A/N: Many thanks to Jennifer Lynn Weston, kweenofmagic, TavyBeckettFan, Starling Rising, Panzergal, and LostWitch5 for your marvelous reviews!

((For Panzergal: I hope we do eventually find out what Beckett's favorite flower is. Thank you so, so much for your review and I hope everything is going well!))

Disclaimer: I can hear them coming in the distance! I have climbed a pine tree and my hands are really sticky with sap. I'll have to remember not to touch any paper or leaves. I don't own POTC!

Chapter 15

No part of Brimstone Fortress had ever exploded before, and panic ran rampant. Captain Taylor ordered that all civilians be evacuated, but most of the Marines in the fortress were occupied with extinguishing the last fires, searching for wounded, and rounding up escaped prisoners. Other Marines crowded around the gateway to the fortress in hopes of catching the bomber. Not enough of them were able to ensure a successful evacuation.

That was when someone realized it had been a bad idea to order the civilians out. The guilty party had probably just waltzed off! This news spread. Disorder and anger increased and that was all.

Admiral Rowe did what he could to assist poor Captain Taylor, but ended up pacing the battlements. He was in a bad mood. Luckily, his daughter had been out on a country picnic. If she hadn't, if she'd been hurt...

Part of Admiral Rowe wanted to stay and help catch the person responsible for the mess. The bigger part of him needed to take his daughter away. He could not let her be hurt. He would have the servants start moving her things back to the Formidable. She could live there until they were ready to make way and then it was Good bye Brimstone.

It had been a stupid idea to bring her out in the first place.

"Father must be on his way to check on me," Rachel said. "I'll watch for him here."

"Very well, dear," a flustered Mrs. Canton said. "I must make ready for the wounded. Oh, ill-fated day!"

As the older woman bustled off, Rachel timidly peered out of the infirmary, squinting across the smoky, chaotic courtyard. She was looking for three people and she didn't have to look far.

Beckett's rigid figure paced at the other side of the courtyard. Mercer had just joined him. At their feet lay Jack Sparrow. No one was paying them any attention. They conversed for a moment. Then Mercer hauled Jack over his shoulder and followed Beckett toward the stables.

She watched them, breathing shallowly. I want you to investigate the woman who is 'only a nurse.' The threat in Beckett's voice joined Mercer's verbal and physical threat, and for a moment, Rachel quailed. Then she clenched her jaw and tossed her head, making her sore neck twinge.

Oh, no, you don't. With those icy words in her mind, she stalked out of the infirmary-

And slammed into another young woman. Their heads knocked together, but it was the other young woman who fell to the ground with an exclamation. Holding her head, Rachel moaned and then looked at the young woman who was sprawled on the stones. "I beg your pardon," Rachel managed, offering a hand.

The young woman was dressed in a plain blue gown with a white shift beneath. She was floury – a cook. Her dirty face was angry. "This is the second time! What is wrong with the people in this dratted fort?" She let Rachel help her up, and then beat at her skirts. Flour poofed everywhere. "No one watches, no one looks! It's enough to drive a maid mad!"

Rachel kept a hand to her throbbing forehead, squirming. Beckett and Mercer were almost into the stables and she didn't want to let them out of her sight. "I apologize;" she said, "you're right, I didn't look. I will next time."

The cook's pretty face softened. "It's no matter." She bobbed a curtsy. "Good day, miss."

"Good day." Relieved, Rachel bobbed her own curtsy, and hurried toward the stables. Her hands were shaking. The closer she got to the stables, the slower her feet moved. She scanned the open-air stalls constantly, but her quarry was nowhere to be seen. They were inside. Did she dare enter? She didn't even have a plan!

At the entrance to the inner stables, her feet ground to a halt. She stood there, under the curious gazes of several horses and stable hands.

Footsteps rasped up behind her, and then the cook was at her side. They gave each other puzzled glances. The cook looked tense. "Hello," she said awkwardly.

"Hello," Rachel said, equally uncomfortable.

Silence between them.

"Well, fancy this," the cook said.

"Yes," Rachel said. Then she worked up her courage and strode into the dim warmth of the stables.

There was a long, wide corridor of barred stalls. A few horses peered expectantly out. At the end of the corridor were two doors and one was ajar. Wiping her palms on her skirt, Rachel headed for that door.

"Wait." It was a whisper. The cook suddenly had her arm. "Are you following them? Agent Beckett, Mercer, and the pirate?"

Rachel stared into the cook's striking blue eyes. "...No."

The cook nodded. "Then neither am I."

Rachel nodded, confused.

"Let's follow them together," the cook added.

