Adam Baker - Outpost

‘Rocking out?’ asked Jane.

‘About an hour of battery left. My last tunes.’

‘What’s the prognosis?’

‘Ghost? Not so great. I’m dosing him with antibiotics but the pneumonia is caused by chemical damage to his lungs, rather than infection. If his throat closes much further I might have to intubate.’

‘What are his chances?’

‘Fifty-fifty. His lungs might recover, given enough time. He could be back on his feet in a couple of weeks, if he’s lucky, if he doesn’t exert himself like he did yesterday. Another shot of speed would kill him stone dead.’

‘So there’s nothing we can do but wait?’

‘Like I say, I’ve been giving him antibiotics as a preventative measure. It might help, it might not. And plenty of painkillers just to keep him comfortable.’

‘Okay.’

‘Question is, when do we pull the plug? He’s used up his share of meds already.’

‘Give him everything he needs.’

‘I appreciate you two are close.’

‘He was a systems technician. He kept the lights on, the water running. He’s worth more than most of the crew out there, worth more than me.’

Jane climbed the side of distillation tank A. The tank was a cylindrical tower one hundred and fifty metres high. The ladder was glazed with ice. Her boots slid on slick rungs. She had a coil of red kernmantle rope slung over her shoulder.

She reached the frost-dusted expanse of the roof. She lowered the rope. Punch stood at the foot of the tower. He tied the rope to the radio case and Jane hauled the case skyward.

She set up the tripod dish and switched on the transmitter.

‘Rampart to Raven, do you copy, over? Rampart to Raven, do you copy?’

‘Jesus, Rampart. We thought you had been picked up and left us behind. We’ve been calling for days ’

‘There was a fire. We lost power. We’ve managed to get heat to a single room, but we’re still in a bad way. You have an electrician called Thursby, is that right?’

‘Tommy. Yeah .’

‘We desperately need his help. And we need a twenty-metre length of high-voltage cable.’

‘What kind of load ?’

‘Our generators put out about three thousand megawatts.’

‘All right .’

‘You have a medic?’

‘ Ellington .’

‘We lost our infirmary in the fire. Most of the drugs and equipment got torched. We desperately need whatever you can bring.’

‘ Okay .’

‘When can you take to the rafts?’

‘We’ve been ready for days. We’ve been waiting to hear from you .’

‘Then get going, soon as you can. We’ve still got GPS. We’ll watch for you round the clock. Good luck, guys. God bless.’

Jane explored the powerhouse.

She crawled inside a conduit. She wrapped a scarf over her mouth and nose to protect against soot particles that swirled around her. She rolled on her side and inspected the high-voltage cable that ran along the duct roof. Burned and twisted. Melted insulation hung in ragged strips.

‘Reverend Blanc?’ Ivan’s voice.

Jane backed out of the duct.

‘It’s Ghost. You better come quick.’

Ghost panted for air. His chest heaved. He clutched his throat.

Rye ripped open his coat and fleece. She held him down and pressed an ear to his chest.

‘Can’t you get a tube down his throat?’ demanded Jane.

Rye prodded his chest and diaphragm.

‘Fluid in the pleural cavity.’

‘Can you drain it?’

‘I can try. Surgery by flashlight. Outstanding.’

Jane grabbed a SCUBA tank from a wall rack. She opened the valve and forced the regulator mouthpiece between Ghost’s teeth.

‘Breathe. Suck it down.’

Ghost gasped the rich Heliox mix.

‘Just keep breathing.’

Nail sat cross-legged on the storeroom floor. Ghost’s boat. He tried to make sense of the plans. The central hull had a cockpit for the skipper and storage space below. No clear explanation of how it was to be built. Plenty of panels designated ‘ AFC’.

He thought it over.

Brainwave. AFC. Air Freight Container.

Specialist hydrocarbon pump equipment had been shipped to the refinery in aluminium crates. Two or three crates shunted to the back of each plant room. Lufthansa. Emirates. Gulf Air. Each crate could be broken down into sheets. Lightweight. Easy to cut. Easy to shape. Easy to weld.

Nail got to work. He wheeled an oxyacetylene tank through derelict plant halls. Smoked visor. Heavy gloves. Vaulted chambers lit incandescent by crackling flame-light. He piled silver panels on the storeroom floor.

He stripped to his waist despite the cold and pounded scaffold poles until a skeletal ship frame began to take shape.

Sometimes Nikki watched him work. His skin steamed with sweat. She was revolted. She needed Nail. It was a tactical alliance. He was a strong, amoral survivor. But she gagged at the smell of him as she shivered through their brief, brutal fucks on the storeroom floor. Trading sex for a ticket home.

Nikki studied the plans.

‘The sail. What’s it made from?’

‘Guess.’

‘ BFx3. What does that mean?’

‘Puzzled me for days.’

‘Figured it out?’

‘Balloon Fabric times Three. Mylar. Thin. Light. Rip-proof.’

‘So how do we get this thing outside?’

Nail took a lamp from the table and held it up.

‘See? A winch in the ceiling and a hatch in the floor. They used it for hauling shipping containers aboard. The floor opens like a bomb bay. Hydraulics. Big enough to lower our boat. The winch can take about ninety tonnes.’

‘But there is no electricity.’

‘That’s right. We need the power back on. Two, three minutes. That’s all it would take. Get the hatch open and we’re out of here.’

They carried Ghost on a stretcher.

‘We need to get him somewhere clean,’ said Rye. ‘Some place that hasn’t been used much.’ They took him to the chapel.

‘Get some light,’ ordered Rye.

Jane positioned a couple of battery lamps.

‘Help me get his shirt off.’

‘He’ll freeze.’

‘Fine. It’ll reduce bleeding.’

‘Want me to get the altar? Lie him down?’

‘No. I need him sitting with his back towards me.’

They dragged Ghost to the front of the chapel and positioned him straddling a chair.

‘So what’s the deal?’

‘I reckon there is liquid building up beneath his lungs.’

‘Infection?’

‘Maybe. Antibiotics tend not to penetrate the pleural cavity. It’s kind of a blind spot.’

‘What’s the plan?’

‘Pleural tap. Siphon off the liquid with a big-ass hypodermic. Place is about as sterile as a toilet seat, but it’s the best we can do.’

Rye emptied her pockets on to the altar: 20cc hypodermics; gloves; iodine; dressing.

Rye prepped a needle.

‘Ghost? Can you hear me?’

Ghost struggled to focus.

‘The cable,’ he whispered. ‘Listen. In case I don’t make it. You need fourteen-centimetre, single-core. Easy to splice. Bolt sockets every thirty, forty metres. Should say Con-Ex on the insulation. Look beneath C deck corridors. One length. That’s all it takes.’

Rye measured ribs with her fingers. Second intercostal space. Iodine swab.

‘Hold his shoulders.’

Ghost lolled semi-conscious until the tip of a big-bore needle pricked his side and punctured his skin. He convulsed. Jane gripped his shoulders.

‘Look at me. Look at me, Ghost. We have to do this. We have to get this done.’

Ghost clutched the back of the chair. Rye drew off three syringe-loads of fluid. She patched the wound. She pressed a stethoscope to his chest.

‘Better?’