Fleur De Lies(5)
“So what are you going to do?” asked George. “The toilet on the bus is out of order.”
“I’ll just cross my legs until we get back to the ship.”
All color drained from Margi’s face as she appeared to realize how she might be affected by her seatmate’s threat. “Would someone not wearing white linen pants like to change seats with me on the bus ride back? I’ll reward you with a free bottle of hand sanitizer.” Ever since winning the grand prize in our church raffle, Margi had been wearing linen and bamboo rather than polyester and nylon, proving that a five thousand dollar gift certificate to Farm and Fleet can turn even a fashion-challenged Norwegian into a stylish clotheshorse.
While Margi lobbied to exchange her seat for one in a potentially less hazardous location, I untied the ribbon straps from around my ankles, stashed my sandals in my shoulder bag, and headed for the tidal flats, determined to investigate a gargantuan platform that was marooned on the sand like an alien spacecraft.
It was the size and shape of a tennis court and reminded me of an above-ground pool that had collapsed and tilted. Strands of slick green seaweed hung like dreadlocks from its concrete shell; rust bled red along its steel reinforcing bars; algae devoured large chunks of the outer skeleton and looked to be spreading like a flesh-eating virus. Holes punctured the structure’s skin like open wounds, some no bigger than a basketball, others the size of a two-car garage. A warning was painted across the concrete in large white letters: Access Interdict, followed by a word I had no trouble understanding: Danger. I had no idea what the thing was, but it was obviously really old, and probably linked to the slew of other odd structures that were strewn both across the beach and in a semi-circular formation farther out to sea.
I shot a picture of the leviathan with the iPhone Nana had given to me for my birthday, then with my feet slapping wetly on the rippled sand, circled around the platform to view it from the side that faced the Channel.
“I don’t care what it is or why it’s here,” drawled a honey blonde in a strapless sundress and alligator cowboy boots. “It’s just plain nasty.”
“I’m with ya, hon,” agreed a Swedish blonde in white leggings, halter top, and a wide-brimmed Western hat that was woven from straw. “If this thing washed ashore on Padre Island, we wouldn’t put it on a postcard. We’d blow it up.”
“With what? Dynamite?” The third person in the group, a platinum blonde in a sleeveless cowl neck and half boots, flipped her silky locks behind her shoulders and cocked a hip that was intimately outlined beneath skinny snakeskin jeans. “I wouldn’t need dynamite. I bet I could break that thing up into a million pieces with my AK-47.” Making a muzzle of her index finger, she sprayed a flurry of bullets into the platform with her invisible weapon, blasting it into a million imaginary chunks.
The booted blonde in the strapless dress gave her wrist a sassy flop. “AK-47s are so common. Shoot, everyone has one.” She arched her eyebrows and smiled coyly. “Did I tell you about my new sub-compact semi-automatic? It’s a Kahr P380.” She paused for effect. “And it’s pink!” She screamed the word, tossing her head back and doubling her fists in a shameless display of ecstasy.
“Ewww!” cried the blonde who’d advocated blowing up Padre Island.
“Get out!” cried the blonde who’d riddled the platform with invisible bullets.
“Did y’all hear about that blue state that has a referendum to outlaw the sale of all forms of ammunition?” asked Alligator Boots. “If it passes, folks’ll still be able to stockpile as many weapons as they want, but they won’t be able to fire them. Idn’t that just criminal?”
“Is that constitutional?” asked Snakeskin Jeans, wrinkling her nose in an adorable gesture.
“Heck, no.” Western Hat puffed out her bottom lip in thought. “There’s an amendment protecting ammo, isn’t there?”