Catapult the Swollen Bung

Previously: OK, time to finally get going on this big scary job we’ve heard so much about. Batya and Capital Sam convince Daniel, the poor hungover bottle washer, to sneak Bat onto the Dandy Gorgon inside a crate. No one thinks this is a good idea but I’m pretty sure it’ll all work out fine.

— 57 —

Bat can’t breathe. She tries to quiet her weeping brain by thinking of something besides being trapped in a crate, and her brain (no friend of hers) responds by imagining it slowly filling with seawater. She wants to scream her insides out but instead bites the skin between her thumb and forefinger to stifle it.

She can make out the muffled sound of gulls crying, waves lapping, merchants hawking, the foghorn above the broadcast booth of 105 The Hive. Bat’s memory of that room, filled with records and candles and the mellifluous tones of Fabulous Don Swezey, feels almost cruelly cozy right now.

Then she hears some squeaky wheels approaching—the dolly, she supposes—and Daniel hoists the crate onto it, uttering a grunt that feels, to her, a little exaggerated.

She’s wheeled along the grooved planks of the pier. They slam into something and the crate falls over, then is rolled back upright. She can make out snippets of confusingly coarse language from the sailors. (Catapult the swollen bung! Get hands on that waxen fur-monger!) Then she’s tilted backward and pushed up a steep incline, like the beginning of a roller coaster.

Then the sounds become closer, airless. She realizes she’s finally inside the Dandy Gorgon, that cursèd ship, home of countless tragedies and horrors over the decades, now the headquarters of the Snakehair Beverage Co. and its line of potables that have gotten Bat through—or instigated—many a rough night.

There are all kinds of noises here she doesn’t enjoy. Harsh voices barking orders. A bullwhip cracking. Manic laughter. Thousands of glass bottles clinking together. High-pitched, rhythmic screeches coming from some kind of machinery. The shrill clucking of terrified hens. Steel scraping against whetstone.

She’s hauled down a flight of stairs, each step cracking her spine, then rolled along a wooden floor for ages, then shoved against a wall. Footsteps walk away and all is quiet.

Bat tries to calm herself by doing her pearl diver breathing exercises, then running through the plan. What do we know and not know. Daniel just put her in some obscure corner of the hold. OK. She’ll lie low for a bit, then sneak around and figure out where this evil captain is playing whatever game it is, and then…maybe knock out a guard? Take his uniform? Get in, get out?

Oh my god, this plan, this plan is so bad. Mina would be disgusted, though not surprised. First off, Bat’s not even sure how she’ll get out of the crate, seeing as the kid thoroughly nailed it shut. She’s not too worried since it’s taking all her will power to keep from kicking the thing apart right here and now, but still, it would’ve been nice to at least—

She hears a few voices nearby, closer than she’d like. Is that Daniel? Why’s he still lurking around? Then there’s the whine of door hinges, maybe, and then, off in the distance, some raucous yelling from a crowd.

The crate is suddenly picked up and she almost yelps in alarm. She’s carried somewhere and the yelling gets louder, then she hears it all around her, and then she’s dropped unceremoniously on the floor. She can’t help but make a loud oof.

Doors slam shut. Then something jabs into the crevasse below the lid, some pointed tool that Bat figures is a crowbar, a crowbar that is coming way too close to her eyes. It pries off the lid and light floods in, blinding her.

Then the crate is upended and Bat is poured out onto the floor. She tries to get to her feet but can barely move after being cramped up in there.

“Poppy,” she hears a woman say. “Keep her still for me, would you?”

Bat’s seized by someone with thick hairy arms and put into a chokehold. She tries to wriggle free but nothing doing, Poppy’s got a death grip on her.

Her pupils get their act together and she starts to clock the joint—four people seated around a table, with dozens of onlookers crowded in the periphery—but her view is suddenly blocked by a petite woman getting right up in her face. Eyes tattooed with golden smears of serpentine curves. Hair billowing like factory smoke up through a headdress made of pronged spikes. An elaborate dress that seems impractical and ill-suited to this place and time: hunter green, high waist, lace collar, bone buttons.

“Who is she?” this woman asks, sweet, husky.

“Stowaway,” Bat hears Daniel say.

Bat thrashes enough to free her windpipe and howl: “Daniel you A-1 rat cock!”

The woman takes Bat by the chin and studies each of her eyes, then peels apart her lips to examine her teeth. “And what does she want?”

Daniel is having trouble keeping the trembling out of his voice. “She, she’s got a secret message for one of your players, ma’am.”

“Why, that’s against the rules,” the woman says, breaking into a delighted smile. “Ahoy, stowaway. I’m Captain Nia Muto. Welcome aboard the Dandy Gorgon.”

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This has been Chapter 57 of Chokeville, a novel by Josh Fireland.

Next up: The Bone Corral