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Under cover of hauling a tabletop to cover the doors, Gator signaled Flick to join him. Monty appeared from the kitchen door, only to step to the side, his back to the wall, listening. Across the room, he made a sign for silent running. Gator didn't know what was going on, and didn't like it. Nothing worse than ignorance.
"What's up?" Flick grabbed the other side of the table, the pair of them propping it over the gap, then bracing it with a chair.
"We can't trust them. We don't know who they are or what they're doing out here. I know why we went into the storm—why the hell did they?"
"Whale watching." Flick stripped off his wet shirt and slung it over an empty light fixture on the back wall.
Not far from the main entrance stood a built-in counter that served as both greeting station and bar, from the old mug rings embellishing the surface. Be a good place to bed down, actually, regardless of the makeshift window covers Smitty and Tyrone still worked on. Behind the bar, a trapdoor interrupted the floor. Huh. "Flick—get back here."
Down the wall, Monty turned his head to watch, but didn't move yet from his self-appointed post. Half what he did was self-appointed. His attitude reminded Gator of some insubordinate guys he'd known in lock-up. If Monty's self-righteous streak got any wider, he'd be claiming the comm. Pretty soon, Gator had to lay down the law on that.
Meantime, Gator grabbed the embedded ring in the floor, and heaved the old door open. Flick produced a flashlight and shone it down into the hole. A ladder led inside, and Gator hopped to it, climbing into the musty darkness accompanied by the sound of skittering feet. He stuck his hand back through the hole, and Flick deposited the flashlight into his palm. Wet clothes and hair felt even clammier down here. Hope the B-team got their act together with those firepits. In the meantime, he stood in a cube of a room lined with shelves, mostly empty. A few behind the ladder held ranks of bottles, and Gator grinned. "What do the swells drink in England?"
Flick lay on the floor, his head dangling into the hole. "Whisky. Single malt. Cider, maybe?"
Gator plucked a bottle off the shelf, wiping the label on his shirt before he passed it up through the hole, rapidly followed by a few more. He didn't usually start drinking before noon, but all this survival and subterfuge was thirsty work. Besides, like the Limey said, they weren't getting out of here before morning. Little bit of luck, and some lubrication, they could get what they wanted from their so-called saviors.
"See what else you find." Gator clambered back up, shoving the bottles out of the way as Flick took his place.
With a startled movement, Monty turned back toward the kitchen door. "Hey—Oh, sorry!" He chuckled, scrubbing a hand over his hair as he withdrew again, letting the woman through. "Just wanted to check on Joe." He gestured toward the kitchen, hella more awkward than usual. Either he was setting her up for something, or he really liked her. Could be handy either way.
As if they weren't there, she stripped off her quick-dry shirt, revealing a tank-top underneath, and shook out the shirt, as if none of them were there. Or maybe as if she liked to put on a show? Taking a cue from Flick, she hung it up on one of the light fixtures. She rubbed the gooseflesh on her arms. "We'll warm up in a minute, right? We've got one fire going already, and you guys have plugged half the leaks already." She nodded her approval at the re-purposed tables.
Monty peeled his eyes off of her and followed through on his claim of checking up on Joe, entering the kitchen, his bag still slung across his back.
Gator indicated the bar, then leaned on it with a casual air. "Anything I can get for you?" He held up a hand. "Anything more than thirty years old, anyway."
"Anything that might still be edible." She approached the bar, taking in their discoveries. "Nigel's offered to cook if we can rustle up ingredients."
"Nigel. That's your boss?" He turned away for a moment. "Hey, Flick—any of those cans look viable?"
"See what I can do!" Flick called out of the cellar.
"Yeah. Nigel. Kind of a dope." She rolled her eyes a little. "He's a good cook, though. Who'da thunk it."
Smitty burst from a door at the far end, holding a hammer in each hand. "It's hammer time!" Seeing the woman he lowered his arms. "What's your name anyway?"
"Jessica. You?"
"Smitty." He aimed a hammerhead at his own chest, then at Tyrone, following after him with a jar full of nails. "That's Tyrone. You got Monty and Joe in the kitchen, Flick with the—"he drew the hammer along his cheek to indicate the scar and made a Halloween face. "And Gator."
"I got a canister full of rice, some giant cans of beans, some of chilies and tomatoes, bag of dried-up oranges, buncha leaves in bottles." Flick's disembodied voice detailed his finds.
"Herbs? He'll be thrilled." Jessica strolled behind the bar and squatted down, looking inside, getting Gator a pretty nice view himself.
Flick started passing items up through the opening, and Jessica accepted them, sliding each one off to the side with brisk efficiency, her tan arms graceful and strong.
"So what branch of the service were you in?" Gator leaned his hips against the counter.
"How d'you figure that?" A nasty-looking bag of oranges joined the heap.
"The way you took charge back there when we were going down. Fearless. The way you went after Monty under the boat, calling him 'Jarhead' when you snapped him out of it." His tipped his head. "Am I right?"
She tossed her hair to one side to regard him with a smirk. "Couldn't tell you."
"'Cause then you'd have to kill me?"
"Something like that. Monty's ex-Marine—the ink gave him away, if nothing else—Joe's regular army, I'm guessing. Smitty and Tyrone...navy?"
His guess had been just that—a guess. Hers hewed to the truth to a disturbing degree, but Gator didn't let that show. "Nice. So, you were some kind of intelligence?" He snapped his fingers, then retreated as if alarmed. "Don't tell me you're CIA."
Her laughter made her hair ripple down her back, and she rose with an armload of cans. "I won't. Gimme a hand?"
Following her into the kitchen, he deposited his haul of cans onto the counter by the stove. Nigel and Monty were carrying the central table out of the way to stack with another they had already displaced. Two more bowls of fire licked up near Joe's end of the room.
"Marvelous!" The Brit wiped his hands and his eyes lit at the sight of the cans. He wore a tablecloth like a kid playing superhero as he strode over to assess their finds.
The Mexican stood on the other side of the stove, unloading a few items from an ancient backpack. Was that a bow and a quiver tucked in the corner of his bag? No way. Before Gator got a good look, the guy moved his bag out of view.
"Dried meat," the Mexican said, offering a wrapped packet.
Nigel assessed this. "It'll do." He fondled the desiccated oranges. "Any sort of alcohol? Grand Marnier would be ideal, but I'll settle for brandy."
"Seriously?" Monty hadn't looked up from organizing the tables. When he did turn back, a few boxes of burnables ranked along the front of the table.
"He's good," said Jessica. "Trust me." She cast her glance over the Marine, then strolled back out again, taking her time. "Lemme check our stash."
"How are things shaping up out there?" Nigel had found a chef's knife and worked to hone away the rust spots.
"Most of the windows are covered, the door, too," Gator reported. "There's not enough material to do them all, so we're leaving the other dining area. That's where the bathroom is, by the way. Still flushes, but I'd hate to know where it's going!"
The Brit wrinkled his nose. "Oh, dear."
Monty walked toward Gator. "We should maybe secure the boat a little better."
"Si. I should take care of this." The Mexican hurried ahead of them like he was afraid of what they might do. As they passed the door, Monty slipped a camera's memory card into Gator's palm.