Forever After (Post Apocalyptic Romance Boxed Set)

by Rose Francis

  She noticed the crew gathered in a half-moon on the deck. They were encircled around a man bound on his knees, with his hands tied to a long, flat metal surface that resembled an anvil.

  She had seen the man once before. He brought her and Christine their first meal aboard the ship, stared at her chest, gave her a gap-toothed, awkward smile, then left.

  Ilsa stood at the edge of the crew, beside the cook, who had brought her the rest of her meals. He was the only member of the crew she felt she knew.

  The captain stalked around the bound man. The tension was heavy. Ilsa tried not to look too uneasy, not knowing what the rest of the crew thought of her presence.

  She glanced back to the port, a matter of feet away from the deck. If the bound man were permitted, he probably could have leapt to his freedom. But the crew and captain stood in the way, ignoring his bonds.

  The captain took in a deep breath, puffing out his chest as far as he could, before saying loudly, "you were caught stealing. Twice."

  "I didn't do no stealing. Potts, he can't count to save his beans." He jerked his chin at the cook.

  "It isn't his beans on the chopping block,” the captain said through a smile, to a handful of chuckles. “And that little paunch you've grown tells the tale differently," he made a sweeping gesture across the crew. "And all the while, your crewmates wither to bones."

  Ilsa made the mistake of following his hand, seeing the raw hatred in the crews' eyes.

  “Two infractions,” the captain said, and on cue, a crewmember stepped forward with a saber in a scabbard, and held it out to him. He drew the sword and looked down the blade. “Sterile?” he asked.

  “With heat and alcohol,” the man said. Ilsa noticed dashed marks across the prisoner's arms, a few inches below the wrist.

  “No,” she whispered.

  “Any more to say in your defense?” the captain asked.

  “I didn't steal nothing,” he said despondently. From his face, she realized he knew his words weren’t worth the breath they cost him.

  “You've said that already. Now you're simply wasting my time.” The captain raised the sword over his head and brought it down on the dashed line. The blade cut clear through, and sparks flew from it when it impacted the anvil. The man screamed and fell away from his hands.

  The captain held the sword out. The mate with the scabbard took it and began to wipe it with a cloth.

  “Put them on ice,” the captain said, waving disinterestedly at the severed hands. “They'll fetch a nice price at market.” Another crewmember shoveled the hands into a handkerchief.

  The cook stepped forward. He started to untie the bound man, until both realized that without hands, he could slip loose. The cook used the rope to tie a cloth over the bleeding stumps, and he tightened it best he could. Then he led the man to the edge of the deck and lowered the ramp. They were not at port.

  “Ilsa,” the captain said, “let's go check on Christine.”

  She followed him through the winding passages inside the ship. He didn't speak, and she couldn't countenance the silence. “Was that necessary?” she asked, when she could hold the question in no longer.

  He turned around swiftly, so fast that she ran into him. “Yes,” he said, and towered over her. He let his back bend just a little, to make himself smaller, let the air out of his chest to appear less aggressive. “If he's an able hand at begging,” he paused for effect, “or at burdening his family, he'll survive. For a time.”

  He turned back towards Christine. “This ship functions on a creed, without which it would fail. If you endanger my crew, I'll hurt you. If you endanger my ship, I'll salt the wound. If you harm me, I may not hold my temper enough to cut you into pieces large enough they can be sold to the Pocas. Here you are.”

  He stopped at a door that looked like virtually any other on the ship, thrust her inside, and locked the door behind her. “We'll be inspected,” he said through the door. “Be silent, and you'll be fine.” She heard the grind of metal just outside the door and tensed.

  Then she heard the captain walk away. Why hadn't he told her sooner she would have to hide during inspection? Wouldn't it have helped her prepare?

  Or would it simply have eroded her nerve? Could she have jumped out of a window if Christine had told her they would do that ahead of time? She wondered if maybe he was simply keeping her in her place, training her to do as asked in any given moment, without a thought to the broader implications.

