“Breakfast is ready in the mess hall,” he informed us. “If you don’t want to eat with the crew, just inform one of the cooks in the galley so they know when to set something aside for you.”
Nate had in the meantime heaved himself out of his bunk, not quite incidentally blocking the space between the bunk beds—and also the view of me.
“That won’t be an issue,” he told Red, his voice that mix between neutral and pleasant that usually set my teeth on edge because I knew that it was fake as hell. “Thank you for letting us know.”
“If you want to, we can give you a tour of the ship,” Red offered.
Nate was quick to deflect the offer. “Not my first time on a destroyer. I think we’ll manage.”
Red nodded, at least pretending to be a little at a loss for words. “They set apart the two unused helicopter hangars as training rooms for the marines, and everyone who thinks they need a little more space. I can have them block off a few hours for you if you prefer that. Midnight to four a.m. is usually quiet, I’m told.”
I knew Nate was about to give another one of those answers, but I finally managed to heave my legs over the side of the bunk, the motion enough to draw his attention and make him pause for a second. Exhaling slowly, I forced my upper back to straighten so I could look at Red from around Nate’s hip. “Why exactly do you think any of us want special treatment? That is, unless you and your flunkies don’t want to associate with us.”
I had to hand it to Richards, he was still unperturbed by my comments, just as before. “I don’t think most of us give a crap either way,” he replied, a little more succinct now. “But maybe you in particular would like not to invite unwanted attention.”
My, wasn’t that a loaded statement, but I knew how he meant it even before I realized that he was staring at the mess of scar tissue and swollen bruises that was my left thigh.
“Why, you checking me out?” I drawled, even managing a small smile.
“Wouldn’t think of it,” Red replied wryly, but then chose to ignore my needling in favor of finishing his conversation with Nate. “The crew of the ship would appreciate it if you stayed out of all operational areas. You’re free to visit the mess hall, head, allotted recreational areas, and the hangars any time you like, but please check in with someone if you need to go out on deck. The sea can get mighty choppy in winter, and while they don’t mind if we do target practice at the stern, they prefer not to get any of their human cargo swept into the ocean. Your crates are still stowed away, but we’ve set apart a rack in the armory for drills.”
He hesitated after Nate’s curt nod, then left, disappointingly chipper. I stared at the closed door for several seconds, trying to motivate my body to move. It didn’t quite want to cooperate, but the fact that I got other input than agony from all over was a bonus. Actually, it was a tremendous step forward, but I was still in too much pain to appreciate it.
While the others dragged themselves out of their bunks and slowly got going, I did my best not to be in the way. I couldn’t move fluidly enough yet to dress myself, but we found an easy solution for that. With everyone but me needing to troop to the bathrooms—sorry, the head, of course, as Nate tartly corrected me—it was easy to wait until it was just him and me, and he could rid me of the sweat-soaked, blood-and-pus stained clothes and get me into a new set. I knew I was feeling better when I got incredibly annoyed by how long it took him to get my socks and pants on. He noticed but didn’t comment on it, instead fetching what counted for my nutrition these days while I hopped toward the door.
There was one huge advantage to the claustrophobic nightmare that were the corridors of the ship—it was impossible for me to face-plant, because whenever I lost my balance or staggered, there was a wall to hold on to or brace myself with. Nate tried to catch me once, but left it at a singular attempt when he made me howl with pain, and growl with frustration once I was on my own two feet again. I could tell that he was burning to offer a scathing remark along the lines of me being a lot quicker if I just let him carry me, but I would be damned if I let that happen. All the soldiers had seen of me was a feverish, weak waif, now turned into a cripple. Technically, watching me drag my sorry carcass around at snail speed wasn’t much better—yet—but it helped put a damper on my grousing ego. I might not be strong enough for a normal, regular gait, but I could keep myself upright, and that was already huge progress over yesterday.
We met up with the others just outside the mess hall and strode in together, Burns and Nate first, then me, followed by the rest.
