Outpost

Nail chiselled ice from the wall with a spanner.

‘Rub it on your burns. It’ll help.’

‘You found some wood.’

‘There are some bunks down there. And some tables and chairs. Dormitories for the team that built the place. Enough wood to buy us some thinking time.’

‘Nothing to eat, I bet.’

‘I’ll check the Skidoo panniers in a minute. I need to sit down a while. I’m exhausted.’

They dried their boots over the fire.

They heard a thud against the bunker door. Then another. Fists pounded. Fingers scratched.

‘I truly don’t get it,’ said Gus. ‘Can they smell us? Is that it? How do they know we are in here? Some kind of super- sense?’

‘They can smell you all right. You stink like cooked bacon.’

They sat by the fire for an hour. A gentle draught drew woodsmoke down the tunnel like cigarette fumes sucked into a smoker’s lungs. They listened to fists thump against the doors.

Gus watched the smoke.

‘Are there vents down there? A second exit?’

‘Fuck knows. It goes on for miles. A secret city. Some kind of major naval facility.’

‘How many of them do you think are out there?’ asked Gus.

‘Two, I reckon. They’re half frozen. We could get round them easily enough. If more show up I’ll go out there and kill them. Thin out the herd. They’re slow. They’re stupid. I could do it. Wouldn’t be a problem.’

‘My face. Is it bad?’ ‘Yeah, it’s pretty bad.’

‘If I asked you to kill me, if it came down to it, would you help?’

Nail turned away.

A sudden flashback. The big argument. Mal shouting and cursing, jabbing his finger. A blur of steel as Nail lashed out. That shrill, bubbling squeal. That gush of arterial spray.

Nail hadn’t slept for a month. Scared to close his eyes.

‘Maybe it won’t come to that.’

Nail pushed a couple more chair legs on to the fire.

‘We have to get back to Rampart,’ said Gus. ‘That’s our only chance. There will be food, heat and morphine. I’m in so much pain.’

‘Let me think it over.’

A couple of nights earlier Nail had sat in the bridge of Hyperion unable to sleep. He sat in the captain’s chair and looked at the stars. He was joined by Reverend Blanc. They made small talk. Little more than noise. But he could tell straight away she knew his big secret. She seemed too pleasant, too casual. Somehow she had figured out he killed Mal.

Maybe Jane and her friends were dead. Maybe they were ripped apart or died in the fire. But perhaps they escaped Hyperion. They might have taken refuge on Rampart armed with shotguns. Would Jane shoot on sight? What would he do, if their situation were reversed? Sorry, guys. I thought she was one of those infected freaks.

‘I don’t want to worry you,’ said Gus quietly, ‘but I’ve been watching the shadows behind you for a while and I swear there is someone standing against the far wall.’

Nail slowly turned around. The fire cast flickering shadows across the tunnel walls. He saw a figure in heavy snow gear half hidden in darkness.

Nail stood up.

‘Hi,’ he said. ‘You’re welcome to join us.’

No response.

He took a burning chair leg from the fire and approached the figure.

A Con Amalgam parka patched with duct tape.

‘I’m Nail. Nail Harper.’

No reply.

‘Hello? Can you hear me?’

He held up the chair leg so he could see the face beneath the hood. Chapped, peeling skin. Mad, staring eyes.

‘Nikki. It’s Nikki.’

The Plan

Jane and Ghost fled the island. Punch and Sian were close behind. They ran headlong. Jane was glad to trip over rocks. Rocks meant they were still close to shore. If they found themselves running through pristine snow it meant they had blundered inland and were running further and further from safety.

They scrambled down basalt boulders and ran out on to the frozen sea. They skidded and struggled to keep balance. The glow of the burning ship stained the ice blood red.

Jane had the only flashlight. They followed her lead.

‘Keep together. Don’t get separated.’

A succession of muffled thumps behind them. Floor by floor, room by room, Hyperion was blowing itself to bits. Grenades strapped to propane cylinders. Ghost’s failsafe plan. If infected passengers broke through the barricades they would be incinerated. But localised detonations had run out of control. One by one the ship’s fuel tanks exploded fore and aft, blasting holes in the hull, jetting flame through corridors and stairwells.

‘We have to slow down,’ shouted Jane. ‘This is fresh ice. I don’t want to break the crust and fall into the sea.’

They slowed from a run to a walk.

‘Are you folks all right?’ she asked. ‘Everyone okay?’

She and Ghost had been in their room when the attack began. They were lying on the rug, listening to Johnny Cash and talking about the life they would build when they got home. They heard shouting. They heard a fight. ‘Breakout: They had the presence of mind to grab polar coats and glacier boots.

The corridor outside their room was filled with bitter smoke. Thermite detonations nearby. They covered their mouths to mask acrid fumes. Burning paint. Melting metal.