Fanfic Time: Flotsam part 7

Continued from yesterday:

  Violet could barely sit up after that noise in her head, but she managed it. Somehow. She was lying on the mattress near the computer. She could see Brisco’s shoes twitching just past the divide into the mouse-sized kitchen.

  There was a woman on the floor nearby. Obviously in distress.

  Whatever had hit her… just hit them.

  Violet recovered enough sense to manhandle the woman onto the mattress and stuff a pillow under Brisco’s head. Then she managed to find the radio. “Officers and civillians down at fifth and twenty-second…” she panted. Tears still ran down her cheeks. “I think the whole building's hit… is there anyone *to* help?”

  Silence.

  “This is officer Parr[1], please respond.”

  Surrounded by the screams of anguish around her, listening intently to the static-ridden hiss of the radio, Violet closed her eyes and prayed. _God, whatever’s going on… make it *stop*!_

*

  Mommy had dropped the milk. It had spilled out all over the floor and soaked into her clothes and hair. Sammy had no idea what to do. There was no-one to help.

  Sammy was so scared he wanted to throw up.

  “Mommy, *please*,” he cried. “Please… wake up? Mommy? *Mommy*!”

*

  Good-news, bad-news. Good news, the pregnant lady was *not* experiencing stress-related contractions. The bad news… whatever this was was causing wide-spread panic and fear.

  And the largest number of able bodies was completely unable to even *reach* the largest mass of the stricken. Escape would only cause *more* panic when-if the rest recovered. Assuming that the thing that just struck the real mutants down was the same thing that struck the rest, and that it would be over soon.

  _When you assume, you make an ass out of you and me,_ Sara thought, mind bleak. She went round in a circuit, checking pulses and breathing, waiting for some sign of dire stress that meant - what?

  What could she do?

  What could *anyone* do?

*

  The President of the United States rubbed his head. “Did anyone else… feel.. that…?”

  Everyone else in the oval office was down. Hurt. No sign of any attacker. Clutching at their heads.

  What the hell was happening?

*

  After a subjective eternity, the screams died down. The radio crackled to life, various officers reporting in for information. Lost and alone, they elected to at least not be alone.

  “…parr?”

  She rushed to his side. “Brisco. You’re okay? Anything still hurting?”

  “Yeah, I’m indestructable, kiddo.” In spite of his bravado, Brisco moaned. “Man, my head hasn’t felt this bad since after my first kegger…”

  Next, the woman. “Ma'am? Are you okay?”

  “…not old enough to be ma'am,” she moaned. “*Ow*… What happened?”

  “I dunno, I just woke up and everyone was in pain and I couldn’t do *anything* and no-one was at Base and, *God*, I was so *scared*…”

  “OmiGod, the *kids*!” The woman ran for the ‘phone.

  “…mom…” Violet whispered. She scrambled for her cellular.

*

  “*HEY*!”

  Sara yawped, inadvertantly blending. “I'msorry,” she said, possibly on automatic.

  “You got no right to touch me,” said the man she’d just been checking. "Stinking filthy mutie!“

  Sara recovered her composure, if not her default colour. "In case you haven’t noticed, sir, you are also in here on the suspicion that you are a 'stinking filthy mutie’… I’d watch your tongue, if I were you.”

  All around, people were recovering. Getting up. Seeking comfort with whomever they knew best.

  Sara found hers in Mort’s arms. Dissipating stress made her weep into his unitard.

  “C'mon, inside,” Callisto was barking. “Everyone inside the shelters, *now*! We don’t want those assholes to start shooting, *C'MON*! Inside! Hup hup hup hup hup!”

  Sara stored her tears and began gathering and ushering people who were still foggy on the details, lingering behind so others could get clear.

  “Go! Go! Go!” Mort was hustling others along. He picked up a lost little scrap of a kid who was still crying as he propelled the last of them along. “You too, luv. Move. Don’ wanna ge’ shot.”

  Sara belatedly realized he was talking to *her*. Her sluggish feet got moving when he took her hand.

  People inside the shelters went instantly to their chosen bunks. The one place that was familiar amongst the confusion. Children clustered together in wailing balls. Sara and Mort cuddled together around their instant adoptee and let vent to their immediate stress.

  “When you woke up,” said Mort, at last. “You said something.”

  “Someone knows where we are,” said Sara. That noise… it was three words. All mashed together and overlain in a jumble. 'Find them all’. That’s it. Nothing more than that purpose. I’m guessing they found us, but…“

  "Why do the other… lot?”

  “There’s an extreme illogic, there,” said Sara. “They found us. They *had* us… and then they switched sides.”

