Murmansk-13

It dawned on Nilsen that perhaps Tor had managed to straighten his head out, that in fact he hadn’t succumb to the desperation of their situation. But a more pertinent alarm rung in his mind. That something was perhaps very wrong indeed.

☣☭☠

Where the upper decks were cold, the medical bay and storage were positively brittle. Water vapour had crystallized, dusting the surfaces with a patina of fine ice that glinted in the faint emergency lighting. The gelid atmosphere seemed to crackle with febrile electricity. There was a distinct crispness with each step he took as he threaded between the empty, pill form cryobeds.

Nilsen peered into the ward and his heart skipped. The hospital bed was empty. Wires and electrodes, torn from the flesh, spidered the vacated sheets. Nilsen was preparing to enter the room when Mihailov hove into the viewport, naked. Nilsen caught his breath.

Mihailov stared blankly at Nilsen through the Plexiglas, tendrils of ice webbing the reinforced plastic. The black coagulate in Mihailov’s veins had liquefied, but his arm had died in the process, the skin was waxy and grey, translucent flesh revealed a flaccid vasculature and the necrotizing infection appeared to be spreading across his torso. Through the glass Nilsen could hear the rattling, hacking breaths of Mihailov as the Bulgarian regarded him with a look between absence and fear. His right eyeball was blackened as blood vessels ruptured throughout his body. Everywhere his flesh slackened, his muscles limp. Mihailov appeared to be rotting alive.

“Studeno mi e, studeno mi e,” Mihailov slurred, his head lolling around his neck.

Nilsen put his hand on the glass, instantly a voracious focus entered Mihailov’s widening eyes, the second mates lips curled back. Quickly, Nilsen withdrew his hand and initiated the quarantine lock on the ward keypad – 2105. The liquid crystal display altered from OCCUPIED to IN QUARANTINE.

“I’m sorry, Atanas.” Perhaps I should have let Tor operate on you.

Nilsen walked from the medical bay as the meeting time approached. He’d not found Tor and a large part of him was relieved. He could deal with the Captain later.

Behind him, Mihailov watched him go, his disintegrating brain struggling to process the alien wave of instincts and impulses driving his trapped body. He was just so cold, so hungry and he could feel the wiring of his mind slowly fizzle away inside his skull.

☣☭☠

The remnants of the crew was a disheartening sight. Swaddled in old, torn, green emergency parkas stained by years of inadequate storage and as many layers of extra clothing they could find, the four men watched Nilsen enter the mess hall with bleary eyes. He couldn’t shake the image of hobo Michelin men.

Three seats had been placed at the front, Pettersson occupied one, he stood to greet Nilsen looking surprisingly hale, the other two sat vacant. Nilsen assumed one was for him, the other for Tor.

At the back, Sammy busied himself tidying the mess hall, tables and chairs had skittered across the room during the impact. Dented silver plated serving dishes and cutlery glinted in the low light, scattered across the deck. Sammy looked as if he’d not rested in days and probably hadn’t, abandoning his trademark whites for conspicuously informal attire. The steward sleepwalked in the background in a purple dressing gown that reached beyond the Saudi inc. parka, tickling his ankles. He cut a sorry figure – they all did.

“Sammy, take a seat please,” said Nilsen. “In fact, all of you come in closer, there’s no point concerning ourselves with rank anymore.” He could feel Pettersson shrink beside him, the Swede having probably set the seats in position to advertise his newfound seniority.

“I can see that,” said Hernandez, looking at the empty chair beside Nilsen. “Are we going to wait for the Captain?”

Nilsen let the chatter of chair legs scraping over linoleum subside before addressing the now circled group. Hernandez was the last to take his seat. “Guys, as I’m sure you are aware, our situation is critical. I would like nothing more than to be absolved of any responsibility for this clusterfuck of a voyage, but the bottom line is I can’t. The Captain is still in a state of shock and every day we spend consuming stores and draining our auxiliary generators is a day less we survive in a recoverable position.”

“So I guess we aren’t going to be getting any heating then?” Asked Diego through chattering teeth.

“The boiler needs the engine online, myself and Pettersson have ascertained that the fuel lines are sound,” Nilsen saw faces brighten, “but we’ve decided that we will not expend our limited fuel supply until we’re ready to leave.”

There was a palpable groan.

“If we don’t heat the vessel soon, we won’t need any cryo fluid,” Hernandez quipped.