Chapter Four

Javier slowly drifted up through layers of mental molasses, until finally he was relatively certain he was awake in the real world. He tried to open his eyes, but they seemed to be glued shut. He lifted his arms – but the left one wouldn't move – so he brought his right hand up and rubbed at his eyes, getting rid of the gunk. While he was doing that, he registered that he was lying on his back, he had a splitting headache, and his side felt like it had been kicked by a horse.

Gunk removed, his eyes would now open. At first, all he saw was grey, then it resolved into the grey metal walls and ceiling of a very small – about eight feet square – room. "What the fuck?" No noise was penetrating the room, but he seemed to be vaguely aware of a distant rumble, perhaps of very large engines.

He tried to sit up, and was reminded of his immobile left arm – then, looking down, he discovered the reason: it was tied to his left thigh with his own belt. A bit further up was the reason: someone had inserted an IV needle in his forearm; the restraint was to keep him from flailing around and ripping it out. The belt was loose, though; evidently only intended for while he was unconscious. He pulled the hand out before looking up to find the IV source: a now-empty bag of saline solution simply duct-taped to the wall above. Two other flat, empty bags were also there; he'd had three "units" of fluids. Since the current one was done, and he hated needles, he carefully but quickly undid the medical tape holding the needle in place and pulled it of his arm, crossing the tape back over the tiny hole. He left the line and needle hanging from the bag for now.

That was when he realized his wedding ring was missing. He stared at the empty finger for a moment, then frantically patted his pockets – his phone and wallet were gone, too. Fuck.

Gingerly he swung his feet the other way to the floor beside the bunk – he was lying on a narrow bunk – and got his torso upright. He took quick stock of himself, top to bottom: head wrapped in a bandage, his mouth felt and tasted like a sewer, another bandage around his middle, body absolutely filthy, wearing his own stinking dirty clothes, feet in only socks – but he spied his sneakers on the floor.

What the fuck happened? Where the fuck am I? THINK, Pereira!

Suddenly, the last thing he remembered came flooding back: the meeting with his doppleganger on the commercial docks, the sudden gunfire, getting hit – that explained the bandages – stumbling away and into some kind of room.

So is this a prison? It sure as hell isn't a hospital. He looked around again. Everything was flat grey metal: from the surface under the mattress, and the drawers beneath it, the small table next to the bed (using the bed for a chair), locker-style cabinets, even the sink and toilet on the other wall. Speaking of toilets... he managed to pry himself up and, holding on to walls and furniture, got over to said receptacle and used it for its intended purpose. Washing his hands quickly at the sink in the corner, he turned and eyed the featureless door in the fourth wall. He'd just begun to take a step that way to try it when the lever-type handle turned down and the door was pushed into the room, revealing a startled, clean-shaven man of twenty-five or so dressed in khakis, whose eyes widened with surprise at seeing Javier on his feet.

"You're alive!" he exclaimed with delight. "And awake!" Javier registered a second later that he was speaking Spanish, then that the man was holding a plate of food in one hand.

"Where the fuck am I?" he returned in the same language.

"On the butterfly."

That was pure gibberish to Javier. "What?"

"The butterfly. It's a ship – a cargo ship." The word fell into place then - "Mariposa", Spanish for butterfly, must be the ship's name. But...

"A ship? How...?"

Javier's confusion was confusing the other man. He held up a hand. "The Captain said to get him when you woke up – if you did. He'll explain." And with that, he reached over past Javier, set the plate down on the little table, then backed out and closed the door.

The plate, fork laid across the top, contained breakfast – at least, that's what Javier assumed the rubbery scrambled eggs, far-too-crispy bacon, and scraped burnt toast were supposed to be. It wasn't the least bit appetizing, but his stomach, having gotten a whiff of food-like smells, was letting him know it had been empty for far too long. So he gingerly sat himself down again on the bunk and attempted to eat without tasting, washing it down with tap water he poured into a clean coffee cup he found by the sink.

He'd choked down about half the plateful when the door opened again, this time framing a large, solidly-built man wearing more vaguely uniform-like khakis. "So you survived," he said, also in Spanish. "Who the hell are you?" Crossing his arms, he planted himself just inside the open door. He was clean-shaven, with short salt-and-pepper hair on his head, and bright blue eyes that felt like truth detectors.

Javier put the fork down on the plate and pushed it away, then attempted to sit up straight as he gave his real name – this had to be the captain. It was confirmed a moment later: "Capitán Frontera of the Mariposa."

"A cargo ship?"

The Captain nodded.

"I don't... know how the hell I got here," Javier admitted.

