The Rig 2: Storm Warning

by Steve Rollins

  “I’m going first. Drop out legs first, onto your front and hold on. You’ll need to swing to your left. I’ll grab you.”

  Wes turned onto his front, not bothering to double check with Sheila whether she had understood. There was no time. He let his legs go out the gap and slowly followed with his body until he hung by just his fingertips. He looked and measured his swing and drop, then he swung left and let go. He hit the walkway and bent through his knees, rolling forward once to land against the door of one of the apartments.

  Sheila slowly lowered herself through the gap and barely dared to watch. She dangled from the gap and began to swing left, but suddenly, fear gripped her. She couldn’t find the strength to let go.

  Wes came to the very edge of the walkway and leaned over the balustrade. As Sheila swung toward him, he reached out and grabbed her legs. He held them in his arms and knew he would either pull her back onto the walkway or fall down with her.

  “Let go!”

  Sheila made another swinging movement and let go, pushing herself toward him. He pulled and together, they fell onto the walkway. They were safe, for now.

  Chapter Three

  Dave stroked his hand over Joy’s blood-streaked face.

  “Joy,” he whispered.

  At least, he thought he whispered it. He could not hear anything but a persistent buzz.

  “Oh please, Joy, don’t be dead, please.”

  He was close to tears.

  “Oh Joy, wake up!”

  They had been behind the counter of one of the bars around the Central Plaza. It was a sheltered corner, which had been their good fortune. But the blast in the Plaza had dislodged one of the shelves with bottles at the bar and it had sailed toward them. It had tilted and the flat of the plank had hit Joy in the head, knocking her out.

  Joy was bleeding from the scalp wound the shelf had delivered to her and Dave was beside himself. She had kissed him earlier today, something he had wished and hoped for since he had met her, and now she looked like she was dead. He could not believe that. He pressed his fingertips into her neck to check her pulse. She was alive at least. He let out a sigh of relief. He looked around the bar and saw the carnage. The bartender had risen from behind the bar, clearly alive. His face was torn open by shards of glass, as were his hands. He must have been in shock, because his eyes were glazed. He should have been in agony, but did not seem to feel a thing. The rest of the bar was like a scene from a horror movie. Most people had been hit by the shattering glass from the windows and by anything that could be carried along in the blast. One of the benches that had been in the Plaza had flown right into the front of the bar and slammed into a number of people at head height. The bench was right in front of him and he could see red, jellylike mush on it, with white shards and hair mixed in. A man was shivering in a corner. He did not look like anything was wrong with him, but when Dave looked closer he saw the red pool that had formed between his legs. A splinter of wood from a table stuck out from his groin. Dave closed his eyes and turned away. The man would be dead soon. He would certainly bleed out.

  Joy stirred and opened her eyes. Dave squatted down beside her. He looked in her eyes and could see them rolling. The moment she moved, she vomited. She rolled over and rested her head beside the puddle of sick.

  Dave knew she was concussed. He did not need a doctor to tell him that; it was obvious.

  There was a door at the back of the bar he had never really noticed before. It was hanging from half a hinge. Dave went to the door and pulled it away. There were stairs behind it. He looked back at Joy to check if she was okay. Again, she was not moving. He went up the stairs and found a storeroom. It was filled with shattered wine bottles and toppled stacks of cases.

  A door led from the storeroom and he could see an office. The window of the office looked out over the Plaza and was shattered. But in the corner of the office there was a bed. He supposed the bartender or the manager slept there sometimes, or possibly took girls up there.

  He went back down and got Joy to her feet. It would be better to lay her down in the bed than leave her there in the ruins of the bar until help arrived. He half carried, half dragged her up the stairs and laid her down on the bed. Dave stroked her hair and stayed on his knees by the bed for a while. Then he heard a noise out in the Plaza. He walked out to the window and he heard the noise again. He looked around to find out where it came from and he found it. A man was walking around the Plaza, looking confused. He had a gun tucked into his belt. Dave recognized him as the man who had been setting up the stage that day.

  Then the general public address system sprang to life.

  Chapter Four

  Smith and Garcia probably had the only phones that were still working on the rig. They were shocked when the second blast rocked them. They had arrived on ‘The City’ earlier that day with the ship that had come in from Los Angeles.

  The call from the mainland came right as they were both in a frenzied panic. They had meant to wait a moment and then go up to the Central Plaza, where they would begin their investigation. Both men would make sure the media was going to be briefed properly when they inevitably came on board. Then the two would slip away as soon as the cavalry arrived. But the fire was unexpected. They knew they were stuck on the burning rig and it freaked them out. They had never been in the line of fire before; that was not their job.

  But their boss was right. The fire was not planned and the whole situation was a big mess that needed to be fixed.

  As Smith took the call, Garcia walked around the dock, looking over every piece of equipment. He tried to keep himself busy and stop himself from panicking. Many of the boats there had been shaken up by the blast, tumbling from their frames and rolling onto their sides. Those in the water looked a bit worse for wear, as they had crashed into each other. But one thing had remained in its frame. It lay there still, under a brown tarp. Garcia went over and ripped the tarp away, only to find something that made him smile.

