Jed and the Junkyard Wars Page 7

  He counted again. Twenty-one. Again. Nineteen. Again. Twenty.

  “Nine!” Captain Bog bellowed.

  No more counting. Just go!

  He bolted toward the steamboat, scanning for any cans he could have missed.

  “Eight!”

  He leaped over a motorcycle, but his toe nicked the seat. His body crashed into a lawn mower, and his arms flew apart. The milk crate tumbled free, and cans scattered in every direction.

  “Seven!”

  He pushed himself up and grabbed cans as fast as his arms would allow.

  “Six!”

  When the crate was filled, Jed knew it felt lighter. He scoured the junk again.

  “Five!”

  “Shut up!” Jed yelled back.

  He saw the water chestnuts under a crumpled rug. He scooped the can up and found the asparagus hiding too. Hope swelled in his chest. He threw the cans in and ran.

  “Four!”

  The crate barely fit through the porthole as he scrambled into the steamboat. “I’m here!” His voice echoed in the empty space. The ladder to the main deck somehow looked more rickety than when he’d used it two hours earlier, and the crate suddenly felt twice as heavy.

  “Three!”

  “I’m right here! But I can’t climb the ladder with all this food!”

  “Not my problem,” Captain Bog called. “We’re leaving in three minutes whether you’re here or not. You should have worked on your ladder-climbing issues earlier instead of lazing about, touching altitude controls.”

  Jed unfastened his belt and whipped it free. The leather band flapped as it passed each belt loop. He coiled it through the handles of the crate and cinched it tight. Gripping the belt in the middle with one hand, he tested the weight.

  “Two!”

  Jed planted his foot on the ladder. The rungs creaked.

  He climbed, sweaty fingers clenching the cool metal. Step…step…step…

  As his foot pressed into the next rung, the bar snapped. The crate pitched backward, and the green beans wobbled on the stack, threatening to dive free. He glared at the can. Don’t. You. Dare!

  “One minute, Golden Boy.”

  He grabbed the next rung.

  Then the next.

  Then the next.

  As his head breached the top deck, he swung the crate onto solid planks and jumped beside it. Lifting it in both arms, he ran until Bessie’s smokestack peeked into view.

  “Well,” Captain Bog called, “your time’s—”

  “I’m here!” Jed’s voice cracked with dry rasps. “I’m here.”

  He stumbled forward and released the crate. It thunked against the floor at Murdock Bog’s feet.

  “You sound out of breath,” the captain said.

  Jed collapsed. Only then did he see blood. Deep red seeped through his pants around his knee. As his adrenaline faded, pain charged over him. The joint felt swollen—like his knee was covered in barely heated wax.

  Did I break something?

  He’d never broken a bone before. He bent his knee back and forth.

  Bruised? Definitely. Broken? Probably not.

  “You all right?” Captain Bog asked.

  “Oh, I’m terrific…” Jed mumbled.

  “Let’s see…” Captain Bog turned his attention to the cans. One by one he lined them in stacks of four. After the fifth stack, the crate was empty. “Where’s the last can?”

  The pain in Jed’s knee—in his hands—in his head—all disappeared at once. “There are twenty-one. I know there are.” The words tripped from his mouth. His mind pulled him back to the junk piles, to his hurried counting, to his splayed fall…“There have to be twenty-one…” He spoke more to himself than to the captain.

  There have to be.

  Captain Bog slowly shook his head, fidgeting with one of the torn labels. “Twenty.”

  “Count again.”

  “Look for yourself.” He nudged the five stacks of four with his boot.

  “But—”

  Captain Bog shrugged. “No cans, no ride.”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  Captain Bog fixed his eyes on Jed’s. “In the short time you’ve known me, do I strike you as someone who ‘can’t be serious’?”

  “You found a whole case of cans on the steamboat! And I brought you twenty more! This is ridiculous!”

  “It’s unfortunate, I’ll give you that.”

  “Unfortunate? It’s a joke!”

  “You were the one eager to make the deal. What kind of captain would I be if I let people slide whenever they whined?” He cocked his head.

  “You’re making a mistake.”

  Captain Bog shook his head. “I really don’t think so. Never had much luck taking on stragglers. You’re not the first stray I’ve dealt with.”

