And then there was a flash of light, a mist rose from the ocean, the sky grew hazy—and the Caravan was gone. Mila’s eyes locked with mine, and I realized she was just as frightened as I was. The others, however, stood unfazed.
“Nothing to be afraid of,” said Phoenix, noticing our faces. “The Caravan’s got spotters circling at all times. If they see a ship, they give a signal, and the fog pours out. There are plates underwater that heat the ocean into steam to make it rise into fog. If it weren’t for them, the Feds would’ve gotten the Caravan a long time ago.”
“Yeah,” muttered Bertha, “and the nukes they’ve got don’t hurt, either.” Phoenix shot her a look.
Churchill Wingnut rolled out another square box resting on a table. He placed a black circle roughly the size of a plate on its surface. “Record player,” he said when he caught my eye. “I’ll bet none of you blokes have ever seen one of these babies before.” He dropped the device’s metal hand onto the surface of the black plate, and music erupted from a horn on its side. Trumpet solos roared, and guitars rang out in time. He danced a little jig. “Mariachi music,” he explained. “It’s the signal.”
Bertha tapped her foot to the music. “The signal?” she asked. “It wasn’t like that before.”
Churchill nodded. “We have to switch things up every once in a while. Mariachi music’s been the signal for the past two months. Before that was polka.”
“Ah, yes,” said Bertha, smiling. “I remember the polka.”
We cruised forward in the calm water. The mist dissipated just as quickly as it had appeared. There were boats on either side of us now, and they formed a spiral canal of sorts. The Caravan was a town wrapped around itself like a coiled snake—a single train that, when bunched together, formed a spiral. From the inside, the boats didn’t look like boats at all, but houses lined up along a canal. Bridges stretched across the tops of the homes, connecting the houses that lined the external border with the ones nestled in the center. The spaces between the boats were nearly nonexistent—they were pushed together like adjacent compartments on subway trains. Bright reds, yellows, and greens glowed on the fabrics that adorned the internal walls—colors that were a sharp contrast to the blues we’d seen before.
Churchill Wingnut spread his arms wide and threw his head back. “Welcome to the Caravan!” he said. He lifted the hand from the record player, and the music stopped. “The last free nation outside the whole bloody Federation!”
There was a piercing sound, high-pitched like a mosquito, but perhaps even shriller, and hands hurried out from wooden windows, yanking the colored fabrics down before closing the shutters with a slam. A low rumble emitted from the boat at the forefront of the Caravan—the locomotive of sorts, I guessed.
Churchill ran into the cabin muttering, “What the hell?” as mist swirled. The locomotive hummed loudly, and then hurtled forward. All around us, the Caravan’s spiral city unfurled, and the wooden bridges that hung across the boats’ roofs snapped.
Phoenix pursed his lips, and his face grew hard: something was wrong. This was clearly not the welcome he’d expected.
“The bloody boats think they’re under attack!” Churchill yelled again.
“Listen,” said Bertha, jabbing a finger in his chest. “I get that all the Caravites are—” Churchill dug a finger in his ear and pulled out a stack of yellow wax like honey. “…Strange,” she continued. “A bit loony from saltwater fumes going to your brains, and all that. But there’s no way those boats think that this little thing”—Churchill winced at his ship being called little—“pulling up into their harbor means they’re under attack.”
Dove grabbed Bertha’s shoulders and turned her to face the expanse of ocean behind her. As the last few Caravite boats unfurled amid the rush of rising mist, a shadow, roughly the size of a football field, lurched toward them in the water.
Bertha snapped a hand to her face, and groped her waist for the one of the guns she’d lost in the ocean. Dove flew past her and hurried to take the helm of the ship from Churchill, who—like Bertha—stood in awe of the towering shadow.
We were on the run again.
Chapter 20
The Retired Lobster groaned as Dove yanked it full throttle. The ship’s bow lifted and its engine sputtered, and we shot forward to join the ranks of the Caravan’s last few boats.
Bertha eyed the Caravan. “One hell of a ship,” she muttered sarcastically as the small craft groaned again. The dull buzz of its failing engine rang in our ears. “Next time, I’m signing up for The Perky Lobster.”
I glanced back at Dove, who spun the ship’s wheel with his familiar blank look. “Maybe something a bit bigger than a lobster next time,” I said.
“Good point, Car Battery.” She grumbled something about wanting to drive, then disappeared into the captain’s cabin to push Dove away from the wheel.
Churchill sat huddled at the back of the deck. I joined him. “You okay, Wingnut?”
His teeth chattered from the breeze that rose from the ocean. He smiled weakly and gave me a thumbs-up. “Peachy.” The wrinkles that caked his face quivered in the wind. I’d have guessed he was decades older than fifty, if such a thing were possible.
Mila stole a blanket from the cabin and wrapped it around his shoulders—her way of saying thanks. She owed the man her life. I guess we all did.
“Hey, Kai!” said Dove, tossing me a pair of binoculars. “You’ve probably got better eyes than me—younger and all that junk.” I realized he probably had no real grasp of the concept of aging. He didn’t know that a couple of years didn’t really make a difference.
“Whaddya see back there?” he asked.
I pressed the binoculars to my face, but it was useless: the fog that sprayed from the Caravan left the ship that raced behind us in shadows. “Visibility’s bad,” I said finally. “Can’t see a thing.”
“Afraid that might’ve been the case.” He turned to Phoenix. “Looks like we’re running blind, eh, friend?”
A small smile stretched below Phoenix’s hard gaze. “Wouldn’t be the first time.” He threw Dove a playful jab.
The two had known each other for a long time. They looked about the same age—maybe friends in another life, before they both became orphans. Before everything that happened to them, happened.
The Retired Lobster plowed forward, and Dove leaned against the metal railing. “Hey, Dove?” asked Phoenix. “If you’re out here, who’s driving the ship?”
Mariachi music blasted from the cabin, and the boat swerved in the water. A wave shot over the railing, and broke on the deck as Bertha’s booming laughter erupted from the helm. Mila cursed under her breath and Churchill scrunched his face: Bertha had found the record player. A trumpet solo blared, and she danced behind the wheel.
Then a muted boom sounded off to the ship’s side, and a plume of water shot skyward, twisting in time to the music—an explosion.
There were bombs in the water.
The Retired Lobster rocked in the rough waters. Crashing waves tore at the fog that hung around the surface. Through gaps, I saw men throw packages from Caravan boats into the water: mines. They had seen the shadow that had towered behind us and recognized it as a threat, and they were determined to stop it at any and all costs. They’d blow us up too, if they had to.
The mines continued to burst, and we drove right through them, desperately chasing the Caravan. Another patch of water went skyward. Waves even bigger than the last batch crashed onto the ship’s deck. Water poured in, racing past the Lobster’s wooden railings. The ship teetered back and forth.