A Stranger Thing (The Ever-Expanding Universe) (8 page)

Ducky shoots me a look that clearly means,
“Well, dur.”

As soon as the door
shushes
open, the sound of more than a dozen macho voices bursts forth.

Voices
singing
.

There are a lot of ways I envisioned a group of Almiri prisoners spending their time (a few of them a little more X-rated than I care to share) . . . but this was not one of them. The room we find ourselves in, which appears to be some sort of dining area, has the same streamlined white metallic look of the hallway, only with a kitchenette along the right wall, and four long tables with built-in benches in the center. Around those tables are gathered two dozen handsome dudes, some sitting, some standing with a leg up on a bench. They are swinging giant mugs back and forth, slapping each other on the back, and singing. Even weirder, the tune they’re belting can only be described as
jaunty
. If I didn’t know any better, I’d guess that I had stepped into a flipping Gilbert and Sullivan operetta.

“Gentlemen,” Oates calls out to the group. “Our new guests have arrived.”

As if on cue, Olivia begins screaming. The warmth of the room seems to have roused her from her Arctic semicoma. At least having a crying baby will defuse the total weirdness of a meet-and-greet, right?

Wrong.

At the sound of Olivia’s wailing, the entire chorus of singers stops and turns. Every last man looks at me, completely silent. Suddenly all the air has left the room. And, okay, I realize they probably don’t get any women down here, but this gang looks absolutely
stupefied
.

“Bloody hell,” comes a voice from the group.

Only one man has the courtesy to stand up. He is tall, broad-chested, blond, and ruddy. Although as he saunters our way I get the sense—from the disgusted sneer plastered on his face, I suppose—that maybe he’s not standing out of courtesy after all.

Oates clears his throat as the man approaches, as though in warning. “Jørgen,” he says quietly, almost in a growl. But whatever Oates thinks he’s communicating, the man Jørgen does not listen.

“
These
are our newest additions?” Jørgen sneers. He has a hint of a Swedish accent, which would be slightly comical if not for the fact that he’s currently leering at my baby like she’s a bug he found in his coffee. His eyes flick up to me, and I quickly get the feeling that I’m the mama bug. “Is the Council just dumping any old trash down here now?”

“Manners, Jørgen,” Oates says.

Jørgen scoffs dismissively. “Manners? I’ll show you manners. Manners would be kicking these worthless mules back out into the cold where you found—”

Jørgen doesn’t see the punch that Cole lands on the side of his head, but I’m sure the little cartoon birds that are circling above him can describe it to him later in detail.

“Cole!” I shriek. “What are you doing?” Olivia’s wails grow even louder as a slender fellow with sandy-brown hair leaps up from the table to jerk Cole back by the arms. “Have you completely lost your mind?” I ask Cole, backing away from the scuffle to try to comfort my wailing infant.

Cole has a confused look on his face, like he can’t tell if
he’s proud of what he’s just done, or embarrassed. The man pinning Cole’s arms behind him seems a little more with it, however. “Oates?” the man asks, clearly wondering what to do about Cole, who’s not even struggling against the restraint.

Still on the floor, Jørgen rubs his jaw. “What are you waiting for?” he asks Mr. Sandy Hair, spitting out a tooth. “Take him out to the kennel.”

“When he does something out of line, perhaps,” Oates replies. And without needing to hear another word, the sandy-haired fellow releases Cole.

“Sorry,” the man whispers to Cole as he lets him go. “Just had to check with the boss.” And then, shockingly, he
winks
at him.

“These are our
guests
,” Oates repeats, his voice loud enough for all the Almiri to hear. He extends a hand to help Jørgen off the floor, but the Swedish Bond villain—no shocker—refuses, pushing himself dizzily to his feet, muttering and growling. “You will treat them all with respect.” This, clearly, is directed at Jørgen.

“You’re not in charge of anyone here, Titus, regardless of what you may think,” Jørgen snarls. But even I can see that this is wishful thinking on Jørgen’s part. All Oates has to do is take a single step in Jørgen’s direction, and suddenly Mr. Very Obviously in Charge seems to have grown about ten centimeters taller. He looks down at Jørgen and doesn’t say another word, merely fixes his eyes on him until the Swede finally crumbles.

“Welcome to Cape Crozier,” Jørgen grumbles to me. He narrows his eyes at the top of Olivia’s head, then raises one thick blond Swedish eyebrow. “I hope you’ll both be very comfortable here.”