  She crossed the room, sat by Christine, and thought about taking her hand. Christine smiled weakly without waking. Ilsa didn't have long to ponder, but heard boots outside in the hall, muffled from what they had been earlier.

  “What's this?” a voice she didn't recognize asked.

  The second voice was the captain's. “I converted this area to fuel storage after the Killer Sail ran out of fuel...I ever tell you about that? I was nearest to her. I hurried there, but by the time I arrived they had slaughtered themselves to one man—a lonely man gorging on the flesh of his crewmates, even the forbidden spine. I tried to lay hands on him—to haul him from that madness if I could, but he was swift, like a carnideer, and ran into the wilds. The search party never could find him. So we salvaged the whole lot.”

  “Papers? For the upgrade?”

  “Of course.” She heard the shuttering of pages unfolding. “I'm sure you'll see everything's in order.”

  There was a moment's silence before, “Yeah, looks fine. You know, if you declare these kinds of modifications ahead of schedule, you aren't as likely to get them inspected.”

  “I'll keep that in mind,” the captain said. She didn't hear any more of the conversation as they walked away down the hall.

  She stayed with Christine for hours, ignoring and fighting her pregnant bladder. But she didn't dare make a noise, or try to leave the room.

  She heard a grinding, the same as before, but in reverse; there had to be some kind of a false wall in front of the door. Then there was a knock and the door opened. She recognized the cook's portly face in the door. “Potts,” she said. He didn't look thrilled to see her, but he was the closest on crew she knew to think of as friendly. He ignored her greeting.

  “I imagine you'll need to wash up. Then I'll need some help. Vegetables to wash up and cut. Raw supplies won't keep. You and I'll be busy, mostly baking hard-tack. Come, come,” he waved her on.

  She squeezed Christine's hand. She envied her the sleep she'd gotten, but after everything Christine had risked for her, she knew she needed to work, and followed him down the hall.

  “It is Potts, right?” She didn’t want to have offended him on the first day.

  “It's Botts, Barry Botts. But they won't hear it; some think it's funny, and others are just too stupid to not think the cook would be named 'Potts.' Most of them think my first name's Perry, too.”

  He realized she had a question, and stopped to listen to her. “Where's the bathroom?”

  “Right, the washing up. This way.” He led her down another hallway and stopped at another door. “I suppose I'll wait out here,” he said, annoyed. She used the facilities, trying to ignore their disrepair, then washed up.

  She worked with Potts in the kitchen for hours. They took turns taking cat naps anytime something was baking, and she burned herself several times, tired enough not to be as cautious as she should.

  When she finally made it back to her cabin, following Potts’ directions, Christine was up. Her cheeks bulged with food. A small pile of rags sat in her lap.“It's good,” she said with her mouth still full. “You're really impressively domesticated. If I were a wealthy prince, I'd keep you in my kitchen with as many glass slippers as you could want.”

  “I don't think you've got your fairy tales quite right, there.” Ilsa tried to hide her awkwardness from Christine.

  “My thinking's still a little disordered; I've been tripping my balls off for days—which is extra disconcerting, because when did I grow balls?”

  “I suppose yo
u could have,” Ilsa said, and stifled a grin. “Though, I didn't think to check.”

  “That's probably for the best,” Christine said. “I might have thought you were coming on to me.” Ilsa imagined tracing her hand up Christine's thigh, and was exhausted enough that she couldn't control the color creeping into her face. “Not that I would mind,” Christine said, trying to deflect for her. “Just that you shouldn't grope another woman's crotch unless you mean it.” Ilsa wasn’t sure what to make of that.

  “Potts said this room is ours to share, but there's only the one bed,” she said. Rest was about the only thing she could think of.

  “We should be able to fit, if we spoon—though I'll definitely have to be big spoon.”

  Ilsa tilted her head.

  “You ever tried stacking two spoons with a pea in between? I may not be a princess, but that pea,” she pointed at Ilsa's stomach, “is going to make things awkward.”

  “Oh,” she said. “Right.” She sat on the corner of the bed and let out a very heavy sigh.

