Outpost (21 page)

'But
where did those rich old ladies go?' said Jane. 'That's the question.'

She
found a key cabinet on the wall. She tugged it. She hit it. She shucked the
slide of her shotgun.

'Stand
back.'

Ghost
undipped his radio from his belt.

'Jane?
You guys all right?'

'We're fine
.
'

'We
heard a shot.'

'We've got some keys. We're heading back to the bridge
.'

'We've
found some kind of battery room. I'm going to throw a few switches, see what
happens.'

'Reckon
these batteries still hold charge?' asked Ivan.

'They're
supposed to sustain light and heat if an iceberg or something knocks out the
engines. They should be good for days.'

Jane
took fistfuls of keys from her coat pocket and dumped them on the console. She threw
a fire blanket over the captain's chair so she wouldn't have to sit in his
blood. She tried to slot the keys, one by one, into the panel above the
steering column then threw them aside.

'How
long before this ship drifts out of range of the refinery?'

'An
hour. Two at the most.'

Punch
stood in the side room and looked down at the captain. The man was lying on his
side, legs still hitched like he was sitting down. Punch unfolded a map and
draped it over the dead man's head so he wouldn't have to see his eyes.

'I'm
going out on deck,' he said. 'Think I'll take a look around.'

Punch
climbed exterior steps to the upper deck.

The
Lido. There was an empty children's swimming pool with scattered life jackets
at the bottom.

The
Winterland Grill. Smashed plates and an upturned barbecue.

A
vast funnel rose into the fog above him.

He
found a skylight. He rubbed the glass with a gloved hand, wiping away frost as
thick as snow. He shone his flashlight down into the dark.

Ghost
must have found a power switch in the battery room because the ship suddenly
lit up brilliant white. Stark floodlights illuminated the decks, the balconies,
the badminton court, the miniature golf. Strings of bulbs hung between the
funnels glowed in the fog like weak sunlight.

Punch
crouched over the skylight and looked down into the Grand Ballroom. Art deco
wall lights glowed amber for a soiree, but the dance floor appeared to have
been turned into a hospital. Row upon row of beds. Bandaged bodies in the beds,
some in pyjamas, some in ball gowns and dinner suits. Punch couldn't see
clearly through the smeared glass. He could make out bloody dressings,
blackened skin, half-eaten faces.

A
squeak of feedback from the deck speakers as the sound- system powered back to
life. The genteel strings of 'The Blue Danube' waltz were broadcast throughout
the ship.

As
if waking from a long sleep, the bodies in the ballroom began to stir.

The
prow. Ghost lifted a deck hatch and shone his flashlight inside. Metal steps descending
into darkness. He climbed down.

'It's
okay,' he called.

Jane
followed.

Two
massive drums each rolled with anchor chain, each link big as a lifebelt.

'There
must be a manual release,' said Ghost. 'It must be part of the design. Some way
of stopping the ship dead in the water in the event of catastrophic turbine
failure.'

The
drums were each powered by a motor the size of a van.

'I
think this lever might disengage the gears,' said Jane.

'Yeah?'

'Well,
there are warning stickers all over it.'

Ghost
found a tool locker.

'Better
wear these.'

Jane
twisted foam plugs into her ears and clamped defenders to her head.

He
tugged the lever. It wouldn't shift. He lifted his feet and swung from it. The
lever wouldn't move. He fetched a sledgehammer.

'Stand
back,' he mouthed.

He
swung the hammer. Two blows and the gears disengaged. The drum spun free. The
massive anchor chain played out through the hull with a juddering roar. The air
stank of hot metal.

They
took off their ear-defenders. They climbed out on to the deck and shone a
flashlight over the side of the ship. The anchors had deployed. The chain hung
taut.

'High
five,' said Jane. They slapped gloved hands. 'About time something went our
way.'

They
returned to Rampart and mustered the crew.

'It's
called
Hyperion
,' said Jane, standing before
them like a teacher lecturing a class. 'It's Swedish, I think. All the bridge
controls are written in Martian. We've dropped anchor. All we have to do is
start the engines and we are on our way home.'

A
general murmur of excitement ran through the canteen. Although the canteen was
cold it was still the best place to hold a group meeting.

'Yeah,'
continued Jane, her breath fogging the air. 'It looks like our luck has finally
changed. But there's a catch. Most of the passengers and crew are still aboard.
They're infected, but locked below deck.'

'Shotguns,'
said Nikki. 'Go room to room. You saw them on TV. Infected move slow. Turkey
shoot.'

'They
are people. Wives and husbands. Sons and daughters. They're not vermin.'

'Let's
cut the sanctimonious crap, shall we? If we sail an infected ship south to
Europe not a single country will let us enter their waters. In fact they'll
probably order an airstrike and vaporise the boat. And remember what happened
to Rawlins. This disease, whatever it is, drove him nuts. He damn near blew us
to hell. You want to set sail in a ship full of ravening lunatics? A floating
asylum? Anyway, it's not like anyone ever recovered from this contagion. No one
gets better. I vote we shoot them all. The kindest thing. Throw the bodies over
the side.'

'We
don't have enough shells. A ship like that might carry two, three thousand
passengers. And a big crew.'

'So
gas them. Rev the engines and channel exhaust fumes into the ventilation.'

'I
agree,' said Ivan. 'We couldn't sleep with those rabid fucks the other side of
the wall.'

'Right
now we have them contained,' said Jane. 'Besides, we don't even know if gassing
them would work. They should all be dead. No food, water or heat. That ship
should be a graveyard. But somehow they keep going.'

