Forged

We wait for what feels like forever. The rig eventually slows. I feel the ship scraping against a dock, hear the muffled shouts of the crew securing it. Footsteps follow overhead.

 

“I told you, already,” September says. “We’re clean.”

 

“We’ll be the judge of that,” a gruff voice responds. Feet pound nearer, stopping right above us. Another stomp. “Hear that? This model’s got a standard storage compartment, no? Garrett! Check this.”

 

The first panel is ripped away. Gear is riffled through. I have never felt so helpless in my life. Beside me, Bree reaches for the gun at her waist. The space is so tight, she has to draw it with her left hand and awkwardly pass it to her right. She switches off the safety, presses the barrel to the wood above our noses.

 

“Just spare rope and netting, sir,” the second inspector—Garrett—says. He sounds young.

 

“Fine. Close it up.”

 

The gear is thrown against the board separating our compartment from the dummy one. The top slams shut. A bit of dust floods our space.

 

And Clipper sneezes.

 

We all go rigid.

 

“Damn dust,” Garrett says, sniffling overhead. The floor creaks as he stands. “Well, aren’t you gonna say bless you?”

 

“Kid, you better watch your mouth with me. Get out of here.”

 

One set of boots leaves.

 

“This is the second time you’ve come into port on Daley’s rig in the last week. You got a thing for married men?”

 

“Just like being on the water, sir,” September answers.

 

A grunt. “I’m watching you.”

 

He leaves. I breathe a bit easier. But then September leaves, too, the sound of her boots following the footsteps that have already faded.

 

 

Confinement like this makes you lose track of time. What feels like hours pass, and we are still in the dark. The compartment seems to grow smaller with each inhale. The walls are collapsing. The air getting dirty, heavy, thick. Bree is pressed firmly against my right side, wood against my other. My legs are cramping. My back aches.

 

“I’m regretting those jokes about coffins,” Sammy says. When no one humors him, he adds, “Tough crowd.”

 

“Sammy,” Bree hisses, “I am miserable and cranky and uncomfortable. Do you really want to piss me off?”

 

Before he has a chance to answer, we hear footsteps returning. September. Finally.

 

The first panel is removed. The gear yanked up and cleared aside. Then, at long last, our ceiling is lifted away. I’m temporarily blinded. Everything seems large and my depth perception is off. When things make sense, I spot a face above us. Young and wide-eyed and frozen in fear as Bree brings her weapon to his forehead.

 

“The only reason I haven’t pulled this trigger is because it will be loud,” she says. It’s then I notice his Order uniform.

 

“I’m Garrett,” he says frantically. “I work with September.”

 

“Sure you do.”

 

“You think I couldn’t see the second door? I’m no idiot. And I covered when one of you sneezed. I’m on your side.”

 

“Where’s September?”

 

“Distracting my boss so I can get you guys into town.”

 

Bree’s eyes narrow. “There are six of us and one of you. Do anything suspicious that might compromise our safety and it will be your last act.” She lowers her weapon but keeps a finger near the trigger.

 

“Does she always show gratitude this way?” Garrett asks as he extends a hand to pull me to my feet.

 

“Pretty much.”

 

Bree punches me in the arm. My limbs are too cramped to bother fighting back.

 

 

 

 

 

TWENTY-ONE

 

 

IT’S WEIRD TO BE BACK in Bone Harbor. I never thought I’d see this place again and I’m almost shocked to realize I missed the smell of it—the salt and wet wood and smoking chimneys.

 

Garrett leads us to a two-story house that looks as dreary as most homes in town. The west side of the building has aged twice as fast as the others. The paint peels from the Gulf’s salty mist, and some of the boards are rotting, but inside, the place is dry and warm.

 

The first floor is shared by Garrett and his older siblings—one brother and one sister—who happen to be the same Expat-friendly citizens September mentioned working with when she visited us at the bookshop. She and Aiden rent out the upstairs floor.

 

“Did you want to see the basement?” Garrett asks the group after a round of introductions. “I heard you might need access to a computer while you’re here.”

 

Sammy lifts his shoulder, showing off his backpack. “I’m dropping this gear first.”

 

“You, then?” Garrett says, nudging my arm. “I want to show you something.”

 

Clipper offers to take my bag up for me, so I stay with Garrett. The main hallway is fully carpeted, but he grips a corner and strips back the material to reveal a trapdoor. I follow him down a rickety set of stairs and into a basement filled with computers, radio scanners, map-strewn walls, and enough crumpled wads of paper to fill several books.

 

“Bea’s real picky about getting the stories right,” he explains, kicking some of the paper aside. “Says people count on the Harbinger and we can’t release anything but the finest. It would be irresponsible.”

 

I eye a bulky contraption in the corner where most of the papers seem to congregate.

 

“You guys print it right here?”

 

He nods.

 

“But you work for the Order.”

 

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