Outpost

Ghost and Punch rode the zodiac back to the island. They had lashed a long aluminium ladder across the boat. The ladder spread either side of the boat like steel wings.

Hyperion had run aground on the jagged rocks of the island’s shore.

They carried the ladder to the ship’s prow. They climbed into the ship through a gash in the side of the hull. Steel plates had been ripped away exposing a cross-section of rooms and stairs.

Ghost led Punch to a passageway near the bilge.

‘There,’ he said, pointing at the ceiling. A thick rope of cable lashed to the ductwork. ‘Exactly what we need. Single core, high voltage. Big, juicy length of it. Perfect.’

He prised open a wall box with a screwdriver and threw an isolator switch.

‘Perfect? We find an entire floating city, and all we can salvage is a bit of cable?’

‘This is heat. This is light. This could get us through the winter. Remember: we’re better off today than we were yesterday. Hold on to that thought.’

Punch closed a hatch at one end of the corridor and knotted it shut with a length of fire hose. He stood guard at the other end of the corridor with a pickle jar Molotov in his hand.

‘Quick as you can,’ he said. ‘We don’t want to attract a crowd.’

Ghost dragged a table from an office. He stood on it and got to work. He used a wrench to unbolt a socket joint in the cable. He dragged the table to the other end of the corridor and repeated the procedure.

A fat man in Bermuda shorts and a Hawaiian shirt turned the corner. He wore a sombrero. He had a camera round his neck. His legs were a tumorous mess of flesh-flaps and metal.

‘We have our first customer,’ said Punch. He took a Zippo from his pocket and lit the rag. The Molotov splashed burning kerosene across the corridor floor. The second Molotov smashed against the man’s face and turned him to a pillar of flame. A guttural, inhuman howl. He collapsed and lay burning.

‘See that?’ said Punch. ‘He won’t lie still. He’s dead but the metal keeps on trucking.’

He backed away from the burning man, repelled by the stench. He took another Molotov from his backpack.

‘More on their way,’ he warned. ‘How’s it going, Gee?’

‘We’re done.’

Ghost coiled the cable and slung it over his shoulder. Punch untied the fire hose and released the hatch. He allowed himself a backward glance. Monstrously deformed figures massing through flame and smoke. Punch threw his last Molotov and ran.

The alcohol buzz was starting to wane. Jane resolved to ask Ghost for a big bag of weed. So much easier to extinguish all thought and sleepwalk through the day.

She lay in the dark. The ceiling strip-light flickered to life then burned steadily. She shielded her eyes from the glare. Power had been restored.

She opened the door. There were lights in the corridor, lights in every room. She heard cheering from the canteen.

The crewmen stood beneath heating vents, faces turned upward, basking in a torrent of hot air like they were taking a shower. One of the men got the jukebox working. ‘Sweet Home Alabama’. They would be toasting Ghost with fresh coffee when he returned from his work on C deck. Slapping his back, exchanging high fives. Jane didn’t want to stick around and watch.

The power was back. Nikki ran across the pump hall to the storeroom. She flicked a switch. Brilliant arc-lights.

She circled the boat. It was her first chance to examine it in detail. The integrity of the welds. The tightness of the bolts. She kicked it. She slapped the hull.

She looped the hoist-chain over the prow and stern, and pressed Up. The winch began to wind and the chain pulled taut. The boat creaked and slowly lifted from the floor.

She hit a wall button. Warning beacons strobed yellow. The hatch in the floor beneath the boat split open like the bomb bay of a B52. Typhoon ice particles. The silver sails wafted and billowed.

Nikki stood at the edge of the abyss and looked down into darkness and freezing wind. That was where she was headed. If she chose to sail home alone she would have to leave the light and warmth of the rig behind and immerse herself in perpetual night.

Flutter of excitement. All she had to do was press Down.

Jane sat on the edge of her bunk. Help someone, she told herself. When you are at your lowest ebb, feeling useless and ineffectual, reach out and help someone. Make yourself matter.

She headed for the submarine hangar.

Nail was lying on the deck. He was cushioned by his sleeping bag, luxuriating in a torrent of hot air from a wall-vent.

He had broken his right arm. A snapped broom handle for a splint. Ripped T-shirt for a bandage.

‘Anything I can get you?’ she asked. ‘Do you want a drink? Something to eat?’

Nail slowly turned his head. He looked at her a long while like he was trying to remember her name.

‘Jesus,’ said Jane. ‘Rye has you doped to the gills, doesn’t she?’

He smiled and closed his eyes. Then he jolted awake and tried to sit up.

‘Nikki,’ he said.

‘You want me to get her?’

‘The lights are on.’

‘Light and heat. That’s right.’

‘Power.’

‘Yeah, power.’

‘Nikki.’