Nikki
looked around. Faces lit by lamplight, all of them looking to Jane for
guidance.

'You
can't trust her,' Nikki wanted to say. 'In a situation like this, you can't
trust anyone but yourself.'

Nikki
had a boyfriend. Alan. They spent two years together. A holiday in Mumbai, a
holiday in Chile. And she left him out on the ice to die.

You
can't place your fate in someone else's hands, she thought. When the moment
comes you are on your own.

Some
of the crew packed their possessions. They hauled suitcases and kit-bags to the
submarine hangar. They sat in a semicircle around the convection heater.

Punch
and Sian sat on their cases and warmed their hands.

'Just
like
Spirit
of Endeavour
,'
said Sian. 'I was so sure we were going home. I was counting down the minutes.'
She pointed to the cases. 'I bet the guys won't need half this stuff.'

'No.
There will be heated cabins, fresh clothes every day. More food than we can
eat. Judging by the stuff on TV, we might as well stay aboard when we reach
Britain. Moor the ship off the coast. Treat the place as our fortress. Send out
forage parties as and when.'

'Nice
plan.'

'Maybe
we were the lucky ones. Safe at the top of the world while the shit went down.
We wanted a ride home and God sent a limo.'

'We're
not home yet.'

Nikki
descended to the pump hall and inspected the boat. She had cut and stitched
three weather balloons to make a spinnaker. The silver sail hung slack from the
mast, waiting for a strong wind.

She
kicked the aluminium hull. It resonated like a gong.

Days
earlier Nail stripped to the waist, masked his face and spray-gunned the vessel
with red rig paint. He used bathroom grout to secure the rubber seal
surrounding the boat hatch.

She
consulted blueprints. The boat was complete and ready to be stocked. She
climbed into the cockpit. Could she sail the boat herself? Did she truly need
Nail any more?
The Dummies Guide to Sailing.
Nikki found the manual among the neglected book exchange table on Main Street.
Creased paperbacks. Plenty of car magazines. She reckoned she could trim and
reef a sail. She could tack left and right. She couldn't navigate. She couldn't
steer by constellations. But if she headed south-west sooner or later she
would sight the Norwegian coast, then she could let it guide her to the North
Sea and home. She didn't need Nail. She could do it all alone.

'So
what do you think?' Nail was watching from the shadows.

'It
seems solid.'

'I
reckon it could ride out a storm or two. Stable? Couldn't say. Ghost's design,
not mine. It might capsize if it hit the wrong wave. But it won't break up. I
built it strong.'

'Not
much use for it now, though,' said Nikki. 'We can all hitch a ride on Jane's
liner.'

'Jane
Blanc? That waddling fuck? You really want to put your fate in her hands?
Reckon she is going to get you home?'

'Since
you put it like that.'

'I'm
tired of promises. If you and I want a ride out of here we will have to
organise it ourselves. So let's get this tin can ready to go.'

'What
about the floor hatch?'

'Maybe
we should find some batteries. Big ones. Hotwire the hydraulics.'

'Think
it would work?'

'Few
minutes of juice. That's all it would take.'

Nikki
broke into a loading bay. Three forklifts parked at the back. She disconnected
the batteries and loaded them on to a pallet truck. She dragged the pallet
truck to the pump hall.

She
stripped insulation from the hatch hydraulics and clipped jump leads. She
pressed Open. Burst of sparks. Brief tremor from the hydraulic rams. The hatch
didn't open.

'Fuck.'

She
found a tennis ball. She sat bouncing the ball against the boat hull.

Alan,
her boyfriend, used to tell a joke. 'What's brown and sticky? A stick.' He said
it was the perfect joke. Elegantly simple. She remembered him reciting the joke
at the dining table. Christmas with her parents. But she couldn't recall his
voice. They were together two years, but already the memories were starting to
fade like a photograph left in the sun.

He
came to her in dreams. She glimpsed him in crowds. He shouted to her across
busy streets.

Was
Alan dead when she left him out on the ice? Could he have been saved? She would
never know.

Scuff
marks round a frosted floor plate. Big boot prints. Nikki pried the plate with a
screwdriver and lifted it up. Ziploc bags of brown powder lying on the
pipework.

She
cooked a pinch of powder and siphoned the syrup into a hypodermic. A humourless
smile.

'What's
brown and sticky?' she murmured, as the needle punctured her skin.

Nail
sat with Rye in the sub.

'Don't
you ever go out?'

'It's
cosy in here,' said Rye. She gestured to the bubble window of the cockpit. The
crew sat round the fire. 'Besides, conversation is getting pretty repetitive.
The women they will fuck. The drinks they will drink. If Jane and Ghost don't
actually deliver this ship there will be a lynching.'

Rye
blocked the cockpit window with her coat. She took a couple of hypodermics from
her holdall. Nail opened a snuff box. He tapped powder into a spoon and cooked
the mix with a Zippo.

'You
have your doubts?'

'Jane
Blanc. Stands before us and promises a floating Shangri- La. Forgive me if I
don't get too excited. First day she arrived on the rig we had to run around
looking for super-sized survival clothes just so she could dress properly.
She's lost her battle with chocolate. She's been vanquished by doughnuts.
Suddenly she's going to take charge and lead us all to safety? I don't think
so.'

They
returned to
Hyperion.
Jane and Ghost, Punch and Ivan.

'Okay,'
said Jane. 'We've got a couple of lights on. So let's power this baby up for
real. Let's get it moving.'