“Every night, when I close my eyes I hear the screams of that farmer’s wife and I see the blank, dead stare of that little boy. When I pull that trigger, I hope it brings me peace.”
The conduit was still