JP/Collab from
@wanderingwolf and
@sail3695Cal’s bootfalls announced his ascent up the ramp of the cargo bay where he spotted Abigail looking over a pile of supplies for the coming wave of refugees from the Blackout Zone. The stage was being set, and in no small part to Abigail and Edina shouldering the work of preparing the China Doll. The Captain nodded; when he’d spelled out the plan, he’d expected some reservation from the crew and passengers, and when none came, it spoke to something deeper in the lot of them. Cal reckoned even the way Abigail worked intimated some buoyant spirit driving her attention to detail for sake of their precious cargo.
The Captain squared up beside the deckhand, folding his arms as he took in the sight of supplies what she’d accumulated. Blankets, pillows, sundries, and–were those dolls? He bent to pick one up, showing it to the Deck.
“Now I know we been scarce on free time, and y’had a rough childhood, but I conjure loadin’ the Doll up with dolls is, well, a mite on the nose, doncha think?” He moved the arm, swiveled the head.
Abby’s busy sortin’ an’ foldin’. Crew all did good, headin’ out an’ fetchin’ stuff fer their refugees. Tha pile they done built here in tha cargo bay would do a body proud. “Just wish they coulda folded what they brung,” the girl muttered as she pulled a sheet outta tha mountain.
Contour sheets, she ruminated, [/i]how do yah fold a thing like this?[/i]
She’s still puzzlin’ over that contraption when Cap’n stepped up aside ‘er. “Don’t like dolls, sir?” she asked, face gone deadpan ‘cept fer mischievous eyes what she turnt away from his sight. “Kinda creepifyin’ how they look atcha, ain’t it, sir?”
Captain suffered an involuntary shiver as he turned the head back round so that its eyes matched that same dead expression of all the other ones lying in the heap. The one in his hand emitted an electronic ‘wah’ through a fractured speaker somewhere inside the abdomen. “I prefer dolls of a
‘different’ variety, if you catch my drift,” his eyebrows arched as he turned the doll upside down to halt the crackling sound coming from the pseudo-Victorian terror. When it only produced more ‘creepifyin’ sounds at his efforts, he spoke over the cacophony to Abby, “So do I need to be concerned, here?”
“Don’t think so,” Abby glanced toward Cap’n an’ tha toy in ‘is hands. “Way I hear it, they’s lotsa’ dolls talk out their
pi gu’s. Lotsa folk, too, from my experience…or we talkin’ about somethin’ else?”
Cal shook his head and unceremoniously tossed the crying doll on the pile. “I mean to say, what are you doin’ with a gaggle of childrun kit in my cargo bay? Didn’tchu take to them lucky cats we have ‘round here somewheres?” Captain removed his hat and turned to face Abigail, “I don’t remember my list callin’ for the mess of frills I see on my ship.”
“It’s all shiny, Cap’n,” tha deckhand answered. “Just a idea I had, most like won’t amount tah nothin’. But don’t yah fret, sir,” she said. “Paid fer ‘em outta muh Greenleaf coin.”
“On the subject,” Strand’s tone changed, “Since you got took, to when you showed up wearin’ biker’s patches–I got a million questions about the in-between part of that story.” Cal’s silver cigarette case was in his hand, hat under his arm, but he saw Abigail’s face change at his question, choosing to add, “If you were lookin’ for an opportunity to bull, this here’s your shot.” He took his eye off the Deck as he held the flame to his smoke.
She give up tryin’ tah put some kinda fold on tha contour sheet; Abby jest rolled it up tight an’ set it aside. “Yer muh Cap’n,” the girl said as she tugged a blanket from tha pile. “Yah got right tah ask me anythin’ yah wanna know.” She held that blanket up full height so’s it didn’t touch deck, give it one fold lengthwise, then dropped ‘er hands tah catch it midways afore it could fall. “Yah seen tha state of me when they turnt me loose,” she said as she shook out wrinkles. “Turns out them Headhunters got codes an’ rules they live by. After whuppin’ on me an’ takin’ what shots I could give ‘em back, one of ‘em went tah their rule book an’ sussed it that I done everythin’ tah “patch in.”
This was all stuff she’s tryin’ so hard tah put in some little box…just cram it all away in a back corner of her mind til she could make sense of it her own self. Bein’ here, doin’ work…that’s what she wanted. In tough times it was always puttin’ ‘er head down an’ gettin’ tha job done what saw ‘er through. Abby flipped tha blanket fer one more fold, then set it down to grab another. “After all they done tah me, I conjured wearin’ their cut an’ bein’ treated like a little sister was a fair sight better’n t’other.”
