Outpost

by Adam Baker

  Jane and Ghost have concocted a plan. An ice shelf has spread from the island coast. It stretches towards the refinery. The sight of infected passengers jostling at the water's edge has banished all compassion and has convinced Jane to embark on an eradication programme. Ideally she and Ghost would like to move through Hyperion room by room systematically executing passengers, but they don't have enough ammunition. Instead they want to visit the old Russian bunker on the island. Ghost says there is equipment stored on the lower levels that may help exterminate a swathe of the infected. He refuses to be drawn further.

  No one from the rig, as far as I know, has ever fully explored the bunker. It is a vast, multi-level catacomb intended to be a repository for nuclear waste. A relic of the militarised Arctic, the long cold war stand-off. Decades of spy plane over-flights, prowling submarines and incursion alerts.

  Ghost undertook a brief expedition last year. He sprayed arrows on the walls so he could retrace his route to the entrance. He says he saw tiers of rooms that might have been intended for offices and dormitories. He says there is abandoned mining equipment parked in some of the deeper caverns. Rock drills as big as a house. Conveyors to carry rubble to the surface.

  We leave the rig in two hours. We will ride the zodiac a kilometre north to avoid Hyperion passengers standing at the shore. We will travel across land to the bunker, lock the steel doors behind us and seal ourselves inside.

  I once visited the Valley of the Kings. Part of my self-imposed detox programme. A cheap package holiday. Camels and sun cream. Escape my cravings, my fucked-up life. I signed up for a coach party. A day trip to explore the tombs of the Pharaohs.

  There were no stairs. Each stone sarcophagus was slid underground down a steep ramp. Ghost tells me this bunker follows a similar design. Wide tunnels angled downward through Palaeocene sediment, rail tracks bolted to the concrete floor. Ghost speculates that the necropolis was built to hide more than submarine reactors. The place seems too elaborate, too deliberately labyrinthine, to be a simple storage space. Perhaps the Russians intended to store nuclear weapons down here. A way of subverting disarmament treaties. What better place to hide the distinctive radiation signature of nuclear warheads than next to a pile of fuel rods? Not that it matters any more. The Russians are dead. The Americans are dead. There's nobody left to care.

  We are camping for the night on sub-level four. We have laid our sleeping bags on the concrete floor in the corner of a cavern. We are each quilted in survival gear. Dinner was chicken royale eaten from self-heating cans. I told them I wasn't hungry. They are both asleep now, so I have taken off my gloves to write this journal.

  I am writing this by lamplight. Jane is lying on her back, mouth half open. Long plumes of steam-breath. The zip of her coat collar is partially undone. I can see the pulse in her neck. If I stare long and hard I feel a strange pull, a vampiric craving to bite and tear. A lust to penetrate and invade. I find myself leaning towards her, as if physically drawn. A sobering sensation. Until now I have thought of my illness as a personal tragedy. But I am starting to realise the extent to which I threaten the Rampart crew. If I return to the refinery and succumb to this disease, I might kill them all.

  Jane looks almost gaunt. She was horribly obese and lethargic when we first met. A heart attack waiting to happen. She couldn't walk without hurting her knees. She sequestered herself in a distant accommodation block so we wouldn't be kept awake by her piggy snore. Now she seems fiercely alive. She'll be dead soon. They'll all be dead. But I suppose some people thrive in a crisis. They find their purpose. They say a happy childhood is a lousy preparation for life. Kids who spend their playground days fat, ginger or gay know the truth. The world has always been full of vicious predators. For plenty of people this carnage and savagery is business as usual.

  Ghost led us to a stack of explosives hidden in a deep vault. C4 and thermite grenades. Apparently Jane and Punch discovered the munitions at a seismic research station some weeks ago. Rawlins ordered the explosives be stored in the bunker.

  The packets of C4 look like bricks of clay wrapped in cellophane. They smell like petrol. Cable. Detonators. Battery- operated initiators. Ghost insists we each sleep cuddling a patty of frozen explosive in the hope our body heat will make it pliable. Tomorrow we blow some Hyperion passengers to hell.

  Friday 30 October

  We woke early, packed and stood at the bunker mouth. Arctic winter. Early morning, but it will be bright moonlight all day.