  With that the captain turned and climbed the rope ladder back into the tug. “Engage the sky prop!”

  “Aye, Cap’n!” Sprocket called.

  “Stop!” Jed yelled.

  Captain Bog peeked over the railing. “Haven’t you learned that telling me to stop doesn’t work?”

  “I’ll find more cans. Twenty-one more!”

  “You couldn’t find twenty-one to begin with. That’s not much of a deal. Besides, I don’t have the time to wait while you prance through piles. Take us away, Sprocket.”

  “Aye, aye, Cap’n.”

  Bessie lifted from the deck of the steamboat.

  “Wait!” Jed yelled. “I have another offer!”

  Captain Bog held up a finger. The tug paused, a few feet in the air. The captain focused on Jed and leaned over the railing. “You have ten more seconds of my time, and then we’re gone forever. Choose your words delicately.”

  And in that moment Jed realized why his parents had made tuxedo a part of SPLAGHETTI.

  Spectacle. Put on a show. A magic show if you have to.

  “I can make your food taste better.”

  The captain lifted his chin. Intrigue swirled in his eyes.

  Not enough. He’s going to say no.

  “I’ll make meals every day. They’ll all be something you’ve never tasted before.”

  Captain Bog stared for another five and a half seconds.

  “Time’s up!” He lowered his hand. “All I hear is a bunch of scrap. Guess Kizer’s right about you being a liar. I always thought you were just, you know, misunderstood.”

  The tug lifted another few feet.

  Jed’s face burned with heat, but he restrained his tongue. “I’m not lying.”

  “Easy for you to say down there.”

  Jed needed to add another ruffle to the tuxedo. “If the crew doesn’t think my food’s good enough, you can throw me overboard while the ship’s in the air.”

  Captain Bog held up his finger again, and the sky prop slowed. He leaned against the railing with both elbows. “Is that so?” A devious grin crossed his face. “Careful what you offer. I’m not the sort of man who lets particulars of a contract slide. As I’m sure you understand.”

  “I’m not the type of kid who offers such particulars lightly.”

  “Five crew members—including myself. One vote each. You lose the vote, we toss you overboard. No matter what. No whining and squealing.”

  Jed’s voice was steady. “No whining and squealing.”

  Captain Bog gave a single nod. “Toss him the ladder!” he said to no one in particular. The rope fell against the side of the ship. “Can you climb up on your own?”

  Jed gathered the cans he’d collected and dumped them back into the crate. Gripping the belt loop in one hand, he climbed from the deck of the steamboat into the tug.

  As his feet hit the deck, a shadow loomed over him. Kizer’s face was nearly an inch from his own. The man’s breaths were quick and shallow.

  “I told you…” Kizer glared at the captain. “I said he wouldn’t leave, and look. Here he is. That freak is a machine. Can’t you see it?”

  The crew looked away, pretending to
be occupied with something else.

  They do that a lot, Jed thought, watching Sprocket polish the tip of her shatterlance and Pobble kick absently at a bolt in the deck.

  “Kizer…” Captain Bog rubbed his eyes. “Look at the scrape.” He pointed to Jed’s knee. “Bleeding like a stuck slug.”

  “That’s not blood! It’s—it’s—machine oil! Colored red to trick us! He’s taking us for fools! Cut deeper. You’ll find gears.”

  “You’re a good crewmate, Ki—one of the best. But you’ve got to drop this. That stick of a boy isn’t a dread. If that”—he waved at Jed—“is the dread’s secret weapon, then the world’s in a tizzy over nothing.”

  “He makes you see what he wants you to see. That conniving monster isn’t the helpless weakling he claims to be.”

  “Um…” Jed raised a hand. “I didn’t exactly claim to be a—”

  “That helpless weakling might not be here as long as you think,” Captain Bog said. “He says he can win over the crew by mashing together cans and making a proper meal, or some such nonsense. We’ll vote. If we like it, he stays. If we don’t, we toss him overboard. Sound all right?”

  “You want my vote?” Kizer asked. “I think his food tastes like scrap! And any of you who say differently will clean toilets for a month! With your tongues!”

