Outpost (28 page)

There
were no stairs. Each stone sarcophagus was slid underground down a steep ramp.
Ghost tells me this bunker follows a similar design. Wide tunnels angled
downward through Palaeocene sediment, rail tracks bolted to the concrete floor.
Ghost speculates that the necropolis was built to hide more than submarine
reactors. The place seems too elaborate, too deliberately labyrinthine, to be a
simple storage space. Perhaps the Russians intended to store nuclear weapons
down here. A way of subverting disarmament treaties. What better place to hide
the distinctive radiation signature of nuclear warheads than next to a pile of
fuel rods? Not that it matters any more. The Russians are dead. The Americans
are dead. There's nobody left to care.

We
are camping for the night on sub-level four. We have laid our sleeping bags on
the concrete floor in the corner of a cavern. We are each quilted in survival
gear. Dinner was chicken royale eaten from self-heating cans. I told them I
wasn't hungry. They are both asleep now, so I have taken off my gloves to write
this journal.

I
am writing this by lamplight. Jane is lying on her back, mouth half open. Long
plumes of steam-breath. The zip of her coat collar is partially undone. I can
see the pulse in her neck. If I stare long and hard I feel a strange pull, a
vampiric craving to bite and tear. A lust to penetrate and invade. I find
myself leaning towards her, as if physically drawn. A sobering sensation. Until
now I have thought of my illness as a personal tragedy. But I am starting to
realise the extent to which I threaten the Rampart crew. If I return to the
refinery and succumb to this disease, I might kill them all.

Jane
looks almost gaunt. She was horribly obese and lethargic when we first met. A
heart attack waiting to happen. She couldn't walk without hurting her knees.
She sequestered herself in a distant accommodation block so we wouldn't be kept
awake by her piggy snore. Now she seems fiercely alive. She'll be dead soon.
They'll all be dead. But I suppose some people thrive in a crisis. They find
their purpose. They say a happy childhood is a lousy preparation for life. Kids
who spend their playground days fat, ginger or gay know the truth. The world
has always been full of vicious predators. For plenty of people this carnage
and savagery is business as usual.

Ghost
led us to a stack of explosives hidden in a deep vault. C4 and thermite
grenades. Apparently Jane and Punch discovered the munitions at a seismic
research station some weeks ago. Rawlins ordered the explosives be stored in
the bunker.

The
packets of C4 look like bricks of clay wrapped in cellophane. They smell like
petrol. Cable. Detonators. Battery- operated initiators. Ghost insists we each
sleep cuddling a patty of frozen explosive in the hope our body heat will make
it pliable. Tomorrow we blow some
Hyperion
passengers to hell.

Friday
30 October

We
woke early, packed and stood at the bunker mouth. Arctic winter. Early morning,
but it will be bright moonlight all day.

Ghost
took one of the Skidoos and drove to the shore. Jane rode pillion. She balanced
a holdall in her lap. I took binoculars to high ground.

He
rode out on to the ice sheet that has extended from the island shoreline. He
made a slow pass of passengers who stood mesmerised by the lights of the
refinery. Jane unzipped the bag and unravelled detonator cord behind them.
Fistfuls of explosives strung at four- metre intervals like a string of
Christmas lights. Ghost brought the bike to a halt and they both crouched
behind it for cover.

Ghost
twisted wires to a hand-held initiator. He mouthed a three-count then clicked
the trigger. The chain of high explosive blew, and threw a curtain of ice-dust
into the air. No flame, no fireball. Just a fierce concussion. The sound of the
explosion reached me a couple of seconds later. A sharp clap like thunder.

Four
or five passengers were blown to pieces. Body parts littered the snow.

A
web of jagged fissures split the ice. Slabs tipped and tilted. Figures toppled
into dark water. No attempt to swim or struggle. They immediately sank. A
couple of infected passengers stood at the centre of a detached ice floe and
looked around, stupefied, as the current began to carry them south.

I
could hear Ghost and Jane whoop and cheer. I'm not sure how many passengers
they killed. Maybe twenty or thirty. Futile? People need to act, to feel in
control of their fate. Jane and Ghost are intelligent people. I'm sure they are
aware how little they achieved. Yet they fight, and I admire them for it.

I
was supposed to meet Ghost and Jane at the zodiac, but instead I have returned
to the bunker and locked myself inside.

Sian
tried to contact me on the radio. She called over and over before I descended
too deep for the signal to penetrate. 'Rampart
to Rye, do you copy,
over?''
I
suppose I should have told them not to look for me. I should have told them I was
gone for good.

I'm
reluctant to put down my pen. This is the end of my life. I don't want to sign
off.

Sooner
or later, Jane will search my room. She will find the remaining medical
supplies laid out on my bed, with explanatory Post-it notes taped to each of
them. I've left a simple medical encyclopaedia on my chair.
The A-Z of Family Health.
Dress a wound, deliver a baby or
pull a tooth, then they will have to thumb through the index.

I've
survived these past few years by ruthlessly suppressing all sentiment,
declaring unending war on self-pity. Yet I can't help wishing I was leaving
someone behind, someone who will miss me, someone who will remember my name. I
haven't seen my son for years, and that is probably for the best. Easier all
round if I stay out of his life. Easier if he thinks I'm dead in a ditch. Let
him hate me. Hate is good. Hate is rocket fuel. It's a galvanising force. It
will send him out into the world full of defiant energy. But right now I would
give anything for a chance to say goodbye.

The
infection has spread further up my arm. My thoughts are sometimes not my own.
Shall I let myself be subsumed into this collective consciousness, or shall I
kill myself? I shall either walk to the shore and jump into freezing water, or
make my way to
Hyperion
and take my place among the
colony. I have yet to decide.

I
will leave my journal on the floor of this cavern in the hope that one day,
when humanity is restored, it will be found.

My
name was Elizabeth Rye.

Ghost
took a team of men from the rig to secure the officers' quarters of
Hyperion.
He gave them each a fire axe.

Ghost
passed round a bottle of Hennessey as they rode the zodiac to
Hyperion.

'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.

'We
can't be the last men on earth. I bet plenty of people are hidden in caves, or
cellars, or remote farms. Some of them will want to reclaim the cities, I
suppose. Reboot the world. Set it going, just the way it was. And some people
will want to go all Amish. Create a simple, wholesome way of life. Me? I'm a
log cabin kind of guy. I think I'll find a cottage in the Scottish Highlands.
Somewhere wild and remote. Hunt and fish. Sit on a hill and count the clouds.'

'I'm
torn,' said Punch. 'I'd be scared to live alone with all these infected fucks
running around. I'd want to live in some kind of stockade. Safety in numbers.
But on the other hand I don't want to find myself enslaved by some local
tyrant. There will be no police, no law. Things will get feudal pretty quick.'