Outpost

Jane and Ivan threw themselves against the steel door and tried to slam it closed. They heard bone crunch. They threw themselves at the door twice more. Blood spurt. The grasping hand fell to the deck, cut through at the wrist.

Jane cranked the hatch levers closed, and jammed them shut with the shaft of the hammer.

‘Not on my bloody watch,’ she muttered.

‘Jesus,’ said Ivan, looking down at the floor. The severed hand clenched and unclenched like an upturned crab. It tried to crawl. The Russian crossed himself. ‘It’s still alive.’

Punch passed a kitchen doorway. The Commodore Grill.

‘We should keep moving,’ said Ghost.

‘Let me check it out. I need to see what we’ve got down here.’

Punch opened a freezer. Spoiled food. Green mould.

Ghost took a jar from a shelf.

‘Jalapeсos,’ he said. ‘We could sprinkle them on our cereal or something.’

A dry store. Bags of rice and dried pasta. Pallets of cans.

‘Fucking mother lode,’ said Punch. I bet there are kitchens like this all over the ship. Lots of little theme restaurants.’

‘In a couple of days we can organise the men and do a systematic search. Take our pick. Fill some carts. But right now we need to get out of here.’

They turned to leave. A woman stood in the doorway. She wore a blue ball gown. Her eyes stared through a mask of metal spines.

‘Back off, darling,’ warned Punch.

She reached for him. He kicked her legs and she fell. He planted a boot on her chest to keep her down. He put the drill bit between her eyes and bored into her brain. He ground through bone. She arched her back then lay still.

‘Holy mother of God,’ he muttered, standing over the corpse.

‘Let’s go.’

They headed down the corridor.

A waitress slithered round the corner, dragging bloody, useless legs. Ghost hefted the axe, ready to strike a blow. A second infected crew member turned the corner, metal leaking from nose and ears. He was joined by a woman in jogging gear, arms fused to her sides. Ghost backed away.

‘Getting crowded.’

More passengers, shuffling, limping, groping.

‘Plan B,’ said Punch.

They ran back to the engine room and sealed themselves inside. Fists thudded against the door. Ghost gripped his shotgun, clicked from Safety to Fire. Punch took out his radio.

‘Jane, you there? We might have a little problem.’

Jane called the rig.

‘Hyperion to Rampart, do you copy, over?’

‘Rampart here.’ Sian’s voice.

‘We’ve got control. We’ve got the basics. The propellers turn. We can steer left and right. We’re heading your way. Ten knots. Slow, but making headway. I’ll try to push it harder. Can you put up a flare? Something to guide us?’

‘Give me two minutes. ’

Jane stood on deck. The fog had cleared. She had found the captain’s binoculars. She adjusted focus. She saw the red pinprick of a distant flare.

She returned to the bridge. She nudged the joystick left. Brief rotation from the bow thrusters. She felt the massive vessel adjust course.

Ivan searched the officers’ quarters for booze. He found a couple of miniatures, but couldn’t find a full-size bottle.

One of the crew had left a humidor full of cigars and a heavy brass lighter on his desk. Cuban. Vaqueros Colorado Madura. Ivan filled his pockets. He didn’t smoke, but he could trade when he got back to the rig. The Rampart crewmen liked cigars. Greedy for any little pleasure that would help them forget their predicament a while. Getting high was the new currency now that money was no good.

He heard an intermittent humming noise.

He stood in the corridor outside the crew cabins. More humming.

He approached the slide doors at the end of the passage. A bad smell like eggs, like rotting meat. He realised, with a wash of sickening fear, why the ship’s systems had been off-line. The Hyperion crew wanted to seal infected passengers below deck. They had barricaded every door and sealed each stairwell. Then they shut off the power in case the shambling horde below figured out how to summon elevators.

A discreet ping. The doors began to slide open. Ivan backed away. He glimpsed an old lady melded to an electric wheelchair.

A crowd of infected passengers jostled for space around her. Bloody ball gowns and dinner suits. Stench of vomit and piss. Ivan turned and ran.

Jane steered the ship towards a winking red signal light, one of the aircraft warning strobes on top of a distillation tower.

She pictured the Rampart crew lining the refinery railings, applauding as the liner docked. She would play it cool and casual. ‘ Welcome aboard, boys: Bask in their new-found respect and admiration.

There was a button on the control panel. A trumpet icon. She hit the button and released the long, two-note bass boom of the ship’s Tyfon horn.

Ivan ran through the door.

‘The passengers. The fucks. They broke out. They’re right here.’ He grabbed Jane by the sleeve and pulled her towards an exterior door. ‘We’ve got to go.’

‘What about Punch and Ghost?’

‘We have to get out of here.’