Outpost (3 page)

'Don't
feel bad. Pretty much everyone on this platform is in a holding pattern.'

'Sure
you're okay?'

'I
may switch rooms later. All that despair. The smell hangs around like cigarette
smoke.'

Jane
picked a new room and unpacked her stuff. The room was identical to the last
but it still felt like a change. She flushed her remaining painkillers. She had
psyched herself for suicide, but the moment for action had passed.

She
sat on the bed. Her life was one lonely room after another.

A
double beep from the wall speaker in the corridor outside. A Tannoy
announcement broadcast throughout the refinery, echoing down empty passageways,
gently stirring motes of dust in distant rooms.

'Reverend
Blanc, please come to the manager's office right away
'

Rawlins's
office was at the top of the administration block. A wide, Plexiglas window
gave him a view of the upper deck of the refinery. A vast scaffold city of
gantries, girders and distillation tanks lit by a low Arctic sun.

Rawlins
ran the installation from his desk. A wall panel showed a plan of the rig
dotted with green System OK lights.

Submerged
cameras monitored the seabed pipeline, a concrete manifold anchored to the
ocean bed.

He
sat by the radio. Speakers relayed the hiss and whistle of atmospheric
interference.

Jane
pulled up a chair.

'Nothing
from the mainland?'

'Comes
and goes,' said Rawlins. 'I get snatches of music. The occasional ghost voice.
Hear that?'

A man, faint and desperate:'
Gelieve te helpen ons. Daar
iedereen is? Kan iedereen me horen? Gelieve te helpen ons
.''

'What's
that?' asked Jane. 'Swedish? Norwegian?'

'God
knows. Some poor bastard. He's out there, somewhere, calling for help. I can
hear him, but he can't hear us.'

'This
is starting to scare the crap out of me.'

'Look
at this,' said Rawlins. He re-angled his desk screen. 'I managed to pull this
from the BBC News site a couple of weeks ago.'

He
clicked Play.

Police
marksmen creeping through a supermarket. Footage shot low to the ground. A
reporter crouched behind a checkout.

'.
. .
suddenly attacked paramedics and fled the scene. She seems to have taken
refuge at the back of the store. Police have cleared the building and are
moving in
. . !

Something
glimpsed between the aisles. A figure, creeping, feral.

'There
she is
. . !

Sudden
close-up. A woman's snarling face masked in blood.

Police:
'Put your hands up. Keep your
hands where we can see them
. . !

She
lunges. Gunfire. Her chest is ripped open and she is hurled backward into a
shelf of coffee jars.

She's
still moving. A marksman plants a boot on her chest, cocks his pistol and
shoots her in the face.

Rewind.
Freeze frame. That bloody, snarling face.

'What
the fuck?' said Jane.

'That's
what I wanted to talk to you about,' said Rawlins. 'Not here, though. Outside.'
He threw Jane an XXXL parka. 'Let's take a walk.'

They
descended metal steps that spiralled round one of the rig's four great
floatation legs.

Winter
was coming. Ice had begun to collect around the refinery legs. Soon Rampart
would be sitting on a solid raft of ice. As the days drew short and the
temperature dropped further, the sea would freeze and the rig would be joined
to the island by an ice-bridge.

Rawlins
walked out on to the ice. Jane stayed on the steps. She inspected the vast
underbelly of the rig. Acres of frosted pipework and joists.

'So
what do you want from me?' asked Jane. She had been aboard the refinery for
five months. This was the first time Rawlins had asked to speak to her.

'The
microwave link to shore. I was hoping you could draw up a schedule, help the
lads book phone time.'

'Reckon
they can reach anyone?'

'That's
what I'm saying. Navtex is down. Our sat phone is a fucking paperweight. The
guys will demand to ring home, and when they do they will probably get no
reply. They'll need a sympathetic ear.'

'Use
my counselling skills?'

'Yeah.
And there's an issue with the ship. Only fair to warn you. I managed to raise
London yesterday. The connection lasted about thirty seconds. They told me the
Oslo Star
was on its way. They were picking
up a drilling team from Trenkt then heading south for us.'

'Okay.'

'But
I tried talking to London. I got nothing. The Con Amalgam office in Hamburg
told me Norway is under self-imposed quarantine. All borders closed. Air, land
and sea. If that's true, then
Oslo Star
hasn't left the dock.'

'Damn.'

'They've
given me executive authority to evacuate.'

'Meaning
what?'

'Nice
way of saying we are on our own. Get home any way we can.' 'Shit.'

'It'll
be fine. There are plenty of other support ships at sea. Hamburg is arranging a
substitute vessel. It might take a while, though.'

'When
will you tell the men?'

'Must
admit I feel a bit of a fool. Telling everyone they are going home. Getting
their hopes up.'

'So
what did Hamburg say? What's actually happening?'

'Something
bad spreading fast. It seems to be global. That's the sum of it. Most radio and
TV stations are down. No one knows a thing. It's all just panic and rumour.
Marco, our Hamburg contact, says most of the stuff we've seen on the news is
recycled footage shot last month. Things have got a lot worse since then. He's
says people are leaving the cities for the countryside in case the government
firebomb.'

'So
what is it? Flu? Smallpox?'

'A
virus. That's what he said.'

'What
kind?'

'Marco's
English is pretty poor. A virus. Some kind of parasite. That's our little
secret, okay? The men don't need to know.'