  Jed looked from Kizer to the captain. “Wait. That’s not fair.”

  The captain shrugged. “Kizer schedules toilet duty. If he wants them to use their tongues, we’ll just find breath mints next salvage. Besides, I thought we agreed—no whining, no squealing.”

  “But—” Before more words escaped his mouth, Jed closed his mouth. “You’re right. No whining. No squealing.”

  For the first time ever, Captain Bog gave Jed a certain genuine nod that said something Jed could only interpret as Well done.

  Captain Bog told Jed to wait until Bessie was “good and high” before he started. Riggs flooded the turbines with extra push to propel them above the white puffs of clouds.

  “Until I say otherwise,” Captain Bog announced, “the mess is closed. I’ve graciously granted Jed the opportunity to dumbfound us with something we’ve supposedly never tasted before. Made from cans we’ve all tasted before. Can’t say I understand, but he’s so insistent, he’s bet his scrap life. I don’t know about the rest of you, but it’s been a while since we’ve had the treat of watching a man thrown overboard.” The crew shouted a single cheer. “Whatever the outcome, we all win. Either this boy makes something extraordinary, or he’s the evening entertainment. Sounds like a fair deal. What do you say?”

  More cheers.

  Captain Bog patted Jed’s shoulder. “I want this runt to have all the help he needs. Plank walkers deserve a proper send-off. Let’s make this a funeral party to remember!”

  Jed cleared his throat. “Um…thanks?”

  Captain Bog patted his shoulder again. “Thoughtfulness and warm hugs. Just like I said. Let’s get to work! Pobble, how about a song?” He clapped his hands twice.

  “I know just the tune!” Pobble said. He scurried off and returned a moment later with his fiddle. Its knob was still broken, so half the notes wobbled.

  Oh, once a day or three ago, our Bessie ran the yard,

  She found a scrawny, wimpy boy with mind to feed this bard.

  Oh, ohhhhhh!

  We ate and ate and ate some more until the pot was bare,

  When then he added shredded beef, potatoes, and a pear.

  He filled the pot and mashed the cans and stirred them all about,

  Until the food was ready, and the men began to shout.

  Oh, ohhhhhh!

  We ate and ate and ate some more until the pot was dry,

  Then threw the boy right to his death—and watched him try to fly.

  Sprocket clapped to the beat, and Captain Bog tapped his foot. “Now what would you like help with?” he said with enthusiasm.

  Jed rolled his eyes. “Take me to the mess.”

  The men followed. Pobble tailed, belting out his song. At each chorus, the crew joined in—“Ohhh, we ate and ate and ate some more until the pot was bare”—then Pobble finished with a new line.

  In the mess, Jed studied the cans. “How are they organized?”

  “Celebration cans here”—Pobble pointed to the top shelf, with applesauce, gooseberries, cranberry sauce, mandarin oranges, maraschino cherries, and sugarcane syrup. “Cans for when you’re hungry here”—he pointed to canned meats, canned beans, tuna, and chili. “Cans to eat when there’s no other cans to eat”—he pointed to green chilies, tomato sauce, jalapeños, and mushrooms. “And cans you only eat in an emergency”—he indicated the artichoke hearts, spinach, anchovies, and asparagus.

  If there was one word Jed loved in SPLAGHETTI, it was artistry.

  “Get me sliced mushrooms, red peppers in oil, spinach, fire-roasted tomato halves, tomato sauce, and canned chicken.”

  Pobble picked up a can of spinach and cringed as if Jed had just asked him to eat it right then. “You sure? Don’t you want cans off this shelf?” He patted the shelf of fruit and syrup.

  Jed smiled. “Not today. But I’ll need a frying pan.”

  “What’s that?” Pobble asked.

  “It’s made of metal. About this big.” Jed made a circle with his hands. “And it has a handle.”

  “Would a shatterkeg lid work?” Sprocket asked.

  “Show me.”

  Sprocket took Jed to a shatterkeg porthole and rolled the gun into the ship. The shatterkeg looked like a giant-size version of Sprocket’s shatterlance—with wheels. Sure enough, when the shatterkeg was inside, a black frying pan flopped closed, covering the porthole.