Rachel gaped. "Who are you?"

"My name is Lorrie. Who are you?"

"R-Rachel."

"They've gone down to the lower levels. There's an entrance here. If we don't hurry, Jack Sparrow will be lost."

There was no time for Rachel to think. The young cook pulled her toward the half-open door by the arm. Puzzled, Rachel felt that Lorrie's hands were exceptionally soft. Well, cooks should have softer hands – they weren't like scullery and laundry maids.

They slipped into a low tack room. Another door framed by bridles took them into a cool landing that smelled of damp stone. Lit only by torches, the landing hesitated before plunging down a long flight of stairs. Puffing and rasping noises echoed up the descending passage. A timid peek over the edge revealed Beckett's white wig bobbing after Mercer's burdened form. Mercer was the one breathing like a winded horse. A limp Jack Sparrow would be a formidable weight indeed.

A minute later, the men had finished the stairs and disappeared down the ensuing corridor. The two young women followed, soundless in their soft shoes.

It was the worst game of Follow-the-Leader in the history of the world. When I mentioned this to Jack he made a list for me. I couldn't stop him. Also, as you'll see by the title, he got a hold of my thesaurus. I'm sorry.

Why It Was Truly the Worst, Most Despicable, Heinous, Galling, Irksome, Plaguy, Troublous, Vexatious

Game of Follow-the-Leader in the History of the World and Quite Possibly the Cosmos

by Jack Sparrow, List-Crafter Extraordinaire and Advocate of Rummy Rights

1. The followers had not ingested rum lately. Judging by their innocence, they probably had never ingested rum at all. This is deplorable.

2. The followers were unfamiliar with their environment, like butterflies in the Sahara Desert. They are butterflies because they are female. If they were male, they would be ladybugs. Ha. Ha.

3. Said environment (dungeon) was not exactly a garden party at Buckingham Palace. Who thought of Buckingham anyway; do they serve bucking ham at this palace? Is it a special breed of pig that kicks all the time?

4. Two of the followees, not including myself, were nasty buggers.

5. This list is devastatingly depressing because it should have been the Best Game of Follow-the-Leader. Why? Because they were following Captain Jack Sparrow, mate.

Lorrie and Rachel followed the men down three levels. They often had to crawl so the prisoners would not see them and make a racket. By the time they were watching the grimy torture chamber door close behind Mercer, Beckett, and Jack, they were covered with dust and cobwebs. Unaccustomed to the raw smell of this grim underworld, Lorrie had covered her nose and mouth with her hand. Rachel had to fight not to do the same.

There were caskets stacked against one wall, two high. The young women huddled behind these grisly containers, across the hall from the torturing chamber door. "How can we get him out of there?" Rachel whispered hopelessly.

"We'll think of something," was Lorrie's muffled response.

"There never was a somethin' what ended up as anythin' other than nothin'." The casket inches from their head spoke in a deep voice. Rachel had to cover her mouth to keep from shrieking aloud. She tumbled back with an oof, tangling with Lorrie. They clutched hands as the cover of the top casket rose slowly. Two eyes glittered inside. Rachel felt the world beginning to spin. She wasn't breathing any more. She was going to faint.

"Wot's this?" The lid lifted the rest of the way and a head of stringy hair emerged. The eyes were in a face coated with years of grime. The face smiled, which was even worse because the lips were cracked and they revealed tormented gums and the stumps of teeth. "Two Eves straight outta Eden, innit," the man said. An arm came out, shakily tipping the lid off altogether. To the women's relief, the man set the lid quietly on the floor and then rose up until he was kneeling in the casket.

His clothes were crusty and stiff with filth. His shirt revealed a V of sickly white chest. His hands were knobby and the nails like talons. The lines on his face spoke no gentleness.

Rachel began breathing again, hyperventilating. Lorrie was squeezing her hand so tightly, the bones ground together. "Run," Rachel managed, and began to struggle to her feet. Lorrie did the same, but they ended up unbalancing each other.

"Eves, don't leave," the man rasped. To their shock, his eyes filled with tears. They froze. He bowed jerkily, as if it pained him, and looked up at them with a dog's hope. "Wot did I do?"

"Who are you?" Lorrie whispered, kneeling on the floor.

"Me mum lately christened me Insane Rob. But y'can name me anythin' y'wish, mistresses." Again, the groveling dog expression. "I've been kept in a box fer a lifetime, but thunder an' fire opened it."

"An escaped prisoner," Rachel gasped. "The explosion."

The man cocked his head. "I'm lookin' for somethin' ...the sun. Will y'help me find it?" He wiped the tears from his eyes. They shone a tired green.