  “Maybe th’ boss din’t… like the results.”

  “Maybe they - whoever they are - are a complete psychopants.”

  Mort laughed at that, blessing her with a kiss on her cheek. “Lord love ya, babe.”

  The very small child had fallen asleep in her arms. There was something about that level of trust that struck her as supremely sincere. Another part of her found it odd that the supremely impersonal captors had allowed the kids to have underpants, but forbidden the adults - or near-adults - to have a similar privilege.

  “I’d better find Callisto. See if anyone misses this little one.”

  “I’ll go with,” said Mort. “After that lot… you need a bodyguard.”

  Sara blushed. “Thank you.”

 [1] I have no idea what the official rank of rookies is, so I’ll be changing this as soon as I know.

~

  “…medical facilities crowded to the brim. Even the experts are mystified by what appears to be a very *short* term medical malady. Rumours about another mutant attack are unconfirmed at this time.”

  The TV cut to a White House representative.

  “It stands to reason that, if a mutant *is* responsible for these attacks, then that mutant would have also suffered *from* the attacks. As to why half the population was attacked at a time… we are still working on finding all the answers. We have declared a state of emergency, and ask that all citizens please do what they can to remain calm. No-one has been able to find any lasting effects from this attack, and we will be releasing official statements to that fact.”

  The off-screen Media barked questions and flashed cameras as they took pictures.

  “Keep in mind that *everyone* on the planet, mutant or human, has been struck down by this. There is no known agenda at this time. Ladies and Gentlemen… I cannot answer your questions, as we do not have the answers ourselves. The President will be giving an official statement tomorrow. That is all.”

  Unconsciously, Avery reached out to find the nearest hand to hold. He looked away from the screen to find that everyone in the house had sought a similar comfort without the need for telepathy.

*

  “Four days,” said Sara, after the last squeak died from the PA. “Four days and they sentence us without a trial.” Now that the kid had been handed off to her temporary carer, Sara’s hands twiddled and fidgeted with themselves.

  “Ain’t certain,” said Mort. “There’s people out there… I know. They’ll do *something*.”

  “…i’ve missed the sun for four days…” Sara’s fingers twitched independantly.

  This was more frightening for him than her distance. “You right, luv?”

  “I think I’m drowning under circumstance,” there was a worrying look in her face. As if she feared throwing up, yet knew it was inevitable. But this was a more unnamed dread. Something was happening inside her and it had her panicked. “It feels… *crowded*… in my head. My boxes are trembling…” She fought to achieve that familliar stony blankness, but it wasn’t working.

  “We’ll walk,” he said. “That’s doin’ somethin’, right? Long as we're doin’… somethin’, you be okay.” He guided her outside, consciously walking away from the men with the guns. They were still twitchy, and waving two visible and obvious mutants under their noses was no way to end a bad day. Or their lives.

  “Dissapatory activity is all very nice, Mort, but I have my steam valves and they’re blocked by this… *place*. I need the dawn’s light and no gawkers and there’s people watching *everywhere*… if I only had a *harp*… Or a project. Something to *make*…” Her breathing was becoming rapid and shallow.

  Mort knew such concern in him was wrong, but he couldn’t help it. He had to help her. He *owed* her. He needed her. He needed to *help*. "Make words,“ he said, desperate. "Make a story. Tell it as we… go, eh? Tell me 'bout… 'bout… *Chuckie*. 'Ow’d you ge’ 'im?”

  “He was… a sort of science project for the Remedial Ed. class,” said Sara. When they passed the halogen glare of the lights, her pupils were pinpoints. She was trembling, and it wasn’t with cold. Though cold *was* a factor. They’d have to get inside, soon, or the threat of winter would bite at their bare toes. “A rather impromptu one, though. The class pet had a myriad of babies… we all named them after characters from _Rugrats_. And then their mother abandoned them.”

  _And you know how much *that* hurts, don’t you, luv?_ Mort kept her walking.

  “I think it was the only time the whole class agreed on something, you know. We flew into research like nothing else. Made up a formula and bottle-fed the little things. We hand-sewed pouches to keep them warm and with us…” she gestured with both shaking hands at her collarbone. "Re-enforced them with wire so the nastier folks wouldn’t crush them, and those little baby hamsters… I don’t think I was ever in a room so full of collaborative ideas. It was an absolute *flurry*. And at the end of it, we were all mommies… You should have seen him, he was so *tiny*…“ A blink. "But then you have. You’ve been into my albums.”

  “I shouldn’t 'ave,” said Mort. “’S an old, bad… 'abit.”

