Outpost

‘This could be messy,’ he warned. ‘Women, children. It’s not going to be nice.’

They climbed aboard the ship and the slaughter began. They moved room to room. They swung and hacked. They wore masks and goggles to shield themselves from blood-spray.

They splashed kerosene at each intersection and drove back infected passengers with a barrier of flame.

They disabled the elevators and rebuilt the barricades. They booby-trapped the doors with thermite grenades.

They threw the bodies over the side of the ship, dropped them twenty metres on to the ice. They sponged blood from the walls and floor. They wore triple gloves and respirators to protect themselves from acrid bleach fumes.

Later, when they sat down to eat in the newly liberated officers’ mess, they drank too much and laughed too loud. They were blooded. Each man had slashed and bludgeoned until their arms hurt. Ghost sat back and watched the men joke and sing. They were flushed with adrenalin. They had crossed a line. They were killers.

They transported their possessions from the rig and each took a stateroom with a double bed and en-suite bathroom, luxury they had never known aboard Rampart.

Each cabin had a wall-mounted plasma TV. The crew swapped DVDs. A bitter-sweet pastime. Each gangster flick and romantic comedy was a window on to a vanished world. Every glimpse of Manhattan, Los Angeles or London framed sunny streets that had since been transformed into a ravaged battlefield.

Ghost led a raid on the lower decks to check battery power. They took a detour to the Neptune Bar and filled a crate with Johnnie Walker Blue Label. The crew were drunk for a week.

Punch found a small galley and prepared food. He served breakfast each morning and a hot meal each night. He tried to impose a diurnal rhythm despite perpetual night.

They posted a patrol rota on the door of the bridge.

Punch on duty. He prowled the corridors with an axe. If he looked out of the portholes he could see infected passengers milling on the lower promenade decks. As he passed each barricade he could hear the scrabble and thump of passengers massed the other side of the bulkhead doors. The noise never ceased. Scratching and clawing, day and night.

‘Breakout,’ explained Ghost. ‘We need a simple signal. If you see anything, if one of these freaks makes it up here from the lower decks, if they make it through the barricades, shout "Breakout". Everyone will pull on their boots, grab an axe and haul ass.’

Punch served dinner. He put on a show. He lit candles. He laid out silverware and linen napkins. He wore chef’s starched whites. He found some dried mushrooms and made risotto.

The crew sat in a panelled dining room with galleons on the wall. They applauded as he lifted a cloche from each plate and uncorked wine.

Two empty seats. Jane had elected to stay aboard Rampart. Mal was patrolling the Hyperion barricades.

Punch took a seat at the table. He sat next to Sian. Nikki had sailed away on a raft. Rye was missing, probably suicide. Nobody missed them. But he was banging the only woman left aboard and was becoming aware of an undercurrent of jealousy.

‘This is delicious,’ said Ghost, pouring Chardonnay.

‘Thanks.’.

‘Should have found some turkey, though.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘Guess you haven’t looked at a calendar lately.’ He raised his glass. ‘Merry Christmas.’

‘You’re shitting me.’

‘So what do you think we should do when we get back home?’ asked Ghost. ‘Should we track down other survivors or hide ourselves away?’

Punch thought it over. The question had become a standard conversational gambit. Nobody wanted to discuss the past. They didn’t want to think about family and friends dead and gone. By unspoken agreement they spoke only of the future. It became evening entertainment now the TV signal had died and DVDs provoked depression and heartache. Old-time storytelling. Campfire tales. Each crewman obliged to describe in baroque detail the life they would build when they got home.

Discussions like:

‘What car will you drive when you get back to the world?’

‘Lamborghini Countach. It’s an antique heap of shit, but I glimpsed one in the street when I was a kid and I’ve wanted one ever since.’

‘Better enjoy it while you can.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘Couple of harsh winters. That’s all it will take. Every road in the country will be cracked and rutted like a farm track. Land-Rover. It’ll get you where you need to go.’

And:

‘What kind of watch will you wear?’

‘There used to be a posh jeweller in our high street. I saw it every day on my way to work. They had a bunch of Rolex watches laid out on a blue velvet cushion. I used to tell myself: " "One day, when I’m rich, I’ll own one." A gold submariner the size of a dinner plate.’

‘So you’ll smash a window and take a Rolex.’

‘I’ll take one for every day of the week.’

‘So you think there might be other survivors?’ asked Punch.