  “Perfect,” Jed said. “Now I’ll need to build a fire.”

  “A what?” Captain Bog snapped. “Fire? On my ship?”

  “I told you!” Kizer said. “He’ll burn us to ash!”

  Jed met the captain’s gaze squarely. “If I don’t get to whine and complain, then neither do you. I need a fire.”

  The crew stared at the captain. “If you say you need a fire, we’ll make you a fire. But”—he held up a finger—“you try anything funny and Sprocket will put three rounds through your head before you can blink. Got it?”

  “Got it,” Jed said.

  Sprocket cocked her shatterlance and winked at Jed. “Got it.”

  “Good. Riggs, make the boy a fire.”

  “Do you have any idea how hard I work not to make fires on this ship?”

  “Make the fire,” Captain Bog said. “Keep it contained.”

  Riggs stalked to the engine room. When he returned, he held a contraption that looked like a toaster with two bent prongs sticking out of the top. He flipped a switch, and electricity zapped between the prongs.

  “I’ll need something flammable,” Riggs said, the words stiff in his mouth. “I don’t keep flammables on board as a rule….”

  “We’ll hook something for you,” Captain Bog said. “Sprocket, take us to hook range.”

  “Aye, Cap’n. Hook height it is.”

  They returned to the main deck, and Sprocket entered the bridge.

  Jed’s stomach lurched as the tugboat dropped altitude.

  “I don’t want this getting out of control, you hear?” the captain said.

  Jed nodded. “It doesn’t need to be a big fire, but I’ll need it to burn for at least an hour.”

  “Sounds reasonable enough.” The captain took a spyglass from his tattered coat, then adjusted its length and peered over the edge. “Nine degrees starboard and release the hook!”

  “Releasing the hook,” Sprocket said.

  Something clunked below them, and a heavy chain rattled.

  “Two degrees port,” Captain Bog called. The tug turned. “And slow…”

  “Ready to scoop,” Sprocket said.

  “Open the hook. Scoop me that bathtub a quarter of a klick north, and everything around it.”

  “Aye, aye.”

  “A ba
thtub?” Jed asked. The chain clinked lower, and a hydraulic opening sound filled the air. When the hook reached the bathtub, the ship jolted as hook and chain crunched into junk.

  “Sprocket,” Captain Bog said, folding the spyglass in on itself, “load the tub into the cargo hold and dump any scrap that won’t burn.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Jed and the others followed Sprocket to the cargo hold at the rear of the boat. The chamber was empty but for a massive five-pronged claw attached to metal links as thick as summer sausages. A wad of scooped-up junk sat clenched in its grip. The porcelain bathtub was wedged between a sofa and a phone booth.

  A control box hung near Jed at the end of a cable. It had three buttons.

  And one of them was red.

  Not now… he thought, his skin prickling with sweat. Not now… He reached into his pocket and touched the lemon. They know what they’re doing. They wouldn’t tell me to do this if it wasn’t important. He sucked in a breath for courage and stepped forward to grab the control box.

  “Stop! Don’t touch that!” Sprocket shouted.

  Jed reached for the red button, but Kizer plowed into him. Jed’s finger missed and squashed a black one instead.

  Amber lights pulsed and sirens squealed. The cargo room floor shuddered and began to sink. Cracks of light glinted from the edges of the room, and the floor tilted—preparing to dump them from the ship into the junk below.

  Sprocket bolted forward and snatched the control box. She jammed her thumb into a yellow button. The siren faded with a whine, and the floor settled back into place. “What do you think you’re doing?” she yelled. “Trying to kill us?”

  Pobble and Riggs stared at Jed, eyes wide as if Jed were about to lunge at them with a knife.

  “I—I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.”

  “Do. Not. Touch things. On this ship,” Sprocket said.

  “I won’t,” Jed said. “I’m sorry.”

  Sprocket sighed and her shoulders relaxed. “It’s fine. You just startled me. Forget about it and get your junk.”

  “Forget about it?” Kizer said. His voice screeched. “He just tried to kill us!”

  “He would have died too, Kizer,” Sprocket said. “That’d be a pretty dumb plan.”

  “Why would he care? His dread buddies would patch him up good as new.”