Curds and Whey Box Set

by G M Eppers

  Using my binoculars, I scanned the area, watching for my team members to come to the surface. Before I could spot anyone, Bobby tapped my shoulder. “Now we can do something!” he shouted. He began using hand signals again to communicate with the Petty Officers from the Coast Guard, who were already running toward their cutter, held in its rigging on the opposite side of the Ike.

  A glance oceanward showed me the Viking wannabes on the deck boat high-fiving each other, then starting up their boat to resume their escape to the pirate ship.

  I wasted no time. “Bobby, I need to be on that boat,” I said, pointing toward the cutter that was already swarming with Coast Guard officers. Before he could argue, I added, “If you don’t put me on that boat I’ll jump overboard and you can rescue me, too.”

  He nodded, and motioned the information to the Chief Petty Officer, busy overseeing the assembly of his rescue crew. Bobby pointed to me and the CPO nodded and waved me over. The more hands the better. Handing off my heavy binoculars to Bobby, I ran across the deck and the CPO greeted me. “Those are my friends. I want to help,” I told him.

  He noted my inflatable life vest. “You follow my orders. Got it?”

  “Yes, sir!”

  He and I boarded the cutter, the only boat larger than the trawler on the Ike, with six or seven other Petty Officers, and they immediately began winching us down to sea level. Their crew was well trained and got the ship under power quickly, heading around the bow of the aircraft carrier to the disaster site. Because the cutter was a service vessel, it hadn’t been included in my training rotation, but that was okay by me. Instead of worrying about controlling the boat, I wanted to focus on finding my friends. I stood at the railing, searching the roiling water.

  The wreckage ahead of us was still in flames, the large fireball in the center nothing more than the skeletal remains. Smaller fires burned randomly around it and the air was filling with black smoke. We came upon McGrone, flailing as he tread water. He sputtered and coughed as the crew hauled him over the edge and into the boat, where he sat leaning against the side and coughing up water.

  I stood, trying to calm my panic as I searched for more human beings. “I don’t see anyone else!”

  “The twins,” McGrone gasped. He was trying to say more, but couldn’t catch his breath.

  The twins, I thought, realizing suddenly what he was trying to say. I turned to the CPO. “The twins. They’re conjoined. They can’t swim!” Avis and Agnes can do amazing things on land. They can do perfectly synchronized backflips and cartwheels, but underwater their inner arms just got in their way, preventing anything close to a useful swimming stroke. McGrone had known that, and had taken them out on the boat without life jackets anyway. I could understand the thrill of the chase, and the twins, who were not afraid of the water despite their inability to swim, would feel like they were jeopardizing the mission if they objected. They felt confident because they were with the team.

  I scanned the water, mistaking several pieces of jetsam for them before I actually saw them. On the outskirts of the wreckage, four arms waved in the air before disappearing under the water. They were too far away to wait for the cutter to maneuver through the debris field. The black smoke was billowing and would soon obscure the view, the pockets of flame producing superheated, sweltering air that was making it hard to breathe. Without a second thought, I jumped overboard.

  The water was cool compared to the heat above. Between the Caribbean weather and the intense flames, it must have been over a hundred degrees on the surface. I dove down into the cool, propelling myself forward in the direction where I’d seen the twins. As soon as I was fully submerged, I was jerked upward as my life vest inflated and a moment later my head was back in the smoke. I came up sputtering, cursing and coughing, clawing at the straps on the now tightly inflated vest. I’d never get to the twins wearing or even towing that thing, though I knew I’d want it back once I got there. Frustrated, I twisted in the water to remove it as quickly as I could, succeeding in that, but also succeeding in losing my bearings on the twins. I let go of the life-saving flotation device and dived back under the water, where visibility would actually be an improvement. I forced my eyes open, ignoring the sting of the salt water until my eyes got used to it, looking right and left. Panic and fear pumped adrenaline into my system and I felt like I had all the energy in the world. Finally, I saw them suspended, all four limbs flailing feebly and getting in their own way, a few feet below the surface. I raced toward them, but their voluntary movement had ceased by the time I got there. I came up underneath and between them, using their connecting band as a yoke, and brought all three of us up. Smoke seared my eyes and I had to close them again as I felt for their heads to make sure they were above water, trying to wake them up.