  “More than forgiven, dear. No doubt, the local constabulary are ripping it all apart as we speak. All my secrets laid bare.”

  “'Ow’d yer class do?”

  “Only one fatality, owing to a rather determined Senior. He was duly reprimanded and actually sentenced for cruelty to animals. Stole the poor creature and smooshed it.” Her eyes teared up. “At least it was quick.”

  Mort had never dared care for anything in his life. Any attachment he made, any thing he liked… was soon taken away from him. Pet rats and mice fed secretively in the dark were poisoned by baits or crushed by traps. Stray cats given the few leftovers even *he* couldn’t eat were rounded up by animal control. And when he spent too long in the company of birds… the tree they nested in was chopped down for 'sanitary reasons’. Mort had learned hard not to let any little creature near his affections. It was fatal for them. Better for him to look at them as yet another source of meat, than to feel anything and get hurt again. And again. And again.

  And yet, right next to him was a girl who had been just as battered by life as him. She stole and hoarded little moments of positivity like a treasure. She *bonded* with things, animate or not. She cared, and cared deeply.

  Mort had watched her, holding that little girl. Cradling her. Savouring every moment of having a child in her arms… because she knew it wouldn’t last and very likely suspected that she’d never have the chance to do so with her own.

  “Yer friends’ll look after… 'im,” Mort soothed. “C'mon. Lets get inside. ’S gettin’ cold.”

  “Getting?” Sara smirked, wry. “Dear, my feet are turning into icicles.”

  “Better 'urry,” he grinned. “Don’t want 'em t’… melt.”

  There. A genuine laugh. That was better.

~

  They shared the same bed, that night, spooned together for mutual warmth under the two blankets they were 'issued’ with the bunk-bed.

  Mort swore he got high just sniffing her hair. Such a marvellous drug - the presence of a soul who *wanted* to be near him - lulled him into the deepest sleep he’d ever enjoyed.

*

  Mort snored. An almost subliminal snarl that she was long used to from watching over him in his time of need.

  The most worrying thing, right now, was the slightly possessive male hand lying gently over her left breast. Or rather, her excuse for a breast.

  On one hand, she thought she should feel glad that there was a man out there - correction, in here with her - that liked her body enough to grope it. On the other hand, there were those myriad of lectures about men only wanting *one* thing from a female, any female. Not that mother much expected Sara Louise to attract any *kind* of attention, but if she ever did, it would be the wrong sort.

  And on a third hand… he wasn’t exactly groping, anyway.

  His arm embraced her, true, and the hand in question seemed to have ended up there by pure accident. It seemed happy where it was, lightly resting around the curve of her excuse for a bosom… and -oh dear- his thumb had started stroking her. It was through the one layer of clothing she now possessed, but *still*…

  “…lovely,” he whispered into her hair. “…beau'iful…” Mort gave heave to a very contented sigh and squeezed her closer to him in his sleep. “…don’ ev'r leave me…”

  Sara’s eyes grew moist as she watched the darkness. What sort of abused, tortured soul would he have to be to have such dreams of her?

  Why did he even *like* her?

  “…kiss ev'ry scale,” he whispered. “…name ev'ry colour… anythin' y’ want, luv… anythin’…”

  Sara sucked her bottom lip in to try and stop it trembling. Things like this just didn’t happen. Nobody could dream wishful dreams of *her*.

  Hot tears spilled from her eyes. One half reached the pillow instantly while the rest pooled briefly at her nose.

  Things like this did not happen.

  Nobody liked Sara Louise.

  She was useful, and that only barely. Nobody could possibly want her for anything more than fulfilling a basic need.

  Sara covered her mouth to muffle the involuntary sobs. Couldn’t wake people up. Naughty girl. Wicked girl. Only serves her right to end up in a freak camp in the first place. Never any good. Never…

  Mort, still buzzing and mumbling in his sleep, found her neck and deposited a very chaste, yet intensely loving kiss near her collar.

  Couldn’t happen.

  Couldn’t possibly…

  Sara was unable to stop the box bursting, over-full as it was with unshed tears and unwelcome trembles. Her arms tried to fling out rigidly from her sides. Her head snapped back and her breath sucked in with an ugly quasi-slurp.

  She only registered Mort’s noise of pain on the edge of her perception. The rest of her was falling deep into terror.

  Not here.

  Please.

  Anywhere but *here*.

  No…

*

  {Whack!}

  “Ow… Whut?” Mort narrowly dodged another blow by sheer instinct. "*Shit*!“

  Sara was convulsing. Noises escaped her that sounded like attempted murder.

  "Anyone 'ere a doctor?” He called into the dark. “I need some 'elp!”

