Murmansk-13

Somehow, after all he’d witnessed on his first foray aboard the station, Murmansk-13 felt dead, deader in fact than when he first traced Nikolai Falmendikov’s final living footsteps through the very same, almost featureless corridor. Those footprints were lost forever, swept away by the milling hoards like desert towns lost to the ever advancing dunes. The humanity that those footprints embodied was gone and it served to only amplify the loneliness that gnawed at Tor since he first awoke from cryo. He thought of the noose still hanging above his bed, of Falmendikov’s erased struggle.

Distance was difficult to judge, sparsely adorned grey walls with their painted darker grey stripe curved infinitely into creeping shadow and were broken only occasionally by the passing of one district after another or safety signs in faded fluorescent colours. Lights winked and the air recycling filters wheezed and fluttered unseen. Nilsen had estimated roughly a click between each district, putting the circumference of the station at around thirteen kilometres, far larger than any station Tor had ever set foot upon.

The group walked in silence, twice Tor shushed Hernandez, twice the Mexican had scowled at him, but obeyed. As long as they obeyed. Part of Tor wished an infected crewman would make an appearance, a lone one, badly decomposed and ineffectual as a threat. Something tangible to confirm his fears. All of the crew had seen the blood caked footprints and the airlock bulkhead woodchipped with putrefied bodily effluent, Tor hoped that leant some credence to his warnings, but a kernel of doubt flourished in his head, what if the infected was just some construct of his decaying mind? What if only he was seeing it? Were they all just playing nice like grandchildren visiting their doddering elders?

Ahead the corridor to Central Command appeared. A definite opening that broke the continuity of the otherwise endless curve. Light pooled from the space, suggesting the station had shifted into survival mode, abandoning the outer districts to the cold and gloom as it drew its remaining power to the core. Tor felt a shiver trace a path down his spine.

Tor imagined this had once been a bustling hub of human activity, station crew comingling with the various members of the other districts all busily scooting to and from the heart of Murmansk-13. For a brief second Tor could see the ghosts of those people, freed from their dead bodies, their ethereal beings remained trapped in a purgatory still inhabited by the desiccated shells that once housed them. The spirits were so very lost.

“Your squad should return to stores, begin loading up.” Nilsen whispered, the Chief had walked beside Tor in silence since they’d ventured from the airlock even as they passed the abandoned EVA suit of Nikolai Falmendikov and his severed umbilical.

“No, it’s not far.” Tor said, Nilsen turned to look at Tor, his expression sympathetic. Tor found it patronizing. “I need to know the way ahead down there is clear. We did not scout this far before.”

Behind them Diego and Hernandez totted the dollies, spaced by Tor so they would not collide, but not so far that they could catch one of the poorly illuminated supporting spaceframes that bracketed the extremities of the corridor. Nilsen had tolerated Tor’s micromanagement in stoic silence, Pettersson had rolled his eyes.

“Where is Sammy?” Pettersson asked, looking at the dolly handlers, then back down the passageway. Tor had barely seen Petterson’s head out of his hand drawn map since they’d entered the station, but now he mentioned it Tor couldn’t recall when the erratic wheezing of Sammy ceased to provide background noise.

“He was tired,” replied Diego, unconcerned. “He stopped at the warehouse, when we passed District Six. That’s where we’re going back to, right?”

It was apparent Tor’s mouth agape appearance quickened Diego’s response. “We can’t wander off on our own here, we have to stick together.”

“Captain, he’s really struggling with the weight of that suit…” Diego whispered, but his voice now shook with uncertainty.

“Fuck… Fuck!” Tor pictured the old Steward, torn apart by those hoards. Another dead crewman, all his fault. He hadn’t even realized the old sod had dropped from the party. Why hadn’t he said something?

Tor felt the weight of Nilsen’s gauntlet on his shoulder. “Go back to District Six, we’ll be fine.”

Tor clenched his eyes shut, trying to stop the brighter light pouring from the Central Command passageway burn into his retinas. A pounding headache was forming in the meat of his brain.

Nilsen barely paused to await a decision, Hernandez and Pettersson swept passed, following the Chief into the well lit, wide corridor. Tor watched as they became shadows, dancing across the opposing bulkhead as they ventured toward Central Command. Tor wondered if he would see them again.

“Sorry, Captain. He was…”