Rachel glanced at the torture chamber door. They were in great danger of being caught. "We can't. We have to save someone."

Lorrie gave her a frightened glance. Don't tell him!

"The Ice Man," Rob said suddenly, in a deep voice.

Rachel and Lorrie exchanged glances.

"The Ice Man is in there," Rob pointed at the dungeon door. "I hid from 'im."

Slowly, the young women rose to their feet. "We've got to go," Lorrie hissed, trembling.

Insane Rob blinked sadly and spoke in that deep voice, "Mercy dies."

"What?" Rachel muttered.

"Ice Man brought his prey," Rob said in a new, serious voice. "A black-haired bloke. I saw 'im, thrown over th'shoulder of a vulture. You tryin' t'save the black-haired bloke?"

Lorrie's mouth opened, but no sound came out.

"Rob can help you," Rob said in a low, eager voice. "You carry th'black-haired bloke into that room." He pointed at a slimy door across the hall. "After."

"Come on," Lorrie said, pulling Rachel away. But Insane Rob was climbing out of the casket. With a happy glance, he skipped to the torture chamber door and wrenched it open.

Lorrie cursed and shoved Rachel back into the corner behind the caskets. An instant later, Rob's piercing shriek shattered the oppressive silence. "Hooo hooooeeeee ayahh! Humble Rob's at yer service!"

There came a man's surprised shout and another's curse. "Grab him, d--!"

"Put it down! PUT IT DOWN!"

The sound of clanging metal, like a duel of swords, and then a ringing clang.

"Run, little sheepies! Yip yip yip!"

Rachel and Lorrie exchanged a huge-eyed glance.

Suddenly the door burst open. First came a lumbering torturer in a stained apron. He rushed around the corner and was gone. Beckett came next, wide-eyed. Mercer followed, drawing a pistol. A glowing band smacked his wrist and the pistol went flying. Insane Rob appeared, a burning brand in each hand. His tangled hair floated and twisted in the waves of heat, and his face was lit like a demon's. He threw back his head and howled like a wolf.

Holding his burnt wrist, Mercer jumped back to avoid the blurring orange batons, twirled by Rob with astonishing speed. Beckett, cowering behind Mercer, ran around the corner, shouting for guards. Mercer and Rob continued their terrible dance, but Mercer had to give ground and soon, he was around the corner too.

For a moment, Rachel and Lorrie hesitated. Then they threw themselves into the torture chamber.

It was a hot nightmare. It smelled first of metal and then of pitch and then of burnt flesh. It was dark, cavernous, lit only by the evil furnace that brooded in a corner, mouth bristling with various terrible tools. There were three scarred tables. Jack lay on the middle one, weakly trying to roll onto his side. Rachel circled to his head and hooked her arms under his armpits. He went limp at her touch, gazing up at her with glazed eyes. Lorrie scooped his legs up at the ankles. They pulled him off, sagging under his weight.

"Go, go, go," Rachel gasped to herself. Lorrie leading the way, they scuttled out of the abominable room, and to the door Rob had indicated. Lorrie unceremoniously dropped Jack's bare feet and opened the door. She gagged. She picked up Jack's feet unsteadily and pulled them into the room. Rachel followed, gagging as well. The air was thick with death and wood-scent.

Stumbling, weary, disoriented by the odor, the two practically fell to the floor. Actually, they both landed on Jack, who groaned. "Have a care for his wrist," Rachel exclaimed, and they quickly scrambled off him.

A single torch lit the room. It was full of caskets without lids. Empty caskets. This was the last stop for a dead prisoner: he was packaged here and sent to a watery grave. The smell was the residue of unlucky souls.

It was a horridly good hiding place.

Rachel closed the door, then gazed at Lorrie. Breathing shallowly, they stared at each other with fear and shock at what they'd done.

Then Lorrie looked around. "This is odd," she said breathlessly. "I should think the caskets would be located at the woodworker's shop."

"But it's easier to have a supply here," Rachel said, wondering why they were discussing this.

Lorrie shrugged. "Well, it's perfect. If we can secure him in a casket and stow him away on the ship..."

"What ship?" Rachel demanded. "What are you talking about?"

"Aye, what're you talking about?" Jack Sparrow echoed, making his rescuers jump. They quickly knelt on either side of him.

"Are you all right?" Rachel asked.

Jack's liquid brown eyes, now very alert, darted between them. Then he gave a crooked little grin. "You must be the wee feathers what landed atop me. Savvy. And who might you both be, ladies?"

Thanks for reading!