  Blinded, I didn’t know which way to turn to get back to the cutter. It was only a few moments, though, before I felt hands on me, dragging me up. The twins came with me, up, higher and higher, and then we hit deck. I rolled out from under the twins, rubbing my eyes to clear water and smoke from them. As soon as I could see I leaned forward and touched Avis’ neck, hoping for a pulse. I felt nothing but cold, wet skin.

  I realized we were surrounded by people, but I didn’t look up. I couldn’t do CPR on both twins, so I shouted to anyone within hearing distance. “Someone get over there and help Agnes!” I knelt by Avis’ side, putting one hand under her head to straighten her airway. They were both terribly pale.

  Suddenly, I was pushed back. “Let me,” I heard Nitro’s voice say, as he barged into my position, his sodden field kit bumping against his hip. “You’re too close.”

  “But I—“ I started to object. How can you be too close to perform CPR?

  “That’s not what I mean! Back off. Give me room to work. Sylvia! Take the other side and do everything I do!”

  The multiple legs around me backed off as well, but didn’t go far, and I stayed mostly prone on the deck, watching the twins’ faces for signs of life. On a subconscious level, I noticed that one of the set of legs was distinctively covered in a cornflower blue skirt, which was drenched, of course, with the toes of matching pumps showing underneath. It comforted me a bit to realize the rest of the team was with me. I maneuvered around Nitro to get a better view as Nitro worked. He pumped Avis’ chest five times, then held her nose and breathed into her mouth. On the other side, Sylvia did likewise to Agnes, finding the sternum before each round of compressions. They were both dripping water from their noses, their clothes soaked, their HEP belts pulling their pants low on their hips, the pistol holsters conspicuously empty.

  Nitro provided a countdown. “1…2…3…4…5…breathe! 1…2…3…4…5…breathe!” Over and over again for what seemed like an eternity.

  “Come on, guys!” Sylvia prompted while Nitro counted. “Breathe!”

  Finally, Agnes coughed and turned her head. I heard some splashing as ocean water escaped from her lungs onto the deck. Sylvia backed off, her tired arms lying limp on her thighs. Both Sylvia and Agnes’ attentions turned to Avis, who was still unresponsive. Nitro did not let up. It didn’t even look like he noticed Agnes’ recovery as he focused on his own patient. He continued the counting out loud, keeping a perfect relentless rhythm.

  If Avis didn’t make it, I thought, Sylvia’s work would be for nothing, too. Even with the helicopter, there wouldn’t be time to get them to a hospital to be separated.

  Time seemed to slow to a crawl. Nitro’s voice took on the slow drawl of a drug induced hallucination. My ears started buzzing so loud it almost drowned out everything else. I couldn’t lose them. My chest felt tight, and I realized I was holding my breath. For a moment, I was back in the cemetery, in my grandfather’s flooded, muddy grave, with rain pouring down while I cradled my mother, trying to put pressure on the raw, red wound on her shoulder that had, for all intents and purposes, already leaked too much blood into the water. I felt doomed to always lose someone in the water, the specters of psychosis and neuroses creepi
ng up on my fragile mind. Finally, the warmth of the sun hit me at the back of my neck, drawing moisture from the tendrils of hair that clung there. It’s not raining, I told myself. It’s not raining and I’m not in a grave and I’m not going to lose anyone today.

  While Nitro was doing chest compressions, a beautiful spout of water shot straight up out of Avis’ mouth like Old Faithful, coming down on her face. Nitro turned her head to the side. “That’s it, Avis. Cough it out now.” He leaned back, letting himself fall onto his butt, breathing heavy from his exertions.

  I crawled forward until my head was next to hers. Avis opened her eyes and saw me. She smiled, and coughed up more water. My head fell to her chest in relief, and I cried. We were all still dripping anyway, so probably no one really noticed. Avis’ hand came up and stroked the back of my head. “I’m okay,” she whispered. “We’re going to be okay.”

  We were too exhausted to move for a moment. In the silence, I heard Sylvia somewhere above me. “So, Roxy, how did you manage not to lose your shoes?”