Nate stalked in like a bristling cat—or mountain lion, going by the mat of a beard that had taken over the lower half of his face, having grown quite considerably since he’d last shaved back in… Utah, my flagging memory provided. To someone unfamiliar with him, he might have seemed alert only, but I could read the extra tension in his shoulders easily enough. It seemed a little overkill to me, considering that it wasn’t just us and Bucky’s people in here, but I couldn’t help but wonder if his apprehension was warranted. I was hoping not, as with me a clear liability, it didn’t bode well for us if anyone was actually planning to come after us.
About three hobbling steps in, I forgot what I had been thinking about. I couldn’t tell if anyone stared at me as it took my full concentration to keep going, using the wall to the right for support whenever needed. My left foot more dragged than moved properly as even the few yards from our quarters to the mess hall had overstrained my thigh muscles, but I forced myself to keep going. The entire mess hall was teeming with people, sailors and marines getting their breakfast, but two tables at the very back had been left empty. Red and one of the soldiers were just sitting down at one of them, so Burns headed for the other, two rows of seats over. I eased myself into the very first chair I reached, exhaling with real gratitude when the weight was off my thigh and feet. If I remained sitting very straight, I didn’t even need to lean into the backrest. Perfect.
Between the others, something of a scuffle broke out as nobody wanted to sit with their backs to the room, and Nate wasn’t the only one pulling the “I’m the most capable fucker around” card. It was hilarious enough to make me grin for a second, my cheek barely hurting anymore. I gingerly reached up and prodded my jaw, finding the swelling gone for good, and what pressure I could put on with my teeth only, with nothing to chew on, felt almost normal. So everything was ready for food except my intestines. And I was soon going to do something about that, too.
Gita and Tanner ended the ridiculous game of Chairs by taking the seats opposite me, leaving Nate to take the one to my right, and Burns pulled an extra chair over to the head of the table, to my left. Nate pushed the premixed shaker at me as they all got up once more to grab some coffee and chow from the lines at the opposite side of the room. I was sorely tempted to reach across the table and rearrange the many knickknacks they’d all brought to turn the seating order upside down once more, but that would have required a little too much motion than I felt capable of right now. Just as well—this way I had a few minutes to catch my breath and take a look around the room.
None of the crew seemed overly interested in us, although they were casting the odd curious glance at the bunch joining the food line. Me, they mostly ignored. I did my best to keep my bandaged hands in my lap, well out of sight. As I watched, the other table began to fill as the soldiers, already having gotten their chow, sat down one by one. Bucky wasn’t among them, a tremendous relief—until I started to wonder where he’d ended up. I was notoriously bad with reading signs of rank on uniforms, but none of the crew that I could see seemed to be of higher rank. They probably had something like an officer’s mess around—and I wasn’t sure if it boded well if Bucky had the stage there to regale them all with tales of what a bunch of misfits he’d gotten stuck with. It stood to reason that Richards should have joined him, but I’d gotten the sense from Red that he was the kind of officer who’d rather hang around his men to integrate himself better in their midst, and, if
necessary, be right there to resolve any conflict that might arise—pretty much playing it by Nate’s book. Burns had once tried to explain to me that officers were usually not supposed to mingle—that was their sergeant’s job—but from what I could tell, this bunch here was as irregular as Nate’s people had been.
Resolve conflicts, what a concept. As if I’d been tempted to start anything by throwing my shaker across the tables between ours and duck before anything could come back.
One after the other, my people returned, carrying trays heaped with surprisingly edible-looking food. Gita’s eyes were a little wide when she saw the sheer amount of food Burns and Nate had accrued for themselves, and they resembled saucers by the time they dug in, decimating the eggs, bacon, beans, bread, granola, and cheese in record time. I felt my mouth water at the scents wafting over, not sure whether to be happy that at least part of my instincts had survived, or even more depressed that my own breakfast consisted of the contents of the plastic shaker right in front of me.