  A thump in the direction of the stairwell. Someone had leapt down from the upper floor.

  Mort barely got hold of each bicep, easing his weight onto her so that she couldn’t injure either of them. God, if anyone could see in the dark, this would look *so* fucking bad…

  “The hell are you *doing*?” said Callisto.

  “She’s 'avin’ a fit,” said Mort, voice all panic and confusion. “Dunno wha’ 'appened. Ge’ 'er legs.”

  “But–”

  “*Please*!”

  As if in answer to the inevitable 'why’, one of Sara’s legs fully extended and caused a nasty splintering noise near the foot of the bunk.

  Callisto swore and moved. Mort could just pick out the shape of her amongst the rest of the rest of the shadows.

  “You *do* know that holding an epilleptic down is *the* worst thing you can do,” Callisto grunted with effort.

  “Don’t think she’s epilleptic,” said Mort. “It’s somethin’ else.”

  Underneath him, Sara bucked, causing him to crack his head on the bunk above.

  “Ow. Fucking sod of a cow!” He coughed, of course, at the pain of one word too many.

  “What’s happening? Do you need help?” Mort recognised the voice as that of the pregnant woman with the not-quite tumor.

  “Stay th’ fuck back,” Mort rasped. “’S dangerous.”

  To think… a year ago he wouldn’t have cared. Not for Sara. Not for any of the souls trapped here. He would never have expected them to care back.

  Someone else arrived from a different vector. Mort sensed hands on top of his that soon drifted off. Sibillant words in another language, soothing and cooing.

  “Dad MÈngr, t'atchÈs upr·l u ku ttÈm… mang·s at˙t ta sassarÈ pen·s ta siny·n latchÛ. Pregen·s t'avÈs andrÈ ke mengr jÈle. Mang·s at˙t ta lamÈ ker·s sa kwa ta kamÈs tu ag· upr·l i ki tchikk sar upr·l u ku ttÈm. DadevÈs deng u marÛ per sassarÈ. Muk ta dzhal li bessah· ta grijÈm sar lamÈ muk·s ta dzh·l u nafÈl ta griÈ li vavÈr ammÈnd. ShigerÈng dur·l tar u xrÌvje ta nÌng amÈng u nafÈl. AmÈn.[1]”

  Mort only recognised the last word. He sniffed back moisture in his nose, and mentally cursed a God that would do this to someone like Sara.

  After three repetitions Sara’s jerking motions subsided. Her noises quieted. After a fourth, they stilled completely.

  Mort sniffed again, only now aware of the pain flowering in the back of his head. He gradually eased away, sitting beside Sara. “The 'ell'd you do?” he said.

  “This little gaji… holds much evil inside her. Beng made in her mind. Good drives them out. Sometimes, they fight.”

  “Please tell me I didn’t happen to anyone?” Sara’s voice trembled.

  “Minor stuff,” Mort sniffed. “Scared th’ crap outta… me.” He wiped his arm on his sleeve.

  “Who *are* you?” said Callisto.

  “I am known as Emilia[2],” said the stranger in the dark. “My people remember another time when good people were bought inside wire cages by men with guns.”

  “The Rom, yes?” said Sara.

  Emilia stiffened.

  “You weren’t speaking Yiddish or Jewish, before,” said Sara. “And I have something of a knack for languages. Sorry.” Sara wriggled, sitting up. “I’m afraid I’ve only learned, 'Nais Tuke’.”

  “Who are you, to see right through me when you see nothing?”

  “Just because I can’t see in the dark doesn’t mean I can’t listen, dear,” she said. Mort heard the smile in her voice. “Relax, please. We’re all the same behind the wire. Besides, I *know* what it’s like to have lies flying around you and the truth ignored.”

  No doubt, a source of those many 'fights’ Detective Nosey had mentioned before their arrest. Mort found himself nodding. He sniffed. Stupid running nose. “You 'elped,” he said. “That’s worth more'n what… anyone might reckon 'bout… ya.” He offered his hand.

  “I cannot… I am marhime. Dirty.”

  “Luv? I’d lick yer feet… even if you’d stood… in dog shit.”

  Callisto cackled.

  Emilia’s hand was warm. “I suppose… to those men outside… we are *all* marhime.”

  “And to the devil with the lot of *those* opinions,” said Sara.

 [1] The Lord’s Prayer in Romani. From http://198.62.75.1/www1/pater/JPN-rom-sinte.html

 [2] Because Rom traditionally have several names in order to combat bad things finding them. One is a name by which the gadje [us] know them, one’s their tribe-name, and one is their *true* name, one that’s kept secret until they’re married AFAIK.

~