Listening, the ember of his cigarette glowed and faded as her tale wound on, all the while her hands kept busy, like she were trying to fold away the thoughts she laid hold on now. The Captain’s eyes kept course on Abigail as she recounted the way she took hits and fought back. “I reckon you’re right,” was all he could muster. His thoughts forayed into the labyrinth of what her experience might have been based solely on the images of her from the video their leader sent as ‘motivation.’ “Sounds like you gave ‘em a taste of their own medicine.” He exhaled a pillar of smoke upward.
His brow furrowed as the Captain placed a hand on Abigail’s shoulder, “Weren’t no power in the ‘Verse could’ve stopped us comin’ for you. Goes for the whole crew. They was all behind the rescue,” Strand retrieved his hand to don his hat, “not least of all Joe.”
Weight of Cap’n’s hand stopped ‘er dead. Abby let ‘is words wash inta her. Words she tole herself over’n over, when them as took ‘er had ‘er blind and beaten. “Never stopped believin’ that,” tha girl lifted ‘er eyes to meet his. “Sight of y’all standin’ up tah thrice yer number ‘o’ men an’ guns…over me,” her voice cracked, “ was somethin’ I’ll take tah muh grave.” She thought on it some, knowin’ there’s more what needed sayin’. Cap’n spoke of Hook fer a reason. He had tah…ship needs ‘er crew pullin’ tahgether. Rifts don’t do no good. Still, she ain’t none too clear about tha how an’ why things crawfished between ‘em. “Cap’n, “ she said in all honesty, “I ain’t mad at Joe fer what them bikers done tah me. Uncle Bob always tole me sometimes they’s fellas jest need killin’. I got no truck with Joe makin’ that call. Dead guy’s friends come ‘round lookin’ fer payback,” she said, “an’ they found me. I can live with that. I ain’t never put that on him. But I ain’t gon’ be all sweet when he done nothin’ since ‘cept treat me like I’s just a hole in tha air.”
Cal met her eyes, “That Uncle Bob done taught you right, Abigail. Some fellas
do just need killin’.” Strand knew what Joe had shared with him, vis a vis his drinking problem, ought to stay between the pair, but maybe he could drop a seed along the path for Abigail. “But Hook? Put yourself in his boots for a click. ‘Magine he don’t know what you just said, an’ he’s carryin’ a powerful weight knowin’ what
he did led to what brought you back lookin’ worse for wear–no offense.” He raised his cigarette for another drag, “Just somethin’ to ruminate on. You mightn’t hold a grudge, but sometimes it’s harder to see the grudges we hold against ourselves.”
Now she could feel ‘er dander comin’ up. “That whut yew’d do, Cap’n?” Abby’s eyes grew hard. “Stead ‘o’ squarin’ up? If you’s carryin such a gorram ‘powerful weight’ thinkin’ yew’d done wronged a body, wouldja go on an’
la shi on ‘em right tah their face? I ain’t tryna be all churlish, sir, but I reckon when it comes down tah bein’ ‘tha bigger person,’ I done took my turn.”
Hands raised in surrender, Cal nodded, “And then some, no denyin’. It ain’t how I’d handle things, but you know me: I’m all sentimental.” The Captain paused, thinking whether he’d overstepped. He considered Abigail near close to kin, if there was such a station left for him to bestow in the ‘Verse. Last thing he wanted to do was cause a rift twixt them, too. Hells, then he’d be left only with the stellar thing he had going with the medic.
Snapping to, he could see he’d upset Abigail from that hard look in her eye. Taking a drag from his smoke, he nonchalantly added, “Say the word and we’ll leave ‘im here packin’. I hear Imani can make a mean sandwich.” Dropping his spent cigarette to the bay floor, he ground it out with his bootheel.
Abby let loose a gasp, flinchin’ like she been stung. Her eyes dropped, studyin’ tha pile ‘o’ linens fer some kinda words tah say…but ain’t nothin’ there.
Was that a joke? She couldn’t suss it out.
Was he makin’ light ‘o’ me? Am I playin’ it up too much? She didn’t think so. All she done was pay silence fer silence.
Her hands lashed out, snatchin’ up a blanket from tha heap. Abby poured ‘er anger inta foldin’, movin’ swift an’ harsh as she done tha job.
Shoulda kep my mouth shut, she cursed ‘erself fer a fool.
He watched her tear into a blanket like it were a punching bag, and he had a sneaking suspicion that in her mind at right this moment, that was him. Cal had scorned enough women in his time that the signs read plain as day, but it triggered something in him. Something stubborn. “Suit yourself,” he said, watching her from the corner of his eye. “Why I meddle, I’ll never know…” he added under his breath, quitting her company for the bay scaffolding on his way to the bridge.
Zoie Hart
wanderingwolf
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