Outpost

I don’t think those sent mad by this disease intentionally kill. They are compelled to bite and penetrate, to spread the contagion. Nevertheless I have seen eyes gouged and throats ripped out. Survivors lie injured in cabins and corridors crying for help until they too are overtaken by blood-thirst, haul themselves to their feet and attack.

It was hard to estimate casualties. Captain Campbell conducted a head-count. A minority of the passengers and crew, fewer than a thousand, were declared clear of infection. They treated the injured in the Grand Ballroom.

I wish Dr Walczak was still with us. Quinn tells me the doctor was sighted near the sewage treatment plant just before the lower compartments were sealed. He had no shirt. His back was clustered with spines like a porcupine. He often said he would rather die than succumb to this strange affliction. I suppose he didn’t have time to take his life before dementia took hold.

There seemed little chance the captain’s journal would reach his wife, so instead he left a warning.

Once a person enters the advanced stages of infection they become extremely hard to kill. Quinn saw a girl cut clean in half when we dropped the watertight doors. She lived for fifteen minutes. She dragged herself across the deck, still trying to bite and tear. The entire lower half of her body had been detached and left behind, nevertheless her legs continued to kick and twist.

Many of the crew armed themselves with knives from the kitchen. Word soon spread. Knives didn’t work. Stab wounds didn’t even slow them down.

The only effective way to deal with the infected is either to destroy them in their entirety with a weapon such as a Molotov cocktail, or inflict a severe blow to the head.

The captain was shocked to find himself listing the most efficient ways of ‘dealing’ with the infected. In a matter of days his passengers and crew had become lethal predators.

It is a matter of survival. Those of us who remain must act quickly and ruthlessly to ensure the ship does not become totally overrun.

Campbell wondered if there were some way of scuttling the ship, sending the infected passengers and crew to the bottom of the ocean as a mercy.

Campbell gave the order to abandon ship. He and his crew had been shivering in the cold and dark for days. They were drifting. Navigational instrumentation off-line.

They posted lookouts round the clock in the hope of sighting land. One night they saw what they hoped to see: lights in the distance. Steady, electric light. Too dark to make out detail. The captain estimated they were drifting east of Svalbard. They were probably passing the little coastal township that served the Arktikugol coal field. He ordered his men to take to the boats.

Seventy-four souls.

Hard to believe of all the passengers under my care, all the crew under my command, this ragged handful of exhausted and traumatised people are all that remain.

Campbell gave First Officer Quinn the ship’s log and told him to lead the survivors to safety. He saluted his men as they rowed away.

He was alone aboard the ship, the last uninfected individual on the vessel. He retreated to his cabin. He uncorked a Bordeaux.

Campbell could have evacuated the ship with his men, but was determined to play the role of captain to the last.

We all need to believe our lives have some ultimate meaning. I have rank and responsibility. It’s not foolish to live your ideals.

Jane woke with a jolt. She had dozed off, crumpled papers in her hand.

She stood at the washstand. She rubbed sleep from her eyes and cleaned her teeth. Toothpaste and bottled water.

‘Jane? You there?’ Ghost.

‘Yeah.’

‘ Punch and I are going to make a run for the engine room.’

‘I’ll be right there. ‘ ’

Jane adjusted her dog-collar. The room reflected in the mirror. A silver-framed photograph on the desk. Captain Campbell and his wife in happy times.

‘Okay, Dougie,’ said Jane. ‘Let’s get our boys home.’

The Engine Room

Ghost chose a hatch near the stern. A big, red ‘ X ‘ sprayed on the door. They dismantled the barricade. A cabin sofa and a couple of TVs. The hatch was jammed shut by a crowbar.

Ghost checked the breech of his shotgun. A shell in the chamber. Safety set to Fire.

Punch hefted a fire axe.

‘Lock the door behind us,’ said Ghost.

Jane removed the crowbar and cranked open the door. An empty corridor. Ghost and Punch stepped inside.

‘Good luck,’ said Jane, and heaved the door closed behind them. They heard a muffled, metallic scrape as she slid the crowbar back in place, sealing them inside the ship.

‘All right,’ muttered Ghost. ‘Quiet as we can.’

Ghost checked a hand-drawn map. He had plotted a circuitous route to the engine room. He wanted to avoid communal areas where infected passengers might congregate. If the diseased passengers were truly mindless they would wander all over the ship. But if they retained faint memories of life aboard the liner they would gravitate towards the bars and restaurants.