Murmansk-13

Igor, his neighbour on the prisoner transport, had emerged as the preeminent autocrat of the District Seven band. The burly Russian still bore the scars of the accident, a deep indentation in his skull that would surely have rendered another human being dead. Igor had leered over Jamal when he’d sought asylum. Old prison tattoos gleamed with sweat, darkened by the red emergency lights – Plant was hot, Plant was unfriendly.

Rapid Russian had drizzled from Igor’s drawn lips, his eyes fixed on Jamal. Whether the words were meant for Jamal, he would never know – he’d long forgotten them by the time he’d learnt the language – but the familiar zoological gesticulations from Igor’s coterie suggested they weren’t friendly. He’d quickly turned tail when Igor started grinding his sausage fingered fist into his meaty palm.

Igor, the man he’d saved.

It would be three more months before Jamal would approach Gennady and District Four, dulled of mind and malnourished. Seven months spent in the ducts before he was reluctantly accepted and his talents for traversing the service ways of the station would become a desired skill set. Between him and Mikhail, the runners were born an exclusive caste.

Now Jamal watched Mikhail, far below. A miniature figure dancing in and out of the giant racks, a brief play of shadows, the glint of his outline all that betrayed his position. Mikhail was Igor’s man, Igor’s runner. Both Districts had quickly learnt that foraging parties did not have the required stealth to subvert the stations control or the attention of the stations infected. The two acted as a symbiotic defence system. For the most part, locked down automatic doors kept the diseased crewmembers at bay, other times some Unseen Hand would unleash all hell and long dormant doors would spring to life. Then the putrid smell of decaying flesh would herald doom. The key was to avoid alerting either.

Mikhail and Jamal were the best. Subsequently, they were rivals.

Mikhail was a light-footed Muscovite, long blonde hair and chiselled features belied his petit frame. He was younger and more agile than Jamal, but he didn’t know the station like Jamal did, hadn’t spent as much time in the stations wilderness. Jamal had been a running back in high school, albeit a small one. He was powerful, at least after sometime recovering from his months in solitude. Jamal could count on his strength to get him out of a bind, he was also a better beast of burden as a result. Mikhail looked like he would snap in a breeze. A whippet.

Still, after four years running against Mikhail he’d come to admire him. They were specialists, eking out an existence on a decaying station for thankless employers. Jamal suspected he and Mikhail would prevail to the end together but they could never meet or talk, the paranoia was all too ubiquitous. Distantly he hoped Mikhail admired him. He doubted it though.

Jamal thumbed the inert junk gun in his pocket, digging into his thigh. He’d been out of .25’s for a year. A couple of pocket pistols had been liberated from the guards during the escape, ammunition had been found intermittently in office desks through the years. The survivors knew there was an armoury, but Weapons was District Twelve, a suicidal distance. Jamal also knew Mikhail carried one, but he suspected he was out of ammo as well. A junk gun was only good for two purposes, attracting attention or shooting yourself. Still, he imagined Mikhail would kill him if he had the opportunity. At the least it would tip the scales in favour of District Seven in the interminable battle of attrition.

He chose not to test Mikhail’s resolve.

Instead he watched as Mikhail scaled one of the outer racks. His silhouette crawling up the skeletal framework. Most of the supplies on the lower shelves had been scoured clean or destroyed by the early frequent incursions of the infected crew. Nobody could say for sure how many the Station had housed when the evacuation was botched, or how recently it had been supplied, but non-perishables were at ten percent their original total. Rationing had been introduced in District Four for the greater good. They could hang on another ten months if District Seven followed suit.