"My crew found you near the lower hatch, the day after we left port. They carried you here to Perez's quarters – they thought you were Perez. You look exactly like him, and he apparently didn't come back on board. But when I came to see, I said, 'no, that's not Perez. That's somebody else.' You'd been shot – you look like hell. You're a stowaway. So they were going to throw you overboard." Javier stared at that, shocked, but the Captain went on. "I said no. You were still alive, and I'm not going to order a man's death. I told them to patch you up, and let God decide." He shrugged. "Apparently it pleased God that you should live."

That was a whole lot for Javier to absorb at once, so he put most of it away and seized on the most important bit. "Perez... I was meeting somebody on the docks, somebody who looked like me. That must have been him. So he was from this ship, eh?"

"Yeah. Miguel Perez. Our cook."

"Cook?" Javier was flabbergasted. Bad enough that he had a double, but one who also cooked for a living? That was too much coincidence. He glanced at the half-eaten plate. "Then who...?"

"The crew is taking turns doing the cooking – or trying to," the Captain added, one side of his mouth quirking in acknowledgment of the crew's general failure in that regard. But he had other things on his mind. "Why were you meeting Perez?" came the harsh demand.

Javier looked up at him, and decided his best course was to be completely honest. "He was buying some cocaine from me."

"You're a drug dealer?" the Captain asked sourly.

Javier shook his head. "Not long-term. I... fell into some coke, needed the money, so I was selling it. I wasn't going to get more and keep doing it."

"And why were you shot? Who shot you? Was Perez shot, too? Is he dead?"

Javier tried to think back to the docks, but it had all happened so damn fast. He shook his head no. "I don't know. I can't answer any of those." Frontera looked skeptical at that, and Javier kept talking. "It all happened very quickly. We had just met, were staring at each other, when suddenly guns started going off all around us. I can't think why anyone would have been shooting at me. I have no idea if they were shooting at Perez, or the third guy, who had set up the deal. Maybe they were all shooting at each other, and all three of us just happened to be in the way." He shrugged helplessly, then added, "There were a bunch of guns going off, all around us."

"Perez?" he was prompted. He thought, then shook his head again.

"I don't know. I think maybe he was shot, but I can't be certain. I was just trying to... scramble out of there, find a place to hide." He looked up at the Captain, trying to radiate Truth. "I didn't even realize I had come on board this ship. All I knew is... I found a door, and a room, and then I collapsed. I'm not a deliberate stowaway, Capitán. I swear." Something was bugging him, and then he realized what it was. "How long have I been here?"

"We're four days out of port."

He was aghast. "Four days? Oh my god. Letty must be frantic." He started to put his hand into the pocket he usually kept his phone in, and then remembered: it was gone. "Capitán, my phone is missing. I need to call my wife, and tell her I'm okay. Please..."

Captain Frontera shook his head. "Your phone, wallet, and ring are in my safe. I trust my crew... but not that much. I'll get them back to you now you're awake. But the phone won't do you any good while we're at sea – there's no service on board."

"Then... may I use the ship's radio – or whatever?"

"No," came the flat reply. He waited a beat, but then went on before Javier could form the words. "You're a stowaway, on my ship illegally. And an admitted drug dealer. A criminal. I owe you nothing."

Javier grasped at straws. "What if I joined your crew? I can cook. Take Perez's place."

Captain Frontera shrugged, unhelpful. "You could. You could try, anyway. But you still can't use the radio, not for six months, and then only in an emergency. Company policy. I'm not bending it for you."

"Then what can I do? Capitán, please. I need to call my wife!"

"Wait till we reach port. Then you can get your phone on the local network, or buy another."

"And when will we reach port? And where?"

"Singapore. We'll be there in five more days."

"Five days..." A wave of devastation swamped him. The Captain started to turn, but Javier said quickly, "Capitán, wait! Please," he added, trying to be courteous. Frontera hooked an eyebrow, waiting. "Am I a prisoner?" Javier asked him straight out.

Frontera shrugged. "The door's not locked. But remember: we're in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. You won't get too far."

Javier took a deep breath. "Can I get some clean clothes please?"

He shrugged again. "Perez didn't make it back on board before we sailed. Officially, he's deserted, and all his stuff," he waved a hand around the room – Perez's former room, "is technically abandoned. Take what you like." And with that, he turned and walked out, closing the door behind him.

Javier gaped at the door in shock and devastation, then looked wildly around the tiny room – apparently his new home for the duration. "You fucked up this time, pendejo," he told himself. "You really... really fucked up bad." His face twisted as another wave swamped him. "Letty..." She was so far away, so far out of reach. He sank down until his head was in both hands, and the tears came in a rush.