Page 39 of Dance Practice, Marooned: Part 2

This entire ship is disgusting.

Not even a metre in front of us, a figure sits hunched against the wall, knees drawn up, a thick blue blanket around their shoulders. I jerk, not having noticed this person straight away. Whoever it is, they don’t reach for a weapon, don’t even move to stand, just blink up at us, dull and slow. It’s a man. He is in a bad way. There’s something in his hand, but it’s only a can—he’s eating straight from it, the beans streaked down his chin.

“Oh my gosh,” I whisper. “I don’t think he is one of them.”

“He ain’t,” Ace murmurs, but doesn’t flinch.

He moves, quick and sure, grabs the man and hauls him up to his feet. The guy doesn’t even fight, he just moans and drops the can, the beans spattering everywhere. “You got a name?” Ace asks, his voice tight.

The man mumbles something, but it’s clear he isn’t with it.

He is in bad shape.

“What do we do?” I ask, quietly.

“We leave him here until we have everything sorted. Then we’ll do what we can to help him.”

I nod.

Ace places the man back down.

His head flops forward.

We move on, through another battered door and into a small galley kitchen. It’s oddly homey, with a busted coffee maker, a mug that says #1 BOSS in chipped enamel, and a plate of half-rotten bread on the counter. There are faded pictures of naked women on the walls, and weirdly, photos of sunsets clipped up with binder clips. I step around a pile of laundry, careful not to make noise, and open a cabinet to see what’s inside.

It’s full of knives. Like, not pirate cutlasses or anything, but steak knives, box cutters, and even a pair of rusty scissors. Some have blood stains. All have seen better days. I take the biggest one and shove it in my boot, just in case, then shove the drawer closed and keep looking through the others. There is a small amount of food, not a great deal, and I am guessing they stop at the islands to stock up on fresh things.

Ace is already moving again so I quickly follow.

We get to a small room set up like someone’s idea of an office: a battered desk, a lamp with a red scarf over it, and a laptop missing half its keys. There are maps spread over every surface, a stack of old notebooks, and a pile of what looks like cash, but it’s drenched and covered in mildew, so it’s worthless. I spot a gun on the desk and hand it to Ace. He checks the mag, then tucks it away.

We move to the last door before the engine room. Ace pauses before he turns the knob, and his entire body stiffens. It takes me a moment to realise what he’s hesitating for. There are voices beyond it—two, maybe three, all laughing too loud for the late hour and the situation. Ace puts his finger to his lips, looks at me, then points to himself and to the door, letting me know he’s going in hot.

He takes the gun out.

I brace myself.

He doesn’t hesitate, swinging the door open and barging through. I follow him right in. The room is tiny, barely room for a table and two chairs. There are two men at the table, one pinning a deck of cards with his thumb, the other pouring something brown into plastic cups. Both are young, or look it, except for the missing teeth. The one pouring the drinks is mid-laugh when Ace grabs him by the shirt collar and slams his forehead to the table. There’s a sickening crunch, and I know for sure this man isn’t getting up anytime soon.

The second man lunges for Ace, but he’s too slow. Ace grabs his arm and spins, twisting it backward so hard I flinch. With his other hand, Ace slams the man’s face down, then yanks his arm up behind his back and I hear a sickening snap. The guy howls, but Ace slams his head again, this time leaving a red splatter of blood on the table.

The last man is on his feet, scrambling for something under the table, but I don’t let him. I don’t think, I just know I have to stop him. I pull the knife out and leap onto his back, using all the fury and fear I’ve kept inside, and dig the knife up under his chin. He freezes. For a second I think I might actually have to stab him, but then Ace is there, hauling him away from me and slamming a fist over and over into his face until he crumples too.

The three of them are a heap now, groaning and cursing in a language I don’t even recognise. I look at Ace, expecting him to be proud or angry, but he’s just cold, eyes glassy and jaw set. He grabs a rope in the corner and ties them, using my knife to cut lengths. Then, he stares down at them and growls something about if they move, he’ll kill them. He turns and breathes out. “We’ll deal with them later,” he says, voice so cold it makes me shiver.

I nod, wiping sweat from my hands. I can’t look away from him. Because the truth is, watching him do this—watching how quick and brutal he is—it does something to me. I’m not even sure what, but my pulse is racing and my head feels clear for the first time since we have been here. Maybe it’s the adrenaline, or maybe it’s just the idea that we might actually pull this off. He notices my hungry stare, a small smirk flickering at the edge of his mouth, and before I can think, I grab his hand. He turns, pinning me to the wall with his body. I gasp and then laugh, barely a sound, and say, “That was fucking hot.”

He leans in, mouth so close I can feel the heat of it. “You’re a sicko, you know that?”

I shrug, pushing my body into his. My heart is beating at a dangerous speed, squeezed between his hand and the cracked steel wall. “Maybe. But seeing you like that...” my voice comes out all breathy, “it does things to me.”

He laughs, but it’s more like a growl. “If we weren’t fighting for our lives right now, I’d fuck you so goddamned hard.”

I gasp at the intensity of his words. “You owe me, then.”

He drags his hand up my ribcage, slow and hard, and I feel like I could burst into flames right there. He holds my jaw, teasing, never kissing, just letting me feel the tension. Then he releases me. “If we make it out of here, I’ll bring you back and make sure you get what you need.”

I would laugh, but my legs are too wobbly.