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The brutes—hard for Nigel to think of them otherwise—filtered into the kitchen, their leader, Gator, inspecting the place as if he meant to make an offer of purchase. A line of metal tables marched down the center of the room, so Nigel had placed Joe at the far end, near the exit door where the rain beat, with the small, built-in freezer bereft of its door.
"Anything that burns," Nigel said.
Devi set down her own burdens. "Copy that."
"Go to, boys! You heard the man," Gator barked.
Could one say that a person named for a reptile has "barked"? Well, that was the tone, and certainly the men jumped to work as if he'd been nipping their heels. Nigel unrolled the top of his drybag, pulling out his extra layers. "Joseph, I'd advise removing your clothing, as you'll dry faster that way, and I don't want to take liberties with your person."
"Uh, right." The young man swallowed, shifting around to get free of the mylar blanket. Helping him peel the mylar off, Nigel held it up, arms spread wide.
"There you are, privacy. As best we can, anyhow."
"Thanks. And it's just Joe, not Joseph." Rustling sounds, and the occasional clatter of teeth from behind the screen as Nigel stood with his head down, eyes averted. A sodden t-shirt flopped out to one side, followed by wet canvas pants. No wonder the fellow'd been sinking so well. Nigel's own shivering came on fast, but he knew the lad needed the dry clothes more than he did.
"Tablecloths or towels, anyone?" Nigel called out. "If you find any, they'd be greatly appreciated."
Somebody shouted back, "Oh, it's a formal party." Then the jester's register shifted. "Tell me old chap, black tie, is it? I'm afraid I've left my ascot at the races."
Quite the credible imitation, really, yet Nigel failed to appreciate the so-called flattery as the man's chums cackled like a murder of crows.
"Put the kettle on the hob!" shouted another as he entered with an old crate that proved to be full of antique menus. More laughter.
"Can't we get shrimp on the barbie?" another voice demanded.
"You're just after Barbie!" said the chap on the way out.
"Don't be a chucklehead, Tyrone—that's Australia." The Marine entered with a pile of musty table cloths. He stacked them on the counter, then unfurled one and draped Nigel's shoulders. "Sorry about my buds."
"No worries, I'm sure they're charming." The tablecloth, thin as it was, still managed a startling layer of warmth. Or was it the human consideration behind the gesture?
"Kind of you to think so, but you don't know 'em like I do." The Marine patted Nigel's shoulder.
The mylar shifted suddenly, and Joe grunted softly, as if he tried to stifle his voice. Nigel lowered the cloth to find Joe leaning against the wall, then sliding down. He wore Nigel's fleece jacket, partly zipped, and one leg of Nigel's rain pants, but he shook so badly Nigel couldn't see him finishing the task.
Catching the man's shoulders, Nigel pulled the jacket zipper all the way to his chin. "There's no dishonor in needing help," Nigel murmured, and the lad flinched a little.
"Easy does it, Private. Get you warmed up soon enough." The Marine commandeered the young man's elbow, guiding him to sit on a dry part of the floor and helping him into the other pant leg.
Devi strolled in, deposited an old carton of paper napkins, and started rooting through the cabinets. Releasing the mylar blanket to the Marine, Nigel turned to the next task: fire.
Wind howled through the empty dining room beyond and rain pounded against the covered windows and straight through the broken ones. "Don't suppose you gents could batten down the hatches on our behalf?" Nigel suggested. "I expect we're here for the duration."
"Overnight at least." Gator stared at him a moment, then swiveled away. "Get to it, boys! Best way to stay warm is to keep moving! Need those windows covered and get the floor swept by the inside walls—no way we can all sleep in the kitchen."
"We'll come up with some braziers," Nigel told him as he marched away.
"Brassieres?" The scar-faced man stuck his head through the door with a leer, but Gator's arm retrieved him.
"Shut your trap, Flick, you're not that dumb." They vanished into the other room.
Nigel kept looking to Devi, anticipating some reaction to these men, but if anything, she seemed more methodical and focused than ever before as she searched each cabinet, placing useful things on the counters below.
"Matches," Devi announced, producing a box from the cabinet nearest the antique gas stove.
They couldn't be so lucky, could they, as to find some gas still in the tank? Knotting the tablecloth at his throat to secure it, Nigel tried a burner. The old knob turned, sparking feebly, but no ignition. Ah, well.
He pulled a commercial-sized bowl from the upper shelf and placed it in the middle of the floor where Devi started shredding menus and napkins into it. Arryo appeared, carrying a few bundles. "From the boat, my supplies. Here is food and other things."
"Excellent!" Nigel settled next to his makeshift fire pit and beckoned Arryo down beside him.
Joe, now in dry clothes, bundled with a few tablecloths and the mylar blanket over all lay near the far wall, the Marine checking the pulse at his wrist.
Kneeling by the giant bowl full of paper scrap, Arryo muttered something in his own tongue.
Ever so gently, Nigel touched his wrist and brought his lips close to the other man's ear. "Perdoname, Arryo," he whispered in Spanish. "You don't like them. Por que no?"
In the same language, Arryo told him, "The boat that sank belongs to Deigo Del Ojo. Donde esta Diego?"
Where, indeed.
Devi stomped on the crate breaking it into a few slabs, then used a cleaver to hack them smaller. When she bent to deposit a few of them into the bowl, she murmured, "They're all military or used to be."
From the big room beyond, something crashed, and somebody cursed.
"Better go get the boys out of trouble," said the Marine. He edged past them and headed out.
Nigel relaxed a little. "That one seems pleasant enough." The Marine had forced their boat to turn rather than hit a whale, and he'd stepped up to care for their ailing crewman.
"His name's Monty," Devi said aloud.
Pointing toward the door, then back to Joe, she shook her head and tapped a finger to her lips, warning him not to speak too freely, even now. Given the wind and rain, Nigel doubted anyone beyond their little circle could hear, but he acknowledged nevertheless.
He struck a match and brought it to the softer material beneath, then blew on it gently. Orange flame crept along the torn paper, with tendrils of smoke, then finally caught the thicker menu material. "Tacos al Pastor" went up in smoke, followed by "Enchiladas Mariscos." The region had been known for its scallops—so much so that they'd been harvested to extinction. Nigel's stomach growled. He never had gotten his tacos, and now it seemed he never would.
"We certainly couldn't let them drown," Nigel said to the growing flames. "And we can't be sure they've done anything more nefarious than to be reckless with another man's boat."
"Who are they? What do they want?" Arryo retrieved another bowl and started ripping napkins into it as if he could shred these sinister strangers.
"I'll see what I can find out," Devi murmured. "They seem interested in learning more about me." She swept the hair back from her head and rolled her shoulders back, letting the shirt cling over her breasts.
"A honeypot?" Nigel shook his head, swiftly taking her wrist. "I'd never ask that of you."
"I know." She withdrew her hand and met his eye. "If you would, I wouldn't be here."