Well.

“What the heck was
that
?” I hiss at Cole as Jørgen stumbles furiously out of the room. “Are you high?”

Ducky finally emerges from where I didn’t realize he was crouched behind my dad to ask, “What’s a mule, anyway?”

Cole just shrugs. “I don’t know,” he admits. “But it didn’t sound very nice.”

I puff out my cheeks, exasperated. Only my Coley would risk getting shivved on his first day in prison, and not even know
why
.

Mr. Sandy Hair claps a hand on his shoulder. “It’s
not
nice,” he agrees. “But enough unpleasantries.” He offers Cole a glowing smile, and I stop to really take the man in for the first time. He’s, like, überbeautiful. I guess that that shouldn’t surprise me, but this guy’s hot even by Almiri standards. He looks fairly young, though with an Almiri that could mean that he’s “only” two hundred years old or so. “Rupert,” the dreamboat tells Cole brightly, offering his hand. “Welcome to the roost.”

“Uh, Cole,” Cole replies as Rupert winks at him again.

So, our new buddy is weird, but at least friendly. Although I notice he doesn’t bother to shake anybody
else’s
hand.

Oates has moved on to unpacking supplies, and the rest of the Almiri prisoners have dispersed, either helping Oates or finishing up their lunch, so at first I think Rupert is the only guy out of the whole bunch who’s going to talk to us. But it seems there’s one more.

“Care to introduce me to our new friends, Rupe?” booms out a cheery Boy Scout voice. I glance up just in time to see a man slap Rupert on the back jovially. He’s taller and broader
than his friend, with a chiseled jaw and jet-black hair in a slicked-back hairdo that’s so archaic, it comes complete with a spit curl. “Finally some new blood. There haven’t been any new guests since I got here a hundred and forty-three years ago.” When it becomes clear that Rupert only has eyes for Cole, his buddy shifts gears, stretching out his arm to Ducky and shaking his hand vigorously. “Pleased to meet you . . . ?”

“Ducky, er, Donald,” Ducky replies. He’s squinting at the guy, like he’s accessing old databanks for some sort of info.

“Gosh, Ducky sounds just fine,” the human action figure says, beaming. “It’s good to meet you. I’m Clark.”

And at that, for some reason, Ducky almost chokes on his own spit. He turns to me, eyes round as basketballs.

“Are you having a stroke?” I whisper.

“Well . . . hi there,” Clark says, turning to me. The presence of me and the baby clearly has him ruffled, although he’s dealing with it better than, say, the Swede.

“I’m Elvie,” I tell him. “And this little screaming bundle of joy”—Olivia’s shrieking is reaching dog-frequency pitches now—“is Olivia.” Suddenly I feel flushed from the attention, the trip, everything, and I’m a bit woozy on my feet. “She’s hungry,” I say, as if it were an excuse.

“Of course she is,” Clark replies, smiling. “It’s a long trek for a baby.” He reaches down and
boops
her on the nose. She keeps screaming. “Your little girl might be the first newborn to make it all the way to the South Pole.”

“I’ll have her plant the baby flag outside later.” I rock Olivia, but she’s too worked up to be calmed.

“Oates!” Clark calls over his shoulder. “What do we have
in the way of baby food?” And Oates, to his credit, immediately heads our way, still limping slightly.

“Sorry—” I start, but Oates stops me with a raised hand.

“No need to apologize, child. It’s been a long day. A long several days, from what I gather.”

“Try a few months,” I tell him. I’m pretty sure that crying your first day of prison is a no-no, even under these totally bonkers conditions, but I’m thinking of trying it out anyway, just for kicks.

Oates puts an arm around me and shuffles me to a side door. “Gents,” he calls back toward the room as we walk, “get our new mates something hot to fill their bellies, will you? I’m going to show Elvie here to a little privacy.”

“Thank you,” I whisper as we reach the door. I turn just long enough to see Rupert and Clark making room for Dad, Ducky, and Cole at the tables. The rest of the prisoners scooch far away from them, as though the marching band just invaded the football team’s lunch table. I can tell we’re gonna be
real
welcome here.

•  •  •

Oates sees me to an empty bunkroom, where I sit down on one of the impeccably made beds.

“I’ll have them send down some food for you,” Oates tells me from where he lingers in the doorway. “Jules makes a rather serviceable ratatouille.”