  “John!” Garcia shouted to Smith. “Look at this. I think we’ve just found our way out.”

  Smith was just finished with the call and he went over to look at what Garcia had just found.

  He laughed.

  They found themselves looking at one of the small research submarines that were used by the geologists, oceanographers and marine biologists on the rig for their research.

  “This should allow us to dive to the hatch low in the dock and get out that way.”

  Smith nodded.

  “Yup, but not now. We have to stay here to clean up this mess.”

  He clapped his hand on Garcia’s shoulder.

  “Let’s go see whether or not Fatima has done what she was supposed to do.”

  The elevator was out of commission due to the fire, so they used the stairs. Smith was huffing and puffing after only five minutes, but it took them nearly fifteen in total to climb the winding stairs to the Central Plaza. The door to the staircase was just beyond the restrooms.

  Smith almost collapsed as they came out the door.

  “Fuck this; I really need to work out more.”

  Garcia nodded and hauled him to his feet.

  “You do. And you need to smoke less and…” He gave Smith a meaningful look. “Stop doing a lot of other things.”

  Smith looked at him angrily. He stood up straight with a big effort and breathed deep.

  “I’ve got to take a piss.”

  Garcia frowned.

  “What? Now? Jesus, man.”

  “What?” Smith shrugged. “I need to piss; if I need to piss, I need to piss.”

  Garcia shook his head.

  “Just hurry the fuck up.”

  Smith disappeared into the men’s room and it was quiet. Garcia had thought he would hear urine hitting the urinal, but there wasn’t a sound.

  “You alright in there?” he asked.

  “You’d better get in here.”

  Smith’s voice sounded calm.

  Garcia peeked around the
entrance. He was careful, fearing one of Smith’s pranks. But it was not a prank. There, on the white tiles of the floor, lay Fatima. There was blood beside her head on the tiles. Smith had his fingers on her neck, checking her pulse.

  “Still alive.”

  Garcia squatted beside her.

  “Think she’ll come around? We could try to find a doctor. Must be one around here somewhere.”

  Smith took his fingers from her artery.

  “She won’t be coming around anymore. Especially not if I’ve got anything to do about it.”

  He drew his pistol with his right hand and reached into the inner pocket of his jacket with the other. From it, he drew a silencer which he casually fitted onto his weapon.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Garcia asked, his voice going up with some indignation.

  “She hasn’t done what she was supposed to do. Now she’s just a liability.”

  Smith placed the gun to Fatima’s head.

  “And we’re here to clean up liabilities.”

  He pulled the trigger twice in quick succession. The woman’s head jerked repeatedly as the bullets shot right through her brain.

  “So what now?” Garcia asked, after Fatima had stopped moving. “Go and look for him? Can’t let him live, can we? He needs to commit suicide.”

  Smith nodded, brushing his hand through his hair and involuntarily touching his nose.

  “He does. That’s the plan anyway.”

  Garcia got to his feet.

  “So shall we comb the Plaza?”

  Smith shook his head as he put his gun away.

  “No. He could be anywhere now.” He thought for a while. “We’ll head to the security hut above here. There are survivors on board this stupid thing. We can use them to find Abbasi.”

  They used the stairs again to get to the floor above. Smith shot the lock off the security door and went in. The window was shattered and shards had hit the security officer who had been manning the place. Smith unceremoniously threw the corpse aside and sat down in the seat. He grabbed the microphone that stood in a corner of the desk and turned it on. He hit a button on the side of the desk and a screeching noise sounded from every speaker in ‘The City’.

  “This is a message from the FBI. Remain calm and shelter in place. There has been a terrorist attack. We have agents on board to apprehend the suspect. The man who carried out this attack is a Middle Eastern man called Akhmed Hussain Abbasi and he is armed and dangerous. Do not try to apprehend him. If you see something, say something. Inform us using the intercom system. We have an agent at Central Security.”

  Smith turned the microphone off and looked out the shattered window. “And now, we wait.”

  Chapter Five

  Akhmed heard the announcement on the PA system and his eyes opened wide. He had not expected to hear that voice. Or maybe he did expect to hear it, but not in connection with the term ‘FBI’. Suddenly he knew what was happening.

  He had been in the open space of the Plaza, but now he just ran. He did not know where he was going, but he jumped over the piles of gore and rivers of blood to get out of sight. He wanted to run into the bakery, but he saw people stirring inside and he knew he would not be safe from Smith and Garcia there. Those people would certainly turn him over. He took off in another direction and jetted down a corridor. He had no idea where it led, but he knew he had to hide.

  Akhmed ran up a flight of stairs and found himself on a walkway above the Plaza. There were a number of doors there and he found one that had been blasted open. He drew Fatima’s gun from his belt. He was not certain what he would do with it, but he wanted to be sure that he could at least defend himself. If Smith and Garcia were there, he would certainly want to get a shot off before they put a bullet through his head.

