
The noises were delicate. Too big for rodents. Too soft for dread.
Jed set down his food. He crouched beside the trapdoor and pressed his ear to the wood. The footsteps were gone, replaced by tapping metal.
He gripped the edges of the trapdoor. The wrinkled wood was old and its hinges rusted. Don’t creak, he begged. He held his breath and flung it open. Quick and silent.
No creak.
He crept down a dusty staircase. A cool draft flowed through the empty shell of the ship. Dim light flickered in the darkness to his right. The yellow glow revealed a crawl space between gears and engine innards.
Jed squeezed into the space. Bent pipes jutted out like ancient bones buried in the hull’s mechanical graveyard. He crawled over cracked timing belts and decaying pistons to a small compartment.
The pocket of space was no bigger than his bathroom at home. Black drawings covered the walls in streaked patterns and shapes. Eyeless faces, spindly trees, a grazing rhinoceros…and a lemon. Most of the drawings were tangled scratches huddled in recognizable patterns, but the lemon was full and rich with detail. Nearly as tall as Jed, it hogged more than its share of wall. The dimpled rind looked real enough to peel.
He stepped forward and peeked inside. The room was empty except for a small girl jabbing a screwdriver against the top of a can. Her clothes were ripped but not tattered or old. Her arms were skinny but not starved, and though they were smudged with black, they weren’t particularly dirty, either. A sheet of long hair hid her face. The bright strands were like spools of copper.
A thin stick—probably from a staircase railing—lay beside her. Its tip was burned charcoal, but most of the black had been rubbed off to make the pictures on the wall.
“Hello?” he whispered.
The girl squeaked and dropped the can. She scrambled to the far corner and clutched the screwdriver with both hands.
“I’m not going to hurt you.”
She squinted and cocked her head. “You’re that mouse,” she said. “The mouse that doesn’t belong.”
“Doesn’t belong?”
“Of course you don’t.” She lowered the screwdriver and
arched an eyebrow. Her face was strangely unreadable as it cycled through expressions: anxiety, suspicion, contempt, deviousness, alarm.
Jed shook his head. “No, I don’t belong here. My name’s Jed.”
“Of course it is.”
“How do you know my name?”
She rolled her eyes and released an exaggerated sigh. “I have ears, don’t I?” She pinched one as if to make sure it was still there, then pulled on it and turned her head to try to see it.
Jed tried to hold back a chuckle.
“Is something funny?” She released the ear.
“No. Why?”
She tilted her head and leaned forward. “You know something special.”
“Something special? What do you mean?”
“Of course you do. You do, don’t you?”
Jed swallowed. A manic jolt buzzed in her eyes, and the room felt a bit smaller than it had a moment ago. “What do I know?” He glanced back the way he’d come.
“How am I supposed to know? You wouldn’t tell that funny mouse with glasses.”
“What funny mouse with glasses? What are you talking about?”
“He told you about the hiding place.” She swept her arms about the stowaway cabin. “He said he’d tell you this secret if you’d tell him yours. But you didn’t !” She nearly shouted the last word, and Jed jumped, bumping his head on a pipe.
“Ouch!” He rubbed his scalp.
“So they made you fetch things for them like a dog. Arf! Arf!”
“I didn’t have a choice. They wouldn’t let me on the ship.”
“But you didn’t find the cans, did you? Bad dog!”
“What’s your name?”
She smiled. “Shay.”
“How did you get here?”
“I listened to Glasses Mouse.”
“Are you talking about Riggs?”
She nodded. “Glasses Mouse was toooo busy watching you play fetch. So I crawled and snuck and stayed veeeeerrry quiet….Shh!” She held her finger to her lips and grinned.
“Where did you come from?”
“The big boat.”
“You mean the steamboat?”
“Was it a big boat?” she asked.
Jed nodded. “Well, yes—”
“Then the big boat.”
“How long were you there for? Were you there before the dread came?”
