Entwined- Dunkirk fanfic

Chapter 11

The heavens open and an onslaught of icy fingers hail from the sky. Under the thuds of boots skidding and squelching, the rain can barely be heard. Soft taps patter on the cabin roof, they meander their way down the lacquered wood and merge into the sea. Ridiculously peaceful.

Oil from the sinking destroyer leaches into the water. As the sea completes its deadly dance, the ebony layer burns aggressively. Columns of flame erupt from the waves, trapped soldiers shriek and flail, unable to escape the fiery cage.

Back on the boat, a skinny boy, leans over Isabelle's exhausted form, with thoughtful strokes his long pale fingers wipe her feverish forehead. 'Tommy' she'd said, she couldn't have meant Tommy, as in their Tommy, Tommy Edwards.
"Peter, I need you at the helm" Mr Dawson (his father) calls. Sighing, he runs his hands through his glossy blonde hair, brushing it out of his cerulean eyes, back into a respectable manner. He tucks the cerise sweater, coating his skinny chest, into his waistband, and trudges towards the door, grabbing a few faded life jackets on his way. As he shuts the creaky door, he snatches one last glance at the salty, cramped cabin and Isabelle's dainty body sprawled over the pile of weathered blankets he'd hastily set up. She really was effortlessly beautiful, the way her damp blonde hair curled down her forehead, past her wondrous ocean eyes, and behind her ear. How her plum lips tinged scarlet from the cold, parted slightly to allow a meagre supply of saline air past. It was a shame, he thinks, she'd never be herself after this.
"Peter, I don't have all day"
"Coming" he moans. As he treads through the not exactly spacious hallway, a sea of blank faces surround him. A few emotionless shoves and he is slammed into the wall.
"Oi, watch it" Peter yells, massaging his afflicted shoulder.
He receives no more than a dry grunt in return.
Mr Dawson, a tall, grey man with a bald patch, stands, arms folded at the top of the stairs, his boot tapping the third step impatiently. His thin lips part for a split second, to bark an instruction at his son.
"Collins needs help pulling them out of the water"
"Are we not full" Peter laughs sceptically, turning his head to view the masses of men, surging into the boat faster than a leak.
"No" is his fathers simple reply.
The old man, clearly frustrated, treads back to the wheel and glares out at the horizon. Seeing the look of utter disappointment, on the man's face, rips open an only slightly healed hole in Peter's chest. He'd never be enough, not for his father, not compared to his older brother.

On deck, the rain pelts the men furiously, those who'd escaped the sea's bitter clutches are ushered below, their oily clothes mixing with the rain, creating a slick black layer over the deck; an unavoidable trap for anyone standing up. Peter slides across it, almost knocking several men over in the process. It surprises him how little they notice, soldiers line the deck and cabins yet they're frozen. As if made of stone, their eyeballs stay rigid in the puffy sockets, they're incased in. Despite, the cold, their hands don't shiver, at first glance they could be dead, he shudders.

A yell hauls him out of his trance.
"Oil, you're getting into oil".
Searching frantically for who'd spoken, Peter's eyes catch on a tall, blonde Scotsman, who he'd learned to be Collins. Collins waves skittishly at him to help, manoeuvring through the rows of gargoyle-like soldiers, Peter makes his way over to the pilot.

Men dot the water around the boat, their oily faces yelling for them to be hauled up next. Swarms of flailing arms buzz about, erratically attempting and failing to grasp Peter's fingers.
Frustrated, he gives up and helps Collins lift them onto the deck. Not that Collins, particularly needed help in that department. His muscular arms, seemed to effortlessly swing them out of the water and on to the deck, like they weighed no more than feather pillows. And what's more, he never stopped, not even for a breath, like a greased machine more and more soldiers appear on the boat, until Peter's arms sting just from pretending to aid the mechanical process.

Isabelle gasps a breath of saline air, it furiously scrapes down into her lungs burning her throat. Her eyelids flutter open alarmed, within a second her body springs of the bed. A soft thud ripples through the room, the panelled walls vibrate slightly. Her panic subsides as she finds herself in a snug dilapidated cabin. A pile of washed out life jackets, proudly guard one corner, while an ancient set of drawers peels paint onto the mouldy floor, in the other. From the gentle swaying of the room and the ceaseless salty spray filtering through the gaps in the windows, she remembers.

Soldiers line the thin hallway as she charges through it, they groan indignantly as bullet-like she ricochets of them. Flying up the stairs, she reaches the deck. The callous wind encases her, sending shivers through her cheekbones and tugging at her fraying uniform. All around, soldiers sit in small clusters, not speaking, but instead placidly staring out into the vicious sea.
Further ahead a patch of oil burns furiously, through the inferno the downed destroyer is just visible. Behind the tangled strands of yellow and red, the heap of mangled steel is gently pulled down to the depths.

The frantic squeal of an engine overhead, brings her focus to the sky. Like dogs the two places dance around above her, one a Messerschmitt the other the elegant spitfire she so loved.
"Izzy" a Scottish accent calls,
"Oh, Izzy thank god" Collins jogs up to her.
He extends his arms to hug her, but then draws them back anxiously.
Isabelle's face contorts, it wasn't like she was going to explode, nothing could set her of now. A rigid wall had been erected between her and pain, she wouldn't let herself suffer like that again.
"Is that Farier" she asks incredulous, watching the British fighter, twirl effortlessly against the grey backdrop.
"Aye, I feel bad for the German" Collins laughs, without a hint of pity in his voice.
"Come on, come on" she mutters unconsciously
As if he could hear her, the spitfire locks onto its prey, bullets spiral out of the guns riddling the smaller plane with fatal wounds.
As it bleeds fire, the Messerschmitt turns and winds back to earth. The ablaze propeller spins like a wheel of flame as the plane's nose follows its path of destruction.
Glancing down, at the black oily layer floating around the battered boat, it hits her. They were a massive flammable bullseye.
"Go" she yells at the captain.
Collins seemed to have the same idea
"GO, GO, GO" he agrees.
————————————————————————
So what do you guys think so far??
I know I promised Tommy's alive, and he is!! But it's just not time yet.
He will 100% be in the next chapter, bc don't worry I miss him too 😂.
Fun fact: during your lifetime you will probably spend 38 days cleaning you teeth 🦷.
Thanks so much for reading guys, ur support really means the world.
Don't forget to vote and comment,
Sabine xxx