Jane
returned to her room. She swapped her sweater for a clerical shirt and
dog-collar.

'Get
it together,' she told her reflection. 'People need you now.'

Jane
headed for the gym.

The
gym was monopolised each day by Nail Harper and his gang of muscle freaks. A
redundant dive crew with nothing to do but lift weights and preen in front of
the gymnasium wall mirror.

She
heard Motorhead as she approached. Ace of Spades' echoing down steel corridors.

Nail
was sweating his way through a series of barbell curls. He was stripped to the
waist. He had a gothic cross tattooed on his back. He stood in front of the
wall mirror and watched himself pump. Bull-neck, massive shoulders. Skin
stretched taut over veins and tendons. He looked like he was wearing his
muscles on the outside.

His
gym buddies sat nearby. Gus and Mal. Ivan and Yakov. They took turns to use a
leg press.

'How
are you lads doing?' shouted Jane.

Nail
set the barbell on the floor and turned round. He took his time about it. He
looked Jane up and down. He stood over her, towelling sweat from his torso. He
glanced at one of his buddies, a signal to turn down the music.

'Come
to burn off a few pounds?'

'I'm
going to hold a service in the chapel later on.'

'Good
for you.'

'I
know everyone on this rig tends to stick to their own little group, their own
little faction, but maybe we ought to start thinking like a team. You saw the
news. We're in this shit together.'

One
of his buddies threw him a protein shake. He swigged.

'I've
been here all day, every day. If you fuckers want to talk, if you actually give
a shit, you can find me any time. We pass in the corridor, you don't even look
me in the eye. You think me and my boys are dirt. Get off your high horse,
bitch. You contribute zero to this rig. You can't do a damn thing. You can
barely tie your shoes. You just sit around all day eating our food. So don't
act like I'm the one with my nose in the air.'

He
stared down at Jane. There were centrefolds on the walls
around her. Women spreading
themselves, women hitching their legs. He was daring her to look. She held his
gaze.

'Point
taken. Fresh start, all right? The service is at seven. We'd all be glad to see
you.'

Jane
led prayers.

'Father,
protect our loved ones in this hour of darkness. We commit them to your loving
grace. Lord, in your mercy, hear our prayer.'

Nail
and his gang sat in the back row and watched.

They
sang 'Eternal Father Strong to Save', the sailors' hymn.

Jane
blessed her small congregation. Rawlins stood and gave the news. The
Oslo Star
hadn't left port but a second
ship was on its way. Oil support vessel
Spirit of Endeavour.
It would arrive at nine the
following morning but wouldn't stay long. Everyone better be packed and ready
to go.

Time
to put the rig in hibernation. Rawlins assigned everyone a task.

Jane
shut down Main Street. She threw breakers in a wall- mounted fuse box and extinguished
the broken neon that blinked and buzzed above each vacant retail unit.
Starbucks. Cafe Napoli. Blockbuster. Signage flickered and died.

Jane
took a bunch of keys and closed C deck. Punch tagged along.

'Nice
prayer,' said Punch. 'I heard a couple of guys say they liked it. Yakov. He's
Catholic.'

Each
corridor had a series of blast doors set in the ceiling. In the event of an
explosion the doors would drop to prevent the spread of fire. Jane twisted a
numbered key into the wall at each intersection and a blast door rumbled
downward like a portcullis.

'I
bet most of them didn't even know we had a chapel.'

'Do
you think prayers are ever answered?' asked Punch.

'It
helps to voice your fears.'

'It
would be nice to think there was a cosmic parent ready to kiss it all better.'

'I
wrapped my car round a tree a few years ago,' said Jane. 'They say I was dead
for three minutes. I can tell you for sure there is no God, no happy
afterworld. In fact that's why I became a priest. It's a short life and people
deserve more than work and recreational shopping. They need meaning. A place to
belong.'

They
stood in the doorway of the stairwell. Jane took a radio from her pocket.

'C
deck clear.'

The
steady hum of heating fans died away. Somewhere, high above them, Rawlins
flicked a bank of isolator switches to Off. The corridor lights were
extinguished one by one.

Next
morning the crew gathered in the canteen. They brought kit-bags and suitcases.
They wore parkas and snowboots. They looked like tourists in a departure
lounge.

They
watched TV.

Berlin
in chaos. Looting. Riot vans and burning cars. The Brandenburg Gate glimpsed
through tear gas.

Bilbao
docks. Refugees try to climb a mooring rope and board an oil tanker. Sailors
blast them with a fire hose.

The
White House south lawn. The President ringed by Secret Service armed with
assault rifles. '. . .
may God defend us in this dark and difficult hour . .
!
Brief wave
from the hatch of Marine One.

Punch
found a box of crisps in a kitchen storeroom. He upturned the box and scattered
crisp packets across the pool table.

'May
as well use them up, folks,' he said. 'A ton of food going to waste.'

Nail
and his gang hogged the jukebox.

Rawlins
sat by the window.

'They'll
be coming from the north-east.'

Time
dragged. Punch took a pack of playing cards from his pocket. He shuffled and
re-shuffled.

'There
it is,' said Rawlins.

They
crowded round the window.

'That
ship don't look right,' said Nail.

The
plastic canteen window was pitted and scratched, scoured by fierce ice storms.
The approaching ship was a blur. The crew ran upstairs to the rooftop helipad
for a better view. They stood on the big red H and braced their legs against a
buffeting wind. A small tug approached from the north.