As soon as Nate’s alarm went off, I hit the button on my watch to start the countdown, fumbling minimally as the first three fingers of my right hand were more or less functional, before I reached for the shaker—this time with my left—and threw that undefinable gray liquid down my gullet. And kept on going, swallow by swallow, as fast as my throat would work. That was a lot better than yesterday as well.
About halfway through the shaker I realized that both Tanner and Burns were staring at me. The same was true for two soldiers at the other table that quickly became the overwhelming majority of them until I was done. I set the shaker down with as much dexterity as I could muster—not a lot—and quickly pulled my hands underneath the table again. My cheeks should have heated up with embarrassment but my body didn’t seem quite up for that yet, but squirm I could all right. That was, until Tanner cleared his throat, making me look at him instead of trying not to stare down the still-gawking soldiers.
“Damn, you really have guts of steel, girl.” My bland look must have given away my confusion, because he laughed, shoveling some more eggs into his mouth. “All of us have been there, at least once. Drinking that shit to restart your digestion. Had the great honor twice, once after a couple of shots perforated half of my lower torso. That shit is about the vilest thing I’ve ever tasted, and I’ve lived two weeks off bugs while out in the middle of nowhere. Just seeing it sitting there on the table makes me want to hurl. How the fuck can you just chug it down like soda?”
I chanced a glance toward the soldiers, just to test my dawning theory. What I’d thought was them staring at my mutilated fingers was indeed a mix of awe and rather deep-seated horror—of exactly the kind Tanner had just described. I couldn’t help but smirk a little, even if I wasn’t yet done squirming—and now feeling ridiculous on top of that. But playing over that was something I was used to.
Gingerly leaning back in my seat, I crossed my arms over my chest and shrugged. “Seems like I’m just that much of a badass.”
“That you are,” Nate replied, low enough that I barely caught it. I cast him a sidelong glance but he pretended not to have said anything, further decimating his breakfast.
Raucous laughter coming from the soldiers’ table let me guess that they’d found a more interesting topic to talk about, but I didn’t miss the odd glances still coming my way. That I could deal with. As for the rest…
I didn’t feel myself zone out as much as I realized that everything around me got hazy to the point where I had no idea what the others had been talking about for the past… five minutes? Ten? Judging from the fact that Nate had more food on his plate than before—a refill, probably—and Gita was done shredding her bread into pieces and eating them, each carefully smeared with butter or cream cheese, gave me some indicators. That the odd looks my way had taken on a different quality, as well.
“Just how much like a zombie am I staring into nothing?” I asked Nate, needing too damn long until my brain got the actual sentence out of my mouth.
“Only like a very fresh one. Two to three weeks, max,” he replied, the corner of his mouth quirking up at the end. “Why, got an unexplainable hunger for brains?”
He and I were both staring at the other table now. “Not much food to find there,” I quipped, still trying to shake myself out of my stupor. “Are you done soon? I think getting out of bed was only a temporarily good idea.”
“Give me five more minutes.” Part of me was miffed at that response, but just sitting there wasn’t really pushing me. It wasn’t comfortable, but compared to yesterday it was peanuts.
Once he was done, I managed to get up all by myself, but let Nate carry my shaker so I had both hands free to catch myself when I stumbled—and this time, I did plenty of that. The way back to our quarters wasn’t long, but the last stretch I would have been ready to let him carry me had he offered—and it was a damn good thing that he didn’t. Just as we were approaching the door, Bucky stepped into the corridor, turning our way. It damn near killed me to force my back to straighten and my left thigh to fully accept my weight, but I managed to walk the last five steps at almost normal speed, if of somewhat imperfect posture.
So much for motivation.
I didn’t attempt to try to entertain myself with reading—least of all the heap of notes and folders Raynor had sent with me—but spent the next five hours and forty minutes just existing. Moving from one side to the other got easier with each time, and when I chanced lying on my back for a little while, it hurt, but not enough to draw my mind back into full focus. One more shaker of that terribly foul liquid, and I felt moderately up to sitting in my bunk, at least for a little while. That already felt like an improvement.