  “You okay?” Christine asked. She looked like she wanted to edge closer but also remembered Ilsa's anxiety, earlier.

  “You ever spent hours on end standing on big, swollen pregnant feet?”

  “No,” Christine said.

  “It's the suckiest.”

  “You poor thing.”

  Christine set her plate down on the bed and slid onto her knees. She rubbed her hands together to wipe away breadcrumbs, then crawled over to Ilsa.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Rubbing your big, swollen pregnant feet,” Christine said, and started to knead Ilsa's arch with her palm. “To say thanks. For not abandoning me. When we made port. Or for trading me as a sex slave for your passage.”

  “Damnit, why didn't I think of that?”

  “I am right at the height to cunt punch you,” Christine said. “And quiet, unless you're trying to ruin the moment.”

  “Okay. Wow. This definitely now officially qualifies as a moment. So much so that my feet want to marry you, and have as much footsex as possible.”

  “I'm not honestly much of a feet girl.”

  “But you're so good with them.”

  “I'm also great with rats, but that doesn't mean I want one alternately humping my leg and shitting in my bed.”

  “I'm not sure you're as great with rats as you think you are...” Ilsa said, but it petered off. A little moan escaped her lips and her heart beat fast.

  “Um, that's probably a good place to stop,” Christine said.

  “Because you shouldn't rub a girl's feet unless you mean it?” Ilsa asked playfully.

  “Basically.”

  Ilsa bit her lip. “You don't have to stop.”

  “Yeah, but if you keep moaning like that, I'm not sure I'd stop with your feet.”

  “Then maybe we should stop...”

  “Yeah,” Christine said, standing up abruptly. Christine’s eyes were soft, hesitant. Ilsa had expected more confidence from her, but the other woman looked less certain than she’d ever seen her—hallucinations excepted, perhaps.

  “I just mean,” Ilsa grabbed Christine's hand, “after everything we've been through...I wasn't sure you'd ever wake up and be okay, and now you're here. I just want to break down and throw a tantrum. But if I did that, only to find out it wrecked something really special, fragile…I don’t know. I don’t know much of anything. But I'd really love to hold you right now.”

  “I'm big spoon, remember?” Christine asked, moving her plate onto a table.

  “You know what I mean,” Ilsa said, and laid down on the bed. Christine wrapped around her and squeezed, not too roughly, but just enough that she felt tethered to the world.

  Christine lay still for a while, but Ilsa couldn’t help noticing her breasts against her back. The warmth was nice.

  Ilsa let out a happy sigh. It wasn’t like when Benito had touched her. Thinking of him stung dully, but less than it had. She pushed those thoughts away. He didn’t deserve to be here, even in memory.

  The world slid away after that. Christine was sick and weak, the bed was tiny, and the growing life inside her took up a lot of room. But nothing mattered except their skin, the warmth, and Christine’s soft, chapped lips against her shoulder.

  Seventeen

  Ilsa shifted nervously. The captain was staring, but she wasn't sure she wanted to tell him anything, leave alone how to say it. “I've been counting carrots,” she said.

  “That'll get you kicked out of most casinos,” he said. She didn't smile.

  “I cut six carrots for dinner, into roughly eight pieces each. But a little less than forty pieces went into the soup.”

  “Hmm,” he said.

  “I think Potts is stealing food. I think he always was.”

  “Hmm,” he said. “I suspected as much. And I think Blaine knew it, too. But he was of a mind to live and let live, and a man who turns a blind eye to someone stealing from me is as guilty as the thief themself. Keep a count, the rest of the day, of everything that goes missing, and at day's end, I'll confront him. I've known Potts long enough he gets a warning—and I've known him long enough to know that without a precise count the warning won't stick. And you and your friend should prepare. You'll be going out today.”

  “Out?”

  “Salvage. You didn't think I took you on just to cut a few carrots, did you?”

  “No,” she said, though in all honesty, salvage sounded better than the other work he might put her to.

