Murmansk-13

“You want in, you speak to Kirill.” The sentence drifted away with the shadow behind the viewport.

Jamal stayed his hand short of pounding on the door, anger giving way to caution. Outside they were vulnerable, noise undesirable. Tala watched his knuckles whiten in the dreary corridor light. A chill zephyr ran through the passageways, disturbing the drifts of dust; carrying a cloying, musty essence.

“Who’s Kirill?” Tala asked, her voice strained and arid.

“An issue,” Jamal replied, squinting through the filth to the room beyond. “Someone threatening our delicate equilibrium.”

Beyond the door, Tala could hear raised voices. Squabbling. There was a long pause before the sound of electronic motors whirred, drawing the blood stained curtain of aluminium away. Ilya stood a sinuous giant, filling the door frame with his tall, taut physique. He leered over a small waifish man, smaller than Tala. He was fox faced, long tousled brown hair swept passed his shoulders. He stared sheepishly up at Ilya.

“I’ll remember that, Andrei,” Ilya said dangerously.

“So will I,” replied Jamal, drawing Ilya’s ire. Jamal and Andrei exchanged glances, Jamal indicated for him to return to his post. Andrei gave a small smile and retreated under the antagonistic gaze of Ilya.

“You boys are a dying breed, here,” Ilya said. His thick brow knitted as he squinted into the darkness of the corridor. Porcine eyes briefly appraised the crumpled, battered Tala before settling on the curled form of Katja. Jamal’s torn, grime-streaked hoodie paltry defence for her modesty. Tala shuffled beside the senseless girl.

“Ilya, help me with the girl.” Jamal was wider than Ilya, but a full head and a half shorter.

“I’m not your fucking servant, monkey boy.” Ilya stared overlong at Katja, but appeared reluctant to step beyond the threshold of the enclave. “She bitten?”

“No. How stupid you think I am?”

“Stupid enough to bring another two mouths to feed,” Ilya turned to Jamal, regarding him with the same indurate expression. “When you going to finish that supply run?”

“When are you going to make one?” The exchange seemed to play out for its millionth time, both verbal combatants equally disinterested by the inevitable impasse. “I need to speak to Gennady.” Jamal added finally.

Ilya smiled a disdainful smile. “Tick-tock, eh. Not much time now,” he stepped from the doorway as if crossing a busy highway. Groggily Tala lifted herself up, meeting the large Russians unimpressed gaze. Ilya ushered her away with a huge paw as Jamal stooped under Katja’s arm. “That way.” Ilya pointed through the doorway, guttering green light flickering beyond. “Mind the wires.”

☣☭☠

The electric door whirred shut behind Tala, the sentries guardroom beyond was criss-crossed by twenty or so high tensile steel wires, roughly affixed to the opposing bulkheads through shackles and pad eyes. Most were at ankle height, the insipid candlelight emitted from the green-tinted sconces cast dancing spider web shadows across the carpeted deck. Where the wires didn’t bisect the space, old office cubicles remained in situ.

Thin, single cut boards of dark mahogany stood inert, textured curlicue frosted glass inserted into single frames just above the built in desk unit allowed the ebbing light through. Within each cubicle, green baize pin boards were dotted with colourless pins, creating spindly menacing shadows that reached into the darkened corners where the light did not.

“We stole the wires from the lifepod launches. Most had been activated,” explained Jamal. “If that electronic door was breeched, we hope the wires will give us enough time to fall back.”

The thin industrial carpet was flecked, salt and pepper, and still bore the indentations of former cubicles and furniture, removed for the purpose of defence. The remaining ramshackle alignment of the office space railed against the Soviet uniformity that once existed here amid the organised rows of desks.

Beside Tala, Jamal and Ilya hefted Katja awkwardly over the wires. Ilya’s hand cupped around the lifeless girls infirm breast. Tala gritted her teeth, tried to remind herself how long it must have been since Ilya had seen a woman; not unlike some spacemen and their peccadillo for station whores on long voyages. One moment rejoicing in their Catholic virtues and reminiscing about their families on-ship, the next going ashore to the nearest or cheapest bordello.

“How come the door is working, but the lighting isn’t?” Tala asked, looking forward, trying to distract herself.

“We managed to jury-rig an autonomous closed circuit around the keypad.” Jamal began, his voice conspiratorially hushed. “The lighting is too damn ingrained with the districts circuitry. They keep it off.”

“Who are they?” Tala frowned, the puffiness and bruising on her face felt reduced. “The infected?”

“No.” Jamal replied with a harsh laugh and a look of finality. Tala decided not to push the withdrawn man.