Murmansk-13

“We’re all just a little unnerved by this place.” Tor uncrossed his arms and flattened his palms against the stainless steel worktop behind him.

“You should be,” Katja shrugged against Tala who grimaced. “Oh just leave me, do you think you can give me the months of physical rehab I need?”

Tor slammed his hand against the worktop, the metallic report stilling everyone into silence. “I’m not going to leave you in this place. I already lost your father. I’m not going to return to Earth and say it was all in vein.”

“You would have done if I hadn’t have woken up though.” Katja’s response was muted but blazing blue eyes locked with Tor’s; stubborn and helpless.

“You did though, so we’re not leaving you,” Tor replied softly, relieved Katja had turned her attention elsewhere.

Katja now appraised the hospital clipboard hung beside the cold chambers. Her wasted legs limply seeking purchase on the cold tiles of the morgue. She ran her index finger down the board, smearing the marker lines that scored out each name but her own, names of colleagues and friends. Her chin sagged to her breast, her finger falling away from the bottom of the board black with ink. Sobs wracked Katja’s body once again. “I don’t understand.”

Peralta and Tala helped Katja to the little plastic chair. She slumped, ragdoll into the seat, threatening to teeter off to the floor and perhaps the oblivion of her nightmares reawakened.

Tor placed a steadying hand on her shoulder while Peralta and Tala crouched beside her, mutual expressions of disconcerted empathy. Katja felt boneless to the touch as if only her face had retained its youth. The rest of her toneless body quivered as drool glistened her chin and darkened the neckline of her scrubs. Unsure what to say, Tor held her silently until the sobbing subsided.

Katja sat mute and hunched for a long while, eyelids flickering as her brain tried to parse the influx of information. “I don’t understand what happened? These people were my friends.”

“The names on the clipboard?” Tor removed his hand from Katja’s shoulder and traced the cleaved line in the crossed out names her finger had made.

Katja nodded. “We were all due to sign off,” she wiped her chin and cheeks dry with the sleeve of her scrubs. “Before the quarantine.”

“Why was the station under quarantine, Katja?”

Katja shook her head violently, her face clenching, fighting a renewed onset of salty tears. Her round cheeks were already sorely reddened by her weeping. “No,” was all she could say before pitching forward, trying to stand. Tala and Peralta managed to grab her as she lurched forward, her knees providing little resistance or support to the movement. She grasped the handle of one of the cold chambers, her hand appearing small and pale against the brass latch. She pulled it open, utilizing what little reservoirs of strength remained.

“They’re all empty, Katja,” Tor said over the hum of the refrigeration plant. “We’ve checked them all.”

“This one was Arty’s,” she replied. Her breaking voice ringing within the confines of the chamber. Peralta and Tala seized her as she fell limp, returning her to the seat without struggle. Tor silently returned the chamber door to its jam before it had chance to clatter shut in counter rotation.

Mihailov was growing steadily more aggravated at the door. Tor watched the Bulgarian fidget in the corridor while stealing increasingly exasperated glances into the morgue. He paced the six feet expanse of the corridor for the thousandth time and looked at the time readout on his own suit. “Captain, this is taking too long.”

Katja stared lifelessly at the patchwork of cold chambers that had apparently contained her friends, the lustre of life that had returned was gone again. Her eyes dry and stagnant.

“I know,” said Tor, resignedly. Unable to capture Katja’s eye he turned and walked from her into the dark of the morgue. Tor rested his head in his hands, fresh stubble pricking the meat of his palm as he gently kneaded his eyelids. “We’ll tie her to a fucking stretcher if we have to, but I’m done with this place.”

☣☭☠

The gurney juddered over the morgue tiles, its steel frame and plating rattling loudly together. One of its forward casters squealed and gyrated loosely in protest. Katja’s catatonia had not improved, she sat insensible in the little chair seemingly devoid of substance, little sounds unlike words occasionally parted her lips. Peralta occupied himself, tearing strips from the sackcloth to use as restraints, each tear sending a plume of miniscule fibres into the frigid air.

Mihailov was watching the preparations neutrally from the doorway. “Captain, this is not going to work.”

“Why not?” Asked Tor as he worked to stiffen the rickety gurney using a scalpel as an substitute screwdriver.

“How are we going to get her down the stairs?”