“Thank you,” I breathe. The exhaustion has practically engulfed me now. I’m so zonked that Olivia’s screams are blurring into one mind-numbing siren wail. Oates doesn’t reply but tips his head in a slight bow to me, then heads back toward the canteen.

I take in my new digs. Pretty spartan but definitely cozier than my hospital room back with Byron and his lot. There are seriously bunk beds, six mattresses in total. There’s a couch and a table with a few chairs and a lamp. A few older lap-pads strewn on the table—probably without network access, I’d wager. And that’s it.

“Okay, girl,” I tell my shrieking daughter. “Let’s get you to stop screaming. Um, inner calm, inner calm . . .”

“ ’Cause I love you, a bushel and a peck . . .”

(Tired tired anxious tired we have no plan worried

freaked out Cole just PUNCHED a dude hungry tired so so tired . . .)

“You bet your pretty neck I do.”

Baby Olivia is having none of it. I sigh and try to placate her instead with the end of the last gel packet Cole gave me. I should have asked Oates for something for Olivia along with the ratatouille, although he’s probably ten steps ahead of me on that one. I really am turning out to be the world’s worst mother.

Olivia, unfortunately, refuses to eat the damn gel.

“I
know
you’re hungry,” I whine, suddenly totally understanding the phrase “at the end of one’s rope.” “And you
like
gel! You practically gobbled it on the trip here! Come on, now. You have to eat
something
.” Olivia swats the packet to the floor. At the sound of the splat she launches into a new series of wails, grabbing with her tiny little hands at the zip of my thermal suit. “No!” I shout as her tugs become more insistent.
“You can’t have milk. My boobs don’t work, remember? We just tried that. I’m past the point of producing milk, silly girl.”

But
you
try reasoning with an infant.

“All right,” I sigh, resigned. Maybe just going through the motions and being
near
a boob will calm this Goober down enough to actually eat the gel. I unzip my thermal top and fiddle with my shirt. “Let’s hurry up, though, before someone comes with that food. You don’t want your mommy to get a reputation as an exhibitionist, now, do you?” I shift Olivia into position, but like before she just squirms all over the place, her baby feet ninja-kicking in every direction.

“You are such a little spaz,” I moan. “I don’t know where you get that—”

“Whoa, oops! Hello there!”

I look up. Standing in the doorway is a man with an enormous bushy beard and long hair.

“What the
hell
?” I squeak, doing my best to cover my half-exposed bosom.

But the man seems not to even notice. He walks straight into the room and plops down on the bunk across from mine. “I heard there’d be new recruits today,” he answers. “But I never expected a baby.” He grins cheerfully, scratching his crazy-long, scraggly beard. “Man, this place is a trip, huh?”

“Dude,” I say. “Seriously. What the
hell
?”

“Oh, don’t mind me,” the guy says casually, leaning down to peer under the bed, where he proceeds to root around for something. “I was just looking for my man Oates. Thought I heard him a minute ago. I was in the can down the hall. Was he just here?”

“I, uh . . . think he’s in the kitchen.”

There’s something weird about this guy, and it’s not just the fact that he seems completely unfazed to find a teenage girl attempting to breast-feed a baby in an Almiri prison camp.

“Hey, you didn’t happen to see, like, a big book around here, did you?” he asks, his head buried underneath the bunk.

“Who
are
you?” I ask at last.

The man pulls his head out from underneath the bunk. “Who, me?” he asks.

He is the only other person in the room.

He shrugs. “I’m Bernard,” he says. Which I guess is supposed to clear everything up.

“You’re not an Almiri,” I tell him, in one of the classic understatements of all time. Aside from his unruly beard and shoulder-length hair, the dude is . . . old.
Real
old. Like, almost as old as my dad. Add to that the spare tire he’s smuggling under that ugly shawl cardigan of his, and you have the makings of a small liberal arts college professor, or maybe a biblical reenactment performer, but definitely
not
a centerfold-worthy Almiri.

“No,” he says with a chortle. “I’m definitely not an Almiri. Don’t have the bone structure for it. I’m what you might call an . . . ambassador of goodwill.” He returns to his search. “I came here to talk to Oates. He’s always been sympathetic to our cause, you know.”

I raise an eyebrow. “What do you mean, you came here? You weren’t sent here? You’re not a prisoner?”