Copyright © 2012 Mary Hughes
All rights reserved
Vickie breathed carefully in the pepper-filled dark, trying to relax. Being on a ship inside a crate was just one more bizarre occurrence. She’d have some story to tell when she arrived back home. And after she got home… Well, she couldn’t really think past that[MH1] . She closed her eyes and leaned back. Gradually she became aware of her body. Her stomach was just starting to twinge, her feet were sore, and her leg was falling asleep.
Couldn’t do anything about food or
her feet, but she could relieve the pressure on her leg. She shifted—and felt a
stabbing pain in her bottom. “Ouch!”
“What has happened?”
“I’ve got a splinter in my…my…well,
you know.”
“Oh.” A rustle, steps, and then Kulinahr
touched her shoulder. “Here. Sit on my jacket.”
Vickie reached fingerher fingers
into a rich silk fabric. “Wow. Nice coat. Are you sure? I mean, this seems
pretty expensive.”
“Yes, I’m sure. This suit will never
receive another U.N. delegation, but I think it should continue a useful life. Now,
quiet, please.”
Vickie took the jacket and arranged
it into a seat pad. She folded her legs into a half lotus and opened herself to
her environment. Dim shouts of dock workers punctuated the muted clank and roar
of machinery, as if the outside were wrapped in cotton. Just over the threshold
of her hearing was the incessant rush and slap of water.
A low thrumming of engines began
under her. Her spirits lifted. They were leaving the harbor, headed home.
Then a series of sharper clanks and
bangs announced the start of the police inspections.
Vickie sucked in a breath. When her
chest felt about to explode she let it out, so very slowly. Heavy boots on
metal stairs mixed with shouts of men and pants and yelps of dogs. She barely
breathed. The clangs and yelps advanced and receded as the teams went back and
forth between stacks of cargo. It seemed it would never end.
Gradually the sounds receded, and then
vanishvanished.
Vickie let out a gush of air. They were gone. She reached out a hand to grab
Kulinahr’s, opened her mouth to speak.
A dog barked—right next to her.
Boots clomped up to the crate where
she sat, trembling now. Wide-eyed, she clamped her lower lip with her teeth. Something
snuffled at the edge of the crate, then barked. She tried to make herself as
small and quiet as possible. More dogs came closer, whining and snuffling in
their eagerness.
Which was when a tickle started in Vickie’s
throat. It built in the back of her throat until her eyes watered and she was
certain she was going to cough. She swallowed several times in an effort to
keep her body under control.
Suddenly a dog sneezed. Another
snorted. Several more wheezed and yipped. The dogs had run into the pepper and
sniffed full noses. Vickie smiled. There was no possibility now that they would
be discovered.
An officer shouted orders in Arabic. Boots
pounded and then clanged as the police hustled the dogs topside.
Vickie started to rise. But Kulinahr’s
warning touch held her still.
The tramping returned. Then silence.
Crack! Vickie
jumped. A resounding series of bangs and cracks followed, getting closer. The
police were apparently trying to scare them out of hiding.
Then several sets of feet marched closer—and
stopped right outside their crate. Vickie cringed back. Kulinahr tightened his
grip on her wrist.
It was the only thing that saved them
from being discovered when the crate tipped like a carnival
ride.
It shifted, tilting crazily onto an
edge, sending Vickie and Kulinahr tumbling along the side. Kulinahr grabbed a
handhold and he held onto it and Vickie with all his strength.
The crate dropped back on the deck
with an explosive thud.
Vickie landed on her hands and knees.
Gasping silently like a fish, she waited. She didn’t move a muscle, even when
the banging retreated, even when it stopped altogether, even when she heard the
boots clang back up the stairs. She remained frozen until, at last, she felt
the ship move under her.
Gingerly, she edged into a corner. Now I know how a deer feels in hunting
season. Hiding in the woods, never able to show their snouts. Sneaking out
only to eat. Which reminded her of her own empty stomach.
Kulinahr slid himself next to her. He
spoke in a low voice. “I believe they are gone, but we had better wait until we
are well away before we present ourselves.”
Vickie nodded, then realized he
couldn’t see her. “How long?”
“Perhaps half an hour to leave Middle
Yemen waters. Then another hour or two past that, to leave the area, would be
prudent.”
She sure hoped it was no longer than
that. Her stomach was starting to make a nuisance of itself. She tried to ignore
it. “What was all that with the dogs?”
“Fahrrad evidently knew I was still
in the country.” He paused and muttered a phrase in Arabic. “That was his
special police. They are deadly. It is well Cliff planned this escape, for I
think Fahrrad has spies among even my most loyal militia. They would have found
us had we shifted in this crate.”
“We’re lucky you found that handhold
then.”
“Luck was not involved. The strap I
held on to is not standard equipment for a crate; not on the inside, at any
rate.”
“How’d it get here, then? Oh, don’t
tell me. Cliff.” That man again. Vickie shook her head. He was lightning in a
crisis and he’d saved her life, but he’d also treated her like kitty litter.
Like slightly stupid kitty litter at that.[MH2]
“Yes.” Another pause. “He would make
a most formidable enemy.”
And obviously an amazing ally. “Could
you tell me more about him now?”
This time there was a longer silence.
Finally, Kulinahr said, “I am concerned that you would not understand, right
now. And I am tired. We will meet after this trip and discuss it, yes?”
Oh, sure, let’s do lunch. “Get some rest, then, if you’re tired.”
She settled back into the dark
silence. The rocking of the ship lulled her into closing her eyes, although she
was still too tense to sleep.
The escape had been close. She had
been athletic in her youth, but had let all that slide in favor of sitting in
front of a laptop screen twenty hours a day with diet Mountain DewYellow[MH3] and popcorn as her nod toward health.
That run up the stairs had really taxed her.
Not to mention swinging through the air like Tarzan and Jane. She clamped down on that thought. TryingTry
to relax, here. Thinking about that man did not cause her to relax.
Her stomach growled. How much time
had gone by? She started to shift her position but abruptly froze when the
crate creaked. Gingerly, she settled back against the side. Where was that coat
of Kulinahr’s? Lost when the crate had done its rumba, probably. She could sure
use it right about now. Although I
suppose I could use this lunking T‑shirt I have wrapped around my head to sit
on. It probably has just as much material as Kulinahr’s coat.
She pulled the shirt from her head
and was folding it when she felt something small, flat and hard
embedded in the material. Carefully, she moved her fingertips along the edges.
It was squarish although the padding of the shirt,
searching made it impossible to tell for sure. She searched
the shirt for some opening to extract the object[MH4] . Nothing. Methodically she turned
the shirt inside out and tried again. This time she found a small storm flap pocket.
Poking gingerly into the pocket she
got the impression of small, flat and plastic. She withdrew the object, wishing
for some light but not willing to tempt their discovery quite yet. She ran her
finger over the edges, noting a notch and what felt like tiny metal
threads. It felt like a computer chip, but not any computer chip
she’d encountered before. Puzzled, she returned the object to the pocket. Perhaps
seeing it in the light would give her some clue.
Her stomach growled again, distracting
her. She opened her mouth to ask Kulinahr how long until they were in
international waters, realized it would sound like a kid on a car ride. Are we there yet? Kulinahr wouldn’t stay
here any longer than he had to. Although he had more to lose if the ship’s captain
should decide to return them to Misr.
Holding the big T-shirt to her
growling stomach, strangely comforted by it, she sat back to wait.
Several hours later, Vickie sat next
to Kulinahr in a walnut paneled room. She should have been enjoying the soft
chair cushions and the ankle deep Persian carpeting, or examining the dusky
gold spy glass and a huge relief globe. Instead her gaze was riveted on the delicate
pink shrimp coated with shiny red sauce disappearing one by one into the ruddy
lips of the man opposite. She licked her own lips. The captain,
large and florid with a Boston accent, hadn’t offered them any,
and she hadn’t wanted to rock the boat to ask.
“I may know this Cliff of yours.” He
flicked a bit of sauce from his bristling mustache. “I may not. A lot of people
named Cliff, after all. What does he lookslook
like?”
Vickie sighed as the last of the
shrimp vanished into the captain’s mouth. While she’d only vaguely missed
eating over the previous two days of her kidnapping, in the last two minutes she’d become
ravenous. Pavlov’s dogs had nothing on her. Ring the shrimp and she salivates.
[MH3]Eliza
pointed out that some publishers don't allow trademarked items. Fair use aside,
I like the idea of mashing up a new product.
[MH4]When
updating this I added more immediacy and concrete language, but I do experience
a lot of the story through the heroine's mental landscape. Eliza continually pointed
out that we need more tactile details.
