It was supposed to be a simple excavation. One chaotic storm later, it has become anything but.
“We should wave goodbye,” Jo said, switching into one of his stranger moods, the one where no one could tell if he was being genuinely sarcastic or if he’d temporarily lost his mind. Mäx, who had far too much practice with Jo’s many moods, would say he’d never had it. Fabi could never tell if he was serious when he said that. It did raise the question of whether it was ethical to sleep with someone mentally unsound, not that Mäx’s ethics were all that consistent or understandable, and that was far too much heady thinking about family for Fabi.
Fabi liked to believe Jo was not insane, which meant he had to assume Jo was being sarcastic. Or hyper, which was almost the same in terms of what came out. Sometimes, when Jo was in a terrible mood, like he was now with Bill and Tom Kaulitz on board (and, hoo whee, that had been a shitty hour, trying to convince those two to get on board while telling them that Ivglarea was the only person on the entire island, the victim of an old shipwreck; they’d wanted to know facts and figures, and all sorts of other bullshit that Linke was able to supply alarmingly quickly), he’d suddenly become very hyper, possibly to balance out the shittiness of the situation. Or, again, he might just plain be mentally imbalanced. They might all be mentally imbalanced.
“What?” he asked his brother.
“We should wave goodbye to the island. Be all friendly-like. We didn’t even find out what it was called. It looks like an egg. We should call it Egg Island. What do you think?”
“Douchecanoe Island,” Fabi supplied.
“I see we’re being tolerant and not at all ethnocentric today,” Linke quipped.
Fabi squinted at the black-haired man. They were at about the same height, with maybe a quarter centimeter Fabi’s way, but they rarely saw eye-to-eye in any but the most literal of senses.
“Juri’s got a stab wound in his back, we just got sold to a bunch of people dealers, and my wrists still hurt from being tied together. No one would call that warm hospitality.”
“Douchecanoe Island it is.”
The sun was almost on the horizon behind them, another day at sea almost past. Frank said they had another day or so before they would be in sight of Jan Mayen. Jan was curled up into Juri’s side, Juri’s thumb rubbing circles into his shoulder, while Halla took a shift sailing in the growing darkness.
From the corner of his eye, Jan saw Linke’s long, pale fingers slip into David’s bag. They dug around for the barest of seconds before curling around a thin object and sliding it out. Jan’s eyes narrowed slightly. The notebook.
This island’s coordinates were in that notebook, as well as numerous notes on the local culture, flora, and fauna. David had written them all down once Halla produced a single notebook saved from the seiner. David was smart, but he’d never had the most straightforward memory. There was a possibility- a small possibility- that he wouldn’t remember the coordinates if they were to go missing.
Jan waited for Linke to open the notebook and change the coordinates, take a pencil and erase the numbers or put fake ones in.
Instead, Linke chucked the whole notebook overboard.
Jan heard a laugh, but it wasn’t his own.
It was Ivgalrea’s.