Outpost

by Adam Baker

Toiletries and make-up in the washstand cabinet. She caught her reflection as she closed the cabinet door. She hadn't seen herself naked for a while. She was thinner. Her collar bones were more defined. Her breasts had deflated and sagged.

  One of the attractions of Arctic life: it was pretty much asexual. Men and women wore the same quilted cold-weather gear. No hierarchies of beauty and glamour on a polar installation.

  Jane toyed with cosmetics. She drew gloss across her lips. It made her mouth seem like a bloody wound.

  Ghost and Punch headed for a stairwell. Down nine levels.

  'Mind your step,' said Ghost. The temperature had dropped even further. The stairs were glazed with ice. They were deep below the waterline.

  MASKINRUMMET

  The engine room.

  They shut themselves inside and jammed the door with a wrench.

  They found themselves on a walkway looking down on massive drive machinery. Gas turbines. Alternators. Four great motors mounted on rubber dampers, four great manganese propeller shafts.

  Ghost took out his radio.

  'We made it. We're at the engine room.'

  There was a glass control booth at the end of the walkway.

  'Let's flick every switch,' said Ghost. 'See what happens.'

  A slow dragging sound from below the walkway.

  'I don't think we're alone down here,' said Punch.

  The guy must have been an engineer. His badge said Hilmar Larsen. He limped from behind one of the huge Wärtsilä Vasa engines. He dragged his leg like his ankle was broken. His right hand was spiked metal like an armoured gauntlet. The fabric of his boiler suit was lumped and stretched by a strange, spinal deformity. His face was bloody and swollen and his eyes were jet black.

  'How's it going down there, Hilmar?' asked Punch.

  The engineer looked upward and hissed. He slowly stumbled across the engine room and up the steps to the walkway.

  Punch and Ghost backed away.

  'Dude, it would be great if you could stop right there.'

  The engineer reached the top of the steps and limped towards them, sliding along a railing for support.

  'Larsen, if you can hear me, if you can understand my words, you need to stop.'

  The man continued to advance.

  Punch and Ghost backed into the control booth. Ghost shut the door and held it closed with his foot. Punch helped brace the door with his shoulder.

  Larsen slammed against the glass. Ghost saw himself reflected in jet-black eyeballs. The engineer hissed and spat. Spittle dribbled down the glass.

  'Shoot him,' said Punch.

  'We need the ammo. I'll open the door. You hit him with the axe.'

  'All right.'

  'Ready?'

  Ghost opened the door.

  Punch stood back. He adjusted his grip on the axe. He held it above his head like he was about to whack a fairground test- your-strength machine.

  'Last chance, Hilmar,' he said. 'Can't let you come any closer.'

  The engineer got ready to lunge.

  Punch brought down the axe and cleaved the man's head in two. The engineer staggered backward, out of the booth. He toppled on to the walkway, axe buried between the two halves of his head. His legs danced a jig, last signals from a scrambled brain.

  They stepped over the dead man and descended from the gantry to the floor of the engine room.

  'Flick every switch you find,' said Ghost. 'Turn every light green.'

  They cranked dials and isolator breakers to On. Faint hum of current. Ghost took out his radio.

  'Raise the anchor,' he told Jane. 'Let's get this thing going.'

  Brief warning klaxon. Turbines hummed then roared. The propeller shafts slowly began to turn.

  Jane stood at the helm and watched the turbine rev needles rise from zero to full power.

  'Feel that?' she called to Ivan. 'We're moving.'

  'No shit,' said Ivan. He was standing at the back of the bridge looking down into the stairwell. Heavy impacts against the barricaded door. Jumbled furniture began to shake and shift.

  'Hate to say it, but I think we woke the neighbours.'

  Breakout

  Ghost walked the floor of the engine room. Turbines roared.

  He checked an engine panel. He tapped a dial. A drop of blood splashed at his feet. He looked up. The dead engineer was lying on the gantry above him. Blood dripped through the grate.

  'Better clean that up,' said Ghost. 'Any fire blankets around?'

  They climbed the walkway. Ghost tugged the axe from the engineer's head. He crouched and inspected the wound.