  Ghost took one of the Skidoos and drove to the shore. Jane rode pillion. She balanced a holdall in her lap. I took binoculars to high ground.

  He rode out on to the ice sheet that has extended from the island shoreline. He made a slow pass of passengers who stood mesmerised by the lights of the refinery. Jane unzipped the bag and unravelled detonator cord behind them. Fistfuls of explosives strung at four- metre intervals like a string of Christmas lights. Ghost brought the bike to a halt and they both crouched behind it for cover.

  Ghost twisted wires to a hand-held initiator. He mouthed a three-count then clicked the trigger. The chain of high explosive blew, and threw a curtain of ice-dust into the air. No flame, no fireball. Just a fierce concussion. The sound of the explosion reached me a couple of seconds later. A sharp clap like thunder.

  Four or five passengers were blown to pieces. Body parts littered the snow.

  A web of jagged fissures split the ice. Slabs tipped and tilted. Figures toppled into dark water. No attempt to swim or struggle. They immediately sank. A couple of infected passengers stood at the centre of a detached ice floe and looked around, stupefied, as the current began to carry them south.

  I could hear Ghost and Jane whoop and cheer. I'm not sure how many passengers they killed. Maybe twenty or thirty. Futile? People need to act, to feel in control of their fate. Jane and Ghost are intelligent people. I'm sure they are aware how little they achieved. Yet they fight, and I admire them for it.

  I was supposed to meet Ghost and Jane at the zodiac, but instead I have returned to the bunker and locked myself inside.

  Sian tried to contact me on the radio. She called over and over before I descended too deep for the signal to penetrate. 'Rampart to Rye, do you copy, over?'' I suppose I should have told them not to look for me. I should have told them I was gone for good.

  I'm reluctant to put down my pen. This is the end of my life. I don't want to sign off.

  Sooner or later, Jane will search my room. She will find the remaining medical supplies laid out on my bed, with explanatory Post-it notes taped to each of them. I've left a simple medical encyclopaedia on my chair. The A-Z of Family Health. Dress a wound, deliver a baby or pull a tooth, then they will have to thumb through the index.

  I've survived these past few years by ruthlessly suppressing all sentiment, declaring unending war on self-pity. Yet I can't help wishing I was leaving someone behind, someone who will miss me, someone who will remember my name. I haven't seen my son for years, and that is probably for the best. Easier all round if I stay out of his life. Easier if he thinks I'm dead in a ditch. Let him hate me. Hate is good. Hate is rocket fuel. It's a galvanising force. It will send him out into the world full of defiant energy. But right now I would give anything for a chance to say goodbye.

  The infection has spread further up my arm. My thoughts are sometimes not my own. Shall I let myself be subsumed into this collective consciousness, or shall I kill myself? I shall either walk to the shore and jump into freezing water, or make my way to Hyperion and take my place among the colony. I have yet to decide.

  I will leave my journal on the floor of this cavern in the hope that one day, when humanity is restored, it will be found.

  My name was Elizabeth Rye.

  The Body

  Ghost took a team of men from the rig to secure the officers' quarters of Hyperion. He gave them each a fire axe.

  Ghost passed round a bottle of Hennessey as they rode the zodiac to Hyperion.

  'This could be mess
y,' he warned. 'Women, children. It's not going to be nice.'

  They climbed aboard the ship and the slaughter began. They moved room to room. They swung and hacked. They wore masks and goggles to shield themselves from blood-spray.

  They splashed kerosene at each intersection and drove back infected passengers with a barrier of flame.

  They disabled the elevators and rebuilt the barricades. They booby-trapped the doors with thermite grenades.

  They threw the bodies over the side of the ship, dropped them twenty metres on to the ice. They sponged blood from the walls and floor. They wore triple gloves and respirators to protect themselves from acrid bleach fumes.

  Later, when they sat down to eat in the newly liberated officers' mess, they drank too much and laughed too loud. They were blooded. Each man had slashed and bludgeoned until their arms hurt. Ghost sat back and watched the men joke and sing. They were flushed with adrenalin. They had crossed a line. They were killers.

