Murmansk-13

“How long till they’re on us?” Asked Mihailov vaguely as his breathing grew shallow.

Nobody chanced an answer, time became meaningless. A lost concept on a station frozen in quarantine, surrounded by seemingly infinite darkness and discarded by its custodians. Tor looked at the time readout embedded on his suit. It had stopped at twenty four hours, he wondered if that had been the point they’d slipped into purgatory. Would the Riyadh still be there?

Brooding quiet prevailed for the longest time; the group listening as the progress of the stations macerated denizens became louder and louder until even thought became impossible.

“You should go ahead,” said Tor, his voice hoarse with disuse. First to Jamal’s back, then Tala. His heavy breaths fogging the dimming corridor before him. “We’re not going to outrun them.”

Tala looked grief stricken, her bruised cheek streaked with tears. Jamal simply shook his head. “I can’t. I am not alone on this station.”

“There are others?”

“Yeah, I am an envoy of survivors,” Jamal looked at the gooseflesh that prickled his exposed arm, trying to reconcile his thoughts. “A messenger, for those seeking passage. From this Hell.”

“I hate to break it to you, kid,” Tor said, over the din. “We’re no rescue party. I mean, look at us.”

“That don’t matter. You got a ship, don’t you?”

Tor laughed, despite himself. “Barely.”

Jamal squared his shoulders and spun to face Tor. His face etched with fury. “This ain’t a game to me, man. This ain’t a fucking daytrip for me. You know how fucking long I’ve been stuck on here? In this Limbo, with these freaks for company?” As if on cue, a nerve shattering bray occupied the emptiness between them.

Drained by the innumerable hours of effort and of fear and flight Tor stared at the youth, Mihailov heavy on his shoulder and Peralta lost. The answer to all Jamal’s questions were that he didn’t care, even though he imagined they both wanted the same thing. To be home, with their loved ones and not on Murmansk-13. But Tor said nothing, he eyeballed Jamal and realized that the unseen advance had stagnated behind them.

A fragile, shivering sob; soft and human shredded the tension. Jamal’s eyes grew huge with Tor’s “Katja.”

☣☭☠

Katja’s diminished and shuddering form looked tiny. Her atrophied leg muscles had deposited her in the centre of the corridor, her pale skin like a pearl against a backdrop of mottled brown and decaying flesh. Beyond Katja, the infected had stretched to the farthest extent of the twelve foot wide corridor, their depth of ranks hidden by the gloom. They lurched forwards as Katja scrabbled in the direction of Tor, her gown torn, their stiff steps matching her pace, playing. Primal grunts seemed to thicken the gelid air, voracious eyes catching the flicker of dying lights.

Tor’s chest tightened. “Oh God,” he murmured, struggling against his expended lungs. “Where did she come from?”

Jamal was looking wildly around the corridor for what, Tor did not know. His furious glancing stilled for just a second. “I have a plan, but the girl comes with me.”

“Katja?”

“No, her,” Jamal pointed at Tala, the Filipina scowled back at him.

“Impossible, I can’t relinquish another…”

Jamal cut Tor off in mid-sentence. “We haven’t got time to argue.” As he started speaking one of the infected pitched forward, warranting a yelp from Katja. Others held the decomposing attacker at bay as if coordinating a unified charge. “I need two to rescue Katja, I can’t do it alone and the girl doesn’t have a backup suit does she. It’s damaged isn’t it?”

Tor paused, processing the scene before him. “It’s damaged,” he replied, detached. “Tala, go with him. And be safe.”

“Captain?” Tala pleaded, dropping Mihailov’s remaining mass on Tor.

“If we’re going we’re going now.” Jamal was growing antsy, limbering up.

“We’ll be back,” Tor turned toward the Riyadh, refusing to look Tala in the eye. “Back with help.”

“Come on, Tala, the grate.” Tor heard Jamal say, then two sets of footsteps, one purposeful – the other uncertain – sprinting toward Katja and the baying crowd of infected.

She’s bait. The thought bolted through Tor’s drowsy brain like backdraft. As the hammering footfalls rushed away from him, Tor whirled around. Fervently, the infected were surging forward, their keening ululating and ferocious. “It’s a trap,” yelled Tor, or he thought he did, the once silent corridors were dense with the cacophony of the infected. Helplessly he watched Tala once more finding unorthodox use for her mag boots, kicking in a large metallic grate as Jamal grabbed Katja. The surprised girl wriggled in Jamal’s grip, but exhausted she could do naught but yield.