The others whiled away the day with reading, chatting, sleeping, and eating what Tanner dragged in when he went to hunt for lunch. In small groups of twos or threes they disappeared to take care of business or check out that makeshift gym Red had been talking about. Nate remained plastered to my side, if trying to be unobtrusive about it. Just before dinner, I tried my luck with one of those squeeze balls to get my grip strength back, but had to stop after two frustration-filled minutes. I was getting better, but not quite that fast.
Dinner was a repeat of breakfast, only with different food. Again, Bucky was pointedly absent, but no one seemed to miss him. I certainly didn’t as I amused myself with tearing a tissue into bits, rolling them into small balls and chasing them over the table top. It was a little early for the next stage of my nutritional journey—this time a shaker full of grayish-beige sludge rather than just gray—but I downed it while the others were digging into their chili abomination, anyway. I’d briefly looked over Raynor’s notes while Nate had mixed up this batch. She’d presumed a completely sedentary lifestyle for me for a full four days. As that wasn’t happening, I didn’t see why I couldn’t jump-start it all a little earlier. This time, the soldiers seemed to have been waiting, the entire lot—two tables full as they’d apparently all shown up at the same time—watching. I didn’t disappoint them, but refrained from licking the rest from the rim of the shaker. It smelled bad enough, and the texture was… interesting. Tanner visibly shook himself as he watched me finish it, and more than one of the soldiers had a similar reaction. I gave them a two-fingered salute—all that was possible with my right hand—and went back to my tissue balls. The sailors and marines gave us all weird looks, apparently not having a clue what was going on.
Later that evening, we went through another fun round of “poke Bree with scalpels and needles,” although this time both Nate and Gita were much quicker. Routine was only partly responsible for that. My thigh was still leaking, as were two of the worst scars on my back, but the rest had closed up over the last day. My skin still looked sallow wherever there wasn’t any residual tan, and some of the bruises were fading much slower than the others. The night was just as bad as the last, if a little less painful—until the stomach cramps started.
This almost-dying thing really was a gift that kept on g
iving.
At just shy of four in the morning, it got bad enough that I decided I needed to use the bathroom, but when I tried to get up, the cramps got so bad that I quickly nixed that idea. As soon as he realized what the problem was, Nate bundled me up in his arms and carried me over to the next bathroom—that was thankfully empty—just in time managing to get my pants and underwear down. I spent what pretty much amounted to the most embarrassing fifteen minutes of my life with him there, that only got better when, halfway through, what hadn’t yet been digested started coming up the other way. Nate took it all with a surprising dose of humor—and for once didn’t even try to piss me off—as he called out to Burns, stationed outside the head, to please fetch us fresh clothes. As we were both in dire need of a shower, I decided that keeping the bandages dry made no sense whatsoever, and he helped me wash. At least now that the cramps had eased up, I managed to remain upright on my own, mostly needing him to clean the parts of my body that I couldn’t easily reach.
Before getting dressed again, I made the mistake of glancing at the mirror above the sinks. It was partly fogged over and the lighting was dim enough to further obscure rather than enhance, but what I saw was enough to make me freeze. I almost didn’t recognize my body, and not just because of the abundance of marks that hadn’t been there last time I’d had a chance to look at myself in a mirror—several weeks ago. Pale and gaunt didn’t even begin to describe it. I’d lost weight before—not having access to food will do that to you—but most of that had usually been fat, leaving me lean yet muscular. But that… thing that was staring back at me, eyes sunken, cheeks hollow, didn’t look like it had enough muscles left to support itself. Suddenly, it made all the more sense that I couldn’t walk, or even sit, without feeling drained—my body had literally started to eat itself up. A sob started deep inside my chest, building as it welled up, gaining strength. I knew that if I let it out, it would be the end of my composure, the end of what little strength and dignity I still clung to, doing my very best to ignore everything else—
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