  Behind the door was a small hallway which had a bathroom leading off from it. At the end was a studio. It was a small, but cozy, flat and there was a small bedroom on the left. He sat down on the sofa and buried his head in his hands.

  He had always thought the theory he had heard was bogus, but now it seemed that it was not. He still couldn’t believe it, but the evidence was paramount; he had to believe it now. Akhmed tried to remember what the whole thing was about, but he couldn’t think clearly about what Helen had told him. They had discussed it over dinner once, but all he remembered about most of that evening was the fact that she had not done up quite enough buttons on her blouse.

  Helen. He might never see her again. The thought made his hopes sink even lower as he slumped on the sofa. He took his phone out of his pocket and looked at it. There were no bars. He couldn’t even call her. The fire was probably interfering with the signal everywhere on the rig. He sighed. The one thing he wanted to do now was talk to her. He realized that he would probably never leave ‘The City’ alive and there was something he needed to tell her. It was stupid that he thought of that now, he figured. It was a stupid thing that he wanted to call her about, but he had to do it.

  If it was the fire that interfered with the signal, he might have better chances of connecting the call if he headed further up into the structure. Maybe on the floor below the helipad, he would be able to get a signal. He got up and stepped out through the door again.

  Chapter Six

  Wes was surprised by the announcement that had come over the address system. He wondered why the FBI was on board in the first place, but he would have helped them if he could. If a terrorist attack caused this, then that man had to be held accountable. He had no intention of following the other part of the announcement though.

  Shelter in place, he thought. Cower in a corner, more like.

  It was not something he could do. He looked at Sheila, whose face had gone pale after hearing the announcement.

  “Was it a terrorist attack?” she asked him, looking shocked. “And he’s still out there?”

  Wes nodded.

  “It seems so.”

  Sheila instinctively crouched and covered her head with her hands. Wes just sat there, looking at her naked body. Her bum was beautiful in that position, he mused. Then he shook it off. He pulled Sheila to her feet and went to the railing of the walkway. He looked down. Nobody moved. They were in a part of ‘The City’ further away from Central Plaza, but everything was quiet none the less. A lot of people must have gone to the Plaza, but Wes figured those left in their apartments were doing exactly what Sheila had been doing at that moment. Exactly what the announcement said: sheltering in place. It was a response mechanism that had been well-drilled into most people, Wes thought.

  He never got how that happened. He had not been in the country long when this change came about. Sure, since 9/11, things had been altered from what he knew as a schoolboy, but in the last few years, it had gone from bad to worse. Maybe he had missed the metamorphosis because he had spent two years in Samoa, and then travelled to Australia, New Zealand, Indonesia and Malaysia with Joy before returning to the US. There was something going on with the people now. It was as if they were living in a constant state of fear.

  It was so evident in what he saw Sheila do at that moment. There had just been an explosion and the rig they were on was on fire. But just the mention of a terrorist attack and the voice of authority telling her to shelter in place had her frozen.

  “Sheila.” He looked at her sternly. “We’re going to the Central Plaza. I need to know how Joy and Dave are. Then we will look for a way out.”

  She looked at him, slightly bewildered.

  “But we have to stay where we are.”

  Wes shook his head.

  “No, we can’t. We need to go down there. And then we’ll see whether anyone else needs help; then we’ll get out of this place.”

  “But there’s a terrorist walking around down there!”

  Sheila was almost in tears. She was panicking. Wes did not understand it. Earlier, she had been so calm and composed; so strong. Now that she had heard there was a terrorist, she was terrified.

  “There might
be. We don’t know,” he said calmly.

  “Yes, we do. They said so!”

  Wes shrugged.

  “And what? Do you believe everything they tell you?”

  Sheila was confused now. She could not understand Wes’ attitude.

  “But the bomb! The explosion!”

  Wes frowned.

  “Yes, there was an explosion. Perhaps a bomb, but who knows, maybe Stryker set the thing off.”

  Stryker, he thought.

  Dave and Joy had found out something about Stryker. Something had been wrong. But what?

  He took Sheila by the hand and set off toward the Plaza, pulling her along.

  “We can’t go to the Plaza!” she protested.

  “We can and we will. I have to talk to Joy and Dave.”

  ***

  Dave was looking through the fridges in the storeroom. He needed something cold for Joy’s head. That was the one thing he knew he could do. He could not dim the light for her, he could not bandage anything, but he could cool her bruised head. Finally, he found what he was looking for. In the back of the storeroom, he found one of the fridges had an ice maker. It still worked. He picked up a garbage bag from one of the shelves and began gathering ice cubes in it. When he had enough, he closed the bag and went back to the office.

  Joy still lay on the bed. She had not moved. Her breathing was still shallow, but when Dave checked, he found her pulse was strong. He kneeled down beside her and gently placed the bag of ice on her head, where the plank had hit her, hoping it would help a little. He did not want to lose her.

  Dave had lost too many people he cared about already, and he cared about Joy more than most people. Most of the people that he had lost had been in the army.