  'His brain is full of metal. Look.'

  'I'll take your word for it,' said Punch.

  'Little wires. Little filaments spread through his body. There's some coming out of his nose.'

  'Sure he's dead?'

  'Pretty sure. Better bag him up.'

  Ghost wiped the axe blade on the engineer's leg.

  They wrapped the dead man in a couple of fire blankets and lashed his body with flex. They threw the body from the gantry. The corpse lay by a wall.

  'He'll be okay down there for a while,' said Ghost. 'We'll put him over the side when we get a chance.'

  Ghost hefted the axe.

  'Mind if I take this?' he asked. 'The gun is too loud. If I shoot, it will bring a shipful of freaks down on us.'

  Punch found a big power drill. He revved the trigger a couple of times to check the charge.

  They stood at the engine room door. Ghost removed the wrench.

  'Ready?'

  He twisted the handles and pulled the hatch aside. An empty passageway.

  'Okay. Let's go.'

  Jane sat at the helm. She tried to make sense of the screens. At a guess: engine output, fuel management, course correction.

  She turned the joystick. She slowly pushed the thrust levers forward. A ball-compass mounted in the panel beside her rolled like an eye slowly looking left. The Alstrom dynamic positioning system. The ship was turning east towards the rig. It was exhilarating to think she could steer an object the size of a mountain by the touch of her fingers.

  Jane dry-swallowed Dexedrine. Amphetamines were a basic Arctic survival tool. Rye kept an extensive stock of stimulants locked in a trunk under her bed. Hoarded them like a connoisseur. Treated them as her personal wine cellar.

  Ivan stood guard in the stairwell behind the bridge. He watched the door at the bottom of the stairs. The steel hatch was wedged shut by a stack of chairs. He could hear relentless pounding from the other side like someone was hurling their bodyweight against the door.

  He searched for more furniture to wedge the hatch. He fetched a sofa from the officers' quarters. He rolled it through the bridge.

  'You okay?' called Jane, over her shoulder. 'Need any help?'

  'I'm okay.'

  He tipped the sofa over the railing. It hit the barricade with a crash. Brief respite from the pounding, then the impacts resumed.

  Ivan descended the stairs. He put his ear to the hatch. Scuffling. Grunting.

  He tried to reinforce the barricade, pile more furniture against the door.

  'Got a moment?' he yelled. 'I think they're going to break through.'

  Chairs shook and toppled. Ivan put his shoulder to the door. He strained to keep the hatch closed. He blinked sweat from his eyes.

  Jane ran down the stairs and joined him at the barricade. She pushed against the door.

  'This is no fucking good,' she said. 'Any more of those fire axes around? Maybe we can wedge this thing closed.'

  'Don't know. Think I saw a toolbox in the purser's office.'

  Jane ran up the stairs.

  Ivan braced his back against the door. His boots slipped on the metal deck. The barricade slowly began to collapse.

  The hatch was pushed ajar. Ivan snatched an extinguisher from the wall and directed a jet of foam through the gap. He used the empty extinguisher to pound at clawing, scrabbling fingers.

  'I need some help her
e,' he shouted up the stairwell. 'Jane? Jane, you there? We're in some deep shit.'

  Jane vaulted down the steps holding a claw hammer. She flailed at the squirming hand. The hammer sparked metal. She mashed fingers with heavy blows.

  Jane and Ivan threw themselves against the steel door and tried to slam it closed. They heard bone crunch. They threw themselves at the door twice more. Blood spurt. The grasping hand fell to the deck, cut through at the wrist.

  Jane cranked the hatch levers closed, and jammed them shut with the shaft of the hammer.

  'Not on my bloody watch,' she muttered.

  'Jesus,' said Ivan, looking down at the floor. The severed hand clenched and unclenched like an upturned crab. It tried to crawl. The Russian crossed himself. 'It's still alive.'

  Punch passed a kitchen doorway. The Commodore Grill.

  'We should keep moving,' said Ghost.

  'Let me check it out. I need to see what we've got down here.'

  Punch opened a freezer. Spoiled food. Green mould.

  Ghost took a jar from a shelf.

