William Meikle: Infestation

That’s good enough for me.

He made two mugs, strong and black, and took them over to where Hynd stood at the door, watching the stairwell. They kept their voices low; the other four were behind them in the center of the room, sitting on the floor, smoking and drinking tea, almost calm.

“What happened here, Cap?” Hynd asked, sipping at the coffee, then giving Banks a mock salute in gratitude.

Banks shook his head.

“Best guess? The beasties got in, overran them, and then left again. What the Russians – or the beasties – were doing here in the first place is the mystery. But I’m guessing it has got something to do with yon rig we climbed up on the way in.”

“Any log book?”

“None I could see; I’m guessing it’s all on the main computers. We need to get them up and running; that’s the first job.”

“We’ll have to go downstairs. The main board for the generator is probably down there; and even then…” Hynd began.

“Aye, you said already; something might have been fucking with it. We’ll have to go and check. And we’re all going together. I’m taking no chances on this one; not when it’s so fucking weird all ‘round. And if we can’t get the power on, I’ll call for evac and let the suits back home sort this mess out. This is too fucking weird, even for us.”

“Sounds like a plan to me,” Hynd replied.

Banks gave the squad plenty of time to finish off their tea and have two smokes each but the day was already getting on. The shadow of the drill rig marked the sun’s crossing of the sky by laying a dark, slow-moving patch of blackness across the deck outside the window.

“Okay, lads,” he said. “On your feet. Time to get going.”

Three of them rose but Nolan stayed where he was on the floor.

“Nolan?”

The Irishman looked up at Banks, fear in his eyes.

“Don’t tell me, tell my legs, Cap,” he said. “The fuckers have given up on me.”

They got Nolan off the floor and up into the large captain’s chair at the main control board. Mac sliced into the bandages, first removing the ones wrapped around the scraps of the Irishman’s trousers, then starting on the ones dressing the wounds. All of them clearly saw what had been white cotton was now green, putrid, and giving off a stench that made them step back and breathe through their mouths.

Nolan’s fear was clear in his eyes now.

“It’s bad, isn’t it?” he said.

Mac put a hand on the man’s shoulder.

“We’ve got a mite cleaning up to do, that’s all. This might hurt.”

“I can’t feel a thing below my waist, Mac,” Nolan said. “Haven’t been able to feel much of anything since I was sat in that fucking canoe. So you do what you need to do. Give me another smoke, could you?”

Banks watched as Mac cut away the dressings. The wounds gaped and the flesh on either side of the cuts had gone necrotic and blackened at the edges, oozing green, noxious fluid in their whole length. He’d never seen anything like it, nor smelled anything worse. The green goop looked to be foaming, as if boiling up from deeper in the muscle and sinew of Nolan’s legs. Beyond immediate amputation, Banks couldn’t see anything that would save the man. Mac turned, looked up at him, and shook his head. He had reached the same conclusion. It was beyond the man’s experience to tend.

“Can you wiggle your toes, Pat?” Mac asked Nolan. He started putting fresh bandages on the Irishman’s legs but as soon as he applied them, they soaked through with green.

Nolan laughed bitterly and took a deep drag on his cigarette before replying.

“I can’t even wiggle my todger,” he said. He looked up at Banks. “It’s spreading, Cap, like I’m turning to ice from the feet up. It’s a poison I’m guessing, a toxin on their claws? Take my advice, don’t let the fuckers get close to you. But at least you won’t get to put me on suspension for firing when I shouldn’t have, so there’s that to be thankful of.”

“Don’t you believe it, lad. You’ve got two weeks peeling spuds ahead of you.”

Nolan laughed, then coughed and spluttered, pain crossing his face.

“Can I start now?” he said.

Banks was at a loss for a reply and Mac stepped in.

“Is there anything we can get you?” Mac said. All of them present knew what he meant; the chances of Nolan ever getting up out of the chair were slim.

“You lads go and do what you need to do,” Nolan said. “Just leave me here with some smokes; I’ll watch your back. Bring me back a fish supper and a bottle of Jameson’s though, could you?”

They took turns in shaking Nolan’s hand; Banks was last.

“Watch the door,” he said. “And if it’s not one of us, put it down hard and fast.”

Nolan laughed, although both of them ignored the tears running down his cheeks.

“Hell, Cap,” he said. “If you don’t bring me a fish supper, I might shoot you on principle. Now get going. It’s up to my waist now; when it hits my chest, I doubt I’ll be breathing for long.”

Banks shook the Irishman’s hand. It felt as cold as the water he’d waded in earlier in the morning but Nolan managed to return his grip, then let go as Banks turned away. The last sight he had of Nolan was as he looked back on leaving the room; the Irishman had his rifle trained on the doorway and was lighting another smoke from the butt of the last. He gave Banks a salute and Banks saluted in return, before finally turning his back and heading for the stairwell to join the others.

She couldn’t have told you how she knew it but somehow Svetlanova knew she was no longer alone on the boat. She hadn’t heard anything but she’d felt it, a subtle shift in the air, a sense of life in a place where there had only been death. The feeling of a presence was quickly confirmed by the faint but unmistakable smell of cigarette smoke seeping in to her from somewhere in the boat.

She pondered whether it was worth taking the risk to investigate. Dim light came under the door; she knew from the clock in her Dictaphone it was morning.

And they mostly come at night. Mostly.

Suddenly, the thought of a cigarette was the biggest thing in her mind. Before arriving on the boat she’d only smoked two, maybe three a day but first boredom, then stress had got to her and her intake had become an addiction again all too quickly.

I am not getting myself killed because I need a smoke. I am not.

But she couldn’t stay in the pantry forever, no matter how safe it made her feel. There had been no sign of any scuttling or shimmering blue, from outside for many hours. She was too much of a pessimist to believe the beasts had decided to go away, but she needed human contact to avoid going insane in here.

And I’m out of cigarettes.

She cracked open the door and peered along the corridor.

All was quiet and still, although once again she had the feeling she was no longer alone. The smell of cigarette smoke was stronger here too and the thought of having a cigarette and talking to other people was enough to give her courage she hadn’t had until now. She stepped out of the pantry into the corridor and headed toward the smell of smoke.

The first room on her right was the main galley; empty and quiet now where it was normally a crash and clatter of pans and activity. There were no bodies, no sign of disturbance; it looked like the place was waiting for the crew to arrive and make breakfast. The mess, the next room down the corridor, was a different matter. Tables and chairs were overturned, crockery lay strewn and smashed on the floor and blood, far too much blood, splattered across every surface, arterial spray washing across the ceiling. Congealed blood and tissue had splashed the portholes, the dim light coming in from outside casting the whole scene in a red, hellish, tinge.