  “Ahem,” he said, then waited for something to happen. Nothing did. “You can come in.” An older man with darker, ruddier skin than Christine’s entered the room, and stood beside her. “This is Tyson. Think of him as a teacher. He'll show you the ropes of salvaging. Make sure you don't get yourselves into too much trouble.”

  The captain's last word echoed in her head as she ran her eyes over Tyson's muscles, slicked with sweat. She wondered if he’d ever killed someone with his bare hands; she had no doubt that he could. One look in his deep and dark eyes told her he would if it came to it. “Do you understand everything we’ve talked about?” the captain asked.

  Ilsa frowned, and was about to ask what he meant when she saw Tyson nodding slowly from the corner of her eye. “Good. Then if you’ll escort our… coworker back to the kitchen, there’s work in need of doing before we reach the Gulch.”

  Tyson walked her back to her workplace. He opened the door, and she even thought he gave a partial bow as she entered.

  The cook was sweating more than usual, but then, she’d been gone longer than she intended. “That was about the longest piss I ever heard of,” Potts said, then thought better of it, and eyed her suspiciously. “Wash them hands double, girl; I’m not having another round of dysentery through the crew.”

  She nodded, spurted sanitizer on her hands, and rubbed it through her fingers, taking care to spread it over the webbing. They cooked. They were already running low on supplies for stews, but they had enough smoked meat and bread to last weeks. The thought made Ilsa sad; the kitchen was soft work, easier work, and she knew things would become infinitely more dangerous when they left the ship. She even enjoyed the curmudgeonly cook, who for all his gruffness, seemed to like her—even if his actions had cost one man already his hands, and could have easily done the same for her.

  Tyson was standing outside the kitchen, waiting for her. He kicked off the wall, pretending he’d been involved in his own business, rather than what he had really been up to: spying on her. The thought unnerved her. She wondered if he was there for the same reason Stanley used to stalk her through the halls at her school, but a confused boy stalking her was wishful thinking—the captain set Tyson on her.

  He needn’t have bothered. She’d seen first-hand what happened to those who didn’t inform the captain of wrong-doings, and marched straight away to his cabin.

  She knocked daintily, and when the captain bellowed for her to enter, Tyson, who she hadn’t noticed was close at her
heels, pushed the door in without breaking stride.

  It took Ilsa a moment to find her voice inside the room. She hadn’t noticed it before, but it was more lavishly appointed than the rest of the ship: lush red carpet, only slightly damaged purple drapes. The captain’s eyebrows raised in anticipation. “More went missing. I’d estimate it at a third of a potato—not much, but.”

  “Enough,” the captain said, slowly raising his hand for emphasis. He turned his attention to Tyson. “They’ll need an education in the breathing equipment. I won’t tolerate a repeat of what happened with the twins.”

  “I’ll make sure they know the ropes before we have them dangling by them.”

  “Good. Hold back a moment, Mr. Tyson. If you would, please, wait for him in the hall.”

  Ilsa didn’t like it, but she was going to be leashed to Tyson, and didn’t have much say in the matter. It seemed better not to antagonize either man.

  After a moment, Tyson emerged. He nodded in her direction, but didn’t give her any indication of the conversation she had been left out of. He took her to a store room across from the kitchen. He shouldered two large tanks and handed her a filter. They carried them back to the room where Christine was stationed.

  Her eyes were closed, and she cradled a small metal tank in her hands while a skinny crew member stood watch. Ilsa's eyes went wide as she noticed the soft blue glow leaking off the end of the tank—Christine was using magic in front of strangers. “Christine,” she gasped.

  Christine’s eyes shot open. She frowned, and touched her temple, her gaze unfocused. Ilsa wondered what she had been seeing. “Mmm, ow,” she said. She handed the tank to Delton. “It’ll hold, but it might need a few more minutes, after I’ve had a chance to rest.” He shrugged, took the tank, and left the room.

  Ilsa wanted to ask her what the hell was going on, but wasn’t certain she trusted Tyson enough.

  “They already knew,” Christine said calmly. “I had feathers when we got here, remember?”

  “Not that many,” Ilsa said, and they both smiled.