Adam Baker - Outpost

‘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.’

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 here,’ 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.