  They transported their possessions from the rig and each took a stateroom with a double bed and en-suite bathroom, luxury they had never known aboard Rampart.

  Each cabin had a wall-mounted plasma TV. The crew swapped DVDs. A bitter-sweet pastime. Each gangster flick and romantic comedy was a window on to a vanished world. Every glimpse of Manhattan, Los Angeles or London framed sunny streets that had since been transformed into a ravaged battlefield.

  Ghost led a raid on the lower decks to check battery power. They took a detour to the Neptune Bar and filled a crate with Johnnie Walker Blue Label. The crew were drunk for a week.

  Punch found a small galley and prepared food. He served breakfast each morning and a hot meal each night. He tried to impose a diurnal rhythm despite perpetual night.

  They posted a patrol rota on the door of the bridge.

  Punch on duty. He prowled the corridors with an axe. If he looked out of the portholes he could see infected passengers milling on the lower promenade decks. As he passed each barricade he could hear the scrabble and thump of passengers massed the other side of the bulkhead doors. The noise never ceased. Scratching and clawing, day and night.

  'Breakout,' explained Ghost. 'We need a simple signal. If you see anything, if one of these freaks makes it up here from the lower decks, if they make it through the barricades, shout "Breakout". Everyone will pull on their boots, grab an axe and haul ass.'

  Punch served dinner. He put on a show. He lit candles. He laid out silverware and linen napkins. He wore chef's starched whites. He found some dried mushrooms and made risotto.

  The crew sat in a panelled dining room with galleons on the wall. They applauded as he lifted a cloche from each plate and uncorked wine.

  Two empty seats. Jane had elected to stay aboard Rampart. Mal was patrolling the Hyperion barricades.

  Punch took a seat at the table. He sat next to Sian. Nikki had sailed away on a raft. Rye was missing, probably suicide. Nobody missed them. But he was banging the only woman left aboard and was becoming aware of an undercurrent of jealousy.

  'This is delicious,' said Ghost, pouring Chardonnay.

  'Thanks.' .

  'Should have found some turkey, though.'

  'Why's that?'

  'Guess you haven't looked at a calendar lately.' He raised his glass. 'Merry Christmas.'

  'You're shitting me.'

  'So what do you think we should do when we get back home?' asked Ghost. 'Should we track down other survivors or hide ourselves away?'

  Punch thought it over. The question had become a standard conversational gambit. Nobody wanted to discuss the past. They didn't want to think about family and friends dead and gone. By unspoken agreement they spoke only of the future. It became evening entertainment now the TV signal had died and DVDs provoked depression and heartache. Old-time storytelling. Campfire tales. Each crewman obliged to describe in baroque detail the life they would build when they got home.

  Discussions like:

  'What car will you drive when you get back to the world?'

  'Lamborghini Countach. It's an antique heap of shit, but I glimpsed one in the street when I was a kid and I've wanted one ever since.'

  'Better enjoy it while you can.'

  'Why's that?'

  'Couple of harsh winters. That's all it will take. Every road in the country will be cracked and rutted like a farm track. Land-Rover. It'll get you where you need to go.'

  And:

  'What kind of watch will you wear?'

  'There used to be a posh jeweller in our high street. I saw it every day on my way to work. They had a bunch of Rolex watches laid out on a blue velvet cushion. I used to tell myself: ""One day, when I'm rich, I'll own one." A gold submariner the size of a dinner plate.'

  'So you'll smash a window and take a Rolex.'

  'I'll take one for every day of the week.'

  'So you think there might be other survivors?' asked Punch.

  'We can't be the last men on earth. I bet plenty of people are hidden in caves, or cellars, or remote farms. Some of them will want to reclaim the cities, I suppose. Reboot the world. Set it going, just the way it was. And some people will want to go all Amish. Create a simple, wholesome way of life. Me? I'm a log cabin kind of guy. I think I'll find a cottage in the Scottish Highlands. Somewhere wild and remote. Hunt and fish. Sit on a hill and count the clouds.'

  'I'm torn,' said Punch. 'I'd be scared to live alone with all these infected fucks running around. I'd want to live in some kind of stockade. Safety in numbers. But on the other hand I don't want to find myself enslaved by some local tyrant. There will be no police, no law. Things will get feudal pretty quick.'

  'Yeah.'

  'Are you okay about Nikki?'

  'What about her?'

  'Jane said she took your boat.'

  'I welded a couple of oil drums together,' said Ghost. 'She and Nail did most of the work. I doubt she'll make it home. And if she does? Well, good for her.'

  'But it was your boat. Your idea.'

  'Jane wants to get everyone home. I promised to help.'

  Ghost gestured to an empty chair.

  'Has anyone seen Mal?'

  'No,' said Punch.

  'It's eight o'clock. Who's taking over patrol?'

  'Me,' said Gus.

  'So where is Mal? He should have checked in half an hour ago.'

  'Taking a shit. Changing his socks. Relax. He'll be here. He's not going to miss dinner.'

  'I don't like it,' said Ghost. 'We put a man on guard and he goes AWOL.'

  Ghost stood in the corridor.

  'Mal? You out there?'

  No reply.

  Ghost stepped back inside the officers' mess.

  'Everyone stay here, all right? Nobody go wandering off. Punch, get your gun.'

  They searched Mal's cabin.

  'Mal? Hello?'

  They knocked on the bathroom door.

  'Hello?'

  Empty.

  They searched the passageways and checked the barricades. 'Mal. Where are you?'

  He wasn't on the bridge. He wasn't on deck. The zodiac still hung from a lifeboat crane. He hadn't gone back to the rig.

  'Maybe he got drunk,' said Punch. 'Decided to go below deck on his own.'

  'Why would he do that?'

  'Bravado. He wanted something. Had a hankering for nachos or a cigar. Thought he could get it on his own. Outrun the freaks. Duck and swerve. Come back, brag, show off his trophy.'

  'Yeah, that's the kind of idiotic thing he might do. I don't like it, though. Not knowing for sure.'

  Sian found them on the bridge.

  'There's something you should see.'

  She led them to a door at the end of a corridor.

  FÖRRÅD

  A small storeroom. Toiletries and laundry.

  A trickle of blood from beneath the door.

  'Stand back,' said Ghost. He hefted the axe. He tested the door. Unlocked. He pushed it open with his foot.

  'Hello? Mal?'

  He reached
round the doorframe and switched on the light. The trickle of blood snaked from behind a rack loaded with bed linen. Sheets, coverlets and pillow cases.

  Mal lay dead on the floor. His eyes were open. His throat was cut. He held a knife in his hand.

  'Blot some of that blood,' said Ghost. Punch threw down folded sheets to sop up the blood. 'Close the door. I want to take a long look around before anyone else comes in here.'

  Jane jogged a circuit of C deck. There was light, but no heat. Many of the corridors had split open when D Module fell from the rig. Several passageways terminated in ragged metal and thin air. Jane enjoyed the sensation of cold. The rest of the crew had embraced the luxury of Hyperion, but Jane volunteered to stay behind in the steel austerity of Rampart and man the radio. She broadcast periodic maydays to the Arctic rim, and listened to the static of an empty waveband.

  She and Ghost spoke, morning and evening, by radio. ' Take care, baby cakes,' he said, at the end of each call. She missed him.

  Jane ran five kilometres, then stripped to her underwear and pumped iron in the corner of the deserted canteen. She used Nail's abandoned gym equipment. She was both repelled and attracted by Nail's pumped physique. Veins and striations. He was a human fortress. She envied his brute strength.

  She played AC/DC on the jukebox as she hefted dumbbells. She played the music at full volume. 'Bad Boy Boogie' echoed down empty corridors.

  Jane rested between each set of exercises by throwing a titanium shark knife at the canteen dartboard. The heavy blade thunked into cork, slowly ripping the board to pieces. Nail could hit a target at twenty metres. Jane trained herself to hit it at thirty.

  Years ago, when the refinery was fully manned, the Starbucks coffee shop used to run a book exchange. The coffee shop was now a vacant retail unit with a couple of broken bar stools. Jane found a box of books among the litter, including thirty issues of Combat Survival magazine. Each issue contained carbine and pistol spec sheets. Back-page adverts for tactical holsters, mosquito nets and surplus Israeli gas masks.