  'Jalapeños,' he said. 'We could sprinkle them on our cereal or something.'

  A dry store. Bags of rice and dried pasta. Pallets of cans.

  'Fucking mother lode,' said Punch. I bet there are kitchens like this all over the ship. Lots of little theme restaurants.'

  'In a couple of days we can organise the men and do a systematic search. Take our pick. Fill some carts. But right now we need to get out of here.'

  They turned to leave. A woman stood in the doorway. She wore a blue ball gown. Her eyes stared through a mask of metal spines.

  'Back off, darling,' warned Punch.

  She reached for him. He kicked her legs and she fell. He planted a boot on her chest to keep her down. He put the drill bit between her eyes and bored into her brain. He ground through bone. She arched her back then lay still.

  'Holy mother of God,' he muttered, standing over the corpse.

  'Let's go.'

  They headed down the corridor.

  A waitress slithered round the corner, dragging bloody, useless legs. Ghost hefted the axe, ready to strike a blow. A second infected crew member turned the corner, metal leaking from nose and ears. He was joined by a woman in jogging gear, arms fused to her sides. Ghost backed away.

  'Getting crowded.'

  More passengers, shuffling, limping, groping.

  'Plan B,' said Punch.

  They ran back to the engine room and sealed themselves inside. Fists thudded against the door. Ghost gripped his shotgun, clicked from Safety to Fire. Punch took out his radio.

  'Jane, you there? We might have a little problem.'

  Jane called the rig.

  'Hyperion to Rampart, do you copy, over?'

  'Rampart here.' Sian's voice.

  'We've got control. We've got the basics. The propellers turn. We can steer left and right. We're heading your way. Ten knots. Slow, but making headway. I'll try to push it harder. Can you put up a flare? Something to guide us?'

  'Give me two minutes.'

  Jane stood on deck. The fog had cleared. She had found the captain's binoculars. She adjusted focus. She saw the red pinprick of a distant flare.

  She returned to the bridge. She nudged the joystick left. Brief rotation from the bow thrusters. She felt the massive vessel adjust course.

  Ivan searched the officers' quarters for booze. He found a couple of miniatures, but couldn't find a full-size bottle.

  One of the crew had left a humidor full of cigars and a heavy brass lighter on his desk. Cuban. Vaqueros Colorado Madura. Ivan filled his pockets. He didn't smoke, but he could trade when he got back to the rig. The Rampart crewmen liked cigars. Greedy for any little pleasure that would help them forget their predicament a while. Getting high was the new currency now that money was no good.

  He heard an intermittent humming noise.

  He stood in the corridor outside the crew cabins. More humming.

  He approached the slide doors at the end of the passage. A bad smell like eggs, like rotting meat. He realised, with a wash of sickening fear, why the ship's systems had been off-line. The Hyperion crew wanted to seal infected passengers below deck. They had barricaded every door and sealed each stairwell. Then they shut off the power in case the shambling horde below figured out how to summon elevators.

  A discreet ping. The doors began to slide open. Ivan backed away. He glimpsed an old lady melded to an electric wheelchair.

  A crowd of infected passengers jostled for space around her. Bloody ball gowns and dinner suits. Stench of vomit and piss. Ivan turned and ran.

  Jane steered the ship towards a winking red signal light, one of the aircraft warning strobes on top of a distillation tower.

  She pictured the Rampart crew lining the refinery railings, applauding as the liner docked. She would play it cool and casual. ' Welcome aboard, boys: Bask in their new-found respect and admiration.

  There was a button on the control panel. A trumpet icon. She hit the button and released the long, two-note bass boom of the ship's Tyfon horn.

  Ivan ran through the door.

  'The passengers. The fucks. They broke out. They're right here.' He grabbed Jane by the sleeve and pulled her towards an exterior door. 'We've got to go.'

  'What about Punch and Ghost?'

  'We have to get out of here.'

  A group of infected crew were milling on the upper deck. Officers in dress uniform. They seized Ivan as he ran outside. He screamed. He fought. They fell on him and dragged him to the floor.

  Jane swung the shotgun to her shoulder. She took aim at a bearded man with sunglasses fused to his face. The blast vaporised his head. The second shot caught two crewmen across the chest and hurled them backward.

  A chef lunged for her. She shot him in the shoulder. His arm landed on a bench.

  More passengers and crew climbed the steps from the lower deck. Jane backed on to the bridge.

  Later, when they asked what happened to Ivan, she said, 'Swear to God, it was like they wanted to climb inside him. They stuck fingers in his eyes, his mouth. They bit off his fingers. They drove a fist into his stomach. They pretty much turned him inside out.'

  Jane was trapped. Two shells left in the gun. She climbed over the captain's chair, shot out the window and squirmed outside. Jagged safety glass slit open her parka, spilling insulation foam.

  She balanced on the sill. A ten-metre drop to the lower deck. She scrambled upward on to the roof of the bridge.

  Jane paced the roof. Infected passengers reached up for her on all sides, hissing and clawing. She unzipped a box of shells from her backpack and reloaded the shotgun. She leaned against the radar mast and tried to breathe slowly. She took the radio from her pocket.

  'Ghost? Punch? Can you hear me? I really need your help, folks.'

  Sian stood on the helipad and flagged a searchlight back and forth. She was joined by the crew. They wanted to see the ship that would carry them to freedom.

  They saw a gleam on the horizon like a low star. A quarter of an hour later they saw the running lights of a ship approaching fast. Hyperion lit bright and spectral. The great prow splintered ice. The horn blared. They cheered.

  'It's massive,' said Nikki.

  'There will be heaters,' said Sian. 'Imagine it. We will be warm. I've almost forgotten what it feels like.'

  'It's a monster.'

  'Look how quick it's moving,' said Sian. 'We'll be home in hours.'

  'It's coming in pretty fast. Now would be a good time to hit the brakes.'

  The ship didn't slow down. The crew stopped cheering, and backed away from the edge of the helipad.

  The ship kept coming. They could hear it. The rumble of engines. The rush of water. The crack of splintering ice.

  The ship slammed into the west corner of the rig. The impact bucked the refinery and knocked the crew from their feet. Sparks and shrieking metal as girders stressed and sheered. Thunder roar. One of the rig's great anchor cables bro
ke free, wrenching away a chunk of superstructure.

  Sian fell and broke her nose. She rolled on her back and lay stunned. She sneezed blood. A dream-image glimpsed through tears: the lights of the ship, the decks, portholes and festoons, passing like a carnival parade. A jagged gash was ripped in the side of the ship. Hull plates tore with an unearthly scream.

  The damaged liner sped on, headed straight for the island.

  The Wreck

  Impact.

  Ghost was thrown across the engine room. He grabbed a railing to stop himself falling against a massive, spinning propeller shaft.

  He fell to the floor. An extractor fan broke loose from ductwork and hit the deck near his head. Tool lockers flew open. Punch curled foetal and covered his head as spanners skittered across the deck plates.

  A final, cataclysmic concussion. The ship lurched. A section of walkway collapsed. An extinguisher burst, jetting the air with a blizzard of foam particles. Then the engine room was still.

  Ghost sat up. He wiped foam from his face and hands. He spat foam from his mouth. The engine room was coated white like heavy snowfall.

  'What did we hit?' asked Punch. 'Did we collide with an iceberg or something?'

  'We've stopped. We're not moving. I think we ran aground.'

  'Are you all right?'

  'Banged my leg. I'm okay. You?'

  'Fine.'

  The propeller shafts were still spinning.

  'Better kill the engines.'

  The ship listed at a crazy angle. The engine room was a steep hill. Punch climbed the room and threw each breaker to Off. Engine noise slowly diminished and died. The four great propeller shafts gradually ceased to turn.

  He left one of the disengaged turbines running.

  'Better leave this baby ticking over,' said Ghost. 'It'll keep the lights on.'

  'Where's the radio? Help me look. I think I dropped it.'

  Ghost found the radio wedged behind the body of the dead engineer.

  'Jane? Jane, can you hear me?'

  No reply.

  'Jane, do you copy, over?'

  They sat for an hour. Ghost tried to raise Rampart every ten minutes.