  “Prehensile toes,” came the reply.

  Avis whispered in my ear. “Prehensile toes,” and giggled.

  Nitro and Sylvia helped the twins sit up, and when that went okay, we all got to our feet. I was facing Sir Haughty, who still looked very worried. Badger and McGrone were looking very serious at something behind me. “About that being okay thing,” Sir Haughty said. “Bollocks.”

  I turned just my head first, then brought my body around to match. In front of us a group of about fifty men and women, some still holding onto their bows, clustered in front of us. The ones not holding bows were gripping the wooden handles of large axes, the midday sunlight reflecting off the sharp metal blades. They were wearing black clothing and symbolic pieces of fur. The men were all heavily bearded. One dark-haired man reminded me of Hagrid from the Harry Potter movies. Their thick heads of black, red, or blond hair were stuffed under metal helmets. Most, but not all, had the extended nosepiece. And every last one of them was taller than I was.

  I’d never been in this situation before. I was used to being the tallest. People asked me to reach the top shelf at the grocery store. Small children wanted to ride my shoulders. I’ve been asked if it was raining up there at least a thousand times. My own mother would make a point of climbing the steps to meet me eye to eye. I was constantly recruited to change light bulbs because I didn’t need a stepladder. Now I found myself looking up at even the shortest of them, at the women, and one unbearded lad who was probably in his early teens, thin and almost hidden in among the giants, still six foot two or three. I heard my mother’s voice in my head. Welcome to my world.

  I glanced around, checking our surroundings. A plume of smoke was still visible in the distance aft of us, and the Ike, one of the most immense ships in existence, was nothing but a shiny silver sliver on the horizon. We were sailing out to the open ocean, eastward. Somewhere south of us was Cuba. If we kept going, we’d see the smaller islands of the Bahamas before we broke through into the vast expanse of the Atlantic Ocean. To go where? Back to Norway?

  The one I thought of as Hagrid stepped forward and barked out something in Norwegian. I wasn’t sure if a translation from Badger was a good idea at this point or not. Sometimes feigning ignorance is helpful, but it is difficult to know exactly when. It wasn’t up to me, however. McGrone, hatless, muscled his way to the front of the group, broadcasting his rank and authority. He said, “Mr. Collins, translate, please.”

  Badger was standing there, looking at his hand. A single, small drip of ocean water hung from his septum. He seemed oblivious to it. “What is it?” I asked him, rubbing my nose with the back of my hand.

  “I lost my phone.” Thankfully, when he raised his head to look at me the drip fell, sliding down his philtrum onto his upper lip. He licked it off, his tongue exploring his upper molars thoughtfully.

  “Are you hurt? Anyone else injured?” I was ashamed that I hadn’t asked that question earlier.

  McGrone ignored the question and any potential answers, though I had observed many heads shaking a negative. Badger’s remark about his phone was the same as anyone else saying they’d lost a limb, and I was very sympathetic, with or without additional injuries. McGrone, not so much. “And I’ve lost my hat. I gave an order. Translate.”

  Badger caught my eye, letting me know that he still considered me in charge. I gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. If I didn’t concede to McGrone, he would probably start a fight, and with all these axes around that could end very badly. Odds were good these guys didn’t understand English, so there would be no point in trying to explain ourselves. If they heard McGrone raise his voice, as he no doubt would in indignation, they would interpret it as hostile. It was more important to keep things calm and quiet. Badger, his eyes darting toward McGrone, said, “He’s the captain, known as a Rad, and his name is Xerxes.”

  If I had been in charge, my next order would have been to thank him for saving our lives. Sure, they’d stood around gawking at the conjoined twins, apparently a novelty to most of them, while Nitro and Sylvia resuscitated them, but the Vikings had pulled us from the water. Thanks were in order.

  Instead, McGrone flashed his chestful of metals, which glinted in the sun. Solar heating was drying our skin quickly, though our clothing still clung to us like Spandex. He pointed to himself. “Major Samuel J. McGrone, United States Army. Retired.”

  Rad Xerxes, it seemed, did not have a translator available. They all looked at McGrone as if he had turned purple. Badger repeated McGrone’s words, translating everything but the name into Norwegian. Badger amazes me. He is fluent in I don’t know how many languages. The only time we’ve come close to stumping him was in the Congo, and yet he picked up some useful Swahili in less than a day. I think he looked up translations on his phone, sometimes, but here he didn’t have it. It was somewhere on the bottom of the Caribbean.

  As McGrone stood in front of us, having broadcast his rank to everyone here, I saw in my mind’s eye one of the Viking Wannabes stepping forward and lopping off his head with an axe. Might have been wishful thinking, or pessimism. I’m not sure which. But it didn’t happen.

  Rad Xerxes said something else. Badger said, “He wants everything except the clothes off our backs. What a shock.”

  “Belay that,” said McGrone. “We’re not turning over anything.”

  I rolled my eyes. Those strong, noisy types are very annoying.

  Several of the nearby axes were now up in the air because we hadn’t moved fast enough to comply. The Vikings looked bored with making threats, and anxious for more action, but Xerxes held up a restraining hand. He repeated his demand.

  A quick glance was all I needed to know we didn’t have any firearms. Everyone had had their guns in their hands when they jumped overboard and fighting the ocean waves had caused them to let go. Nevertheless, the HEP belts did have a few things that could be weaponized. A few of them had packed their stun guns, but we wouldn’t be comfortable using them while we were so wet. There were flashlights and less lethal tools. Sylvia had her knife. Some cell phones had survived physically intact, though we hadn’t had time to check the integrity of the data. Nitro had his field kit. He preferred to wear it with the strap across his torso. If he had just flung it over his shoulder it would be at the bottom of the ocean with the guns, Badger’s phone, and McGrone’s hat. I wasn’t sure how much of it was still good after being submerged in saltwater.

  “Major,” I said quietly, “we need to give them everything or someone is going to lose a limb.”

  He looked like he was going to argue for the sake of arguing, but then relented. “HEP belts,” he said, unbuckling his. Following McGrone’s lead, they all unbuckled their HEP belts and tossed them into a pile in front of us. Nitro reluctantly added his field kit. They might recognize some of the first aid components, but the Uber tester wouldn’t be familiar at all. Some Viking Wannabes came forward and collected them. It wasn’t about understanding what they
had. It was about making sure the hostages had nothing.

  A red-haired man stood next to Rad Xerxes. The two of them exchanged some rough sounding conversation and the red-haired man punched the air with the handle of his axe.

  “His first lieutenant or something like that. Rank of Huskarl. His name is Lahahana. It means warmth.”

  “Warmth is nice,” remarked Avis. “Why did he gesture with the axe?”

  “He asks the right of first kill.”

  “Oh.”

  Now that we had nothing, Xerxes gave another order and Lahahana looked crestfallen. Evidently, he had been denied. In short order, we were herded over to a large open hatch with a slightly curved, open stairway leading down. They made it clear that they wanted us to go down inside. Sylvia went first, slowly, observing what she could of the unknown terrain. The twins followed, with Nitro, ready to lend a hand if they appeared at all unstable after their near-death experience, right behind. Roxy and her prehensile shoe-gripping toes went next, Sir Haughty, Badger, McGrone with a scowl on his face, and I went down last. Taking one final look at our captors, I descended into the darkness.

  For a time, sunlight came through the open hatch, providing a gray haze. As soon as my head cleared deck level, the heavy metal hatch came down and we could hear metallic sounds as it was locked.

  Many years ago, during one of my many stays with Grandma while my parents worked out the details of their divorce, she and I watched a movie. It was called The Princess Bride. In it, a young boy, about my age, lay in bed coughing as his grandfather read him the story. At first, it was a nauseating romance and even the boy was disappointed. Then abruptly, the male lead went off to seek his fortune so he could marry the beautiful daughter of a simple farmer. The grandfather told the boy that the man’s ship was attacked by pirates and he was killed. The boy remarked, “murdered by pirates is good,” gaining interest in the story now that there was the promise of violence. As I felt my way off the stairs into the total darkness, sensing all my friends around me, I had to disagree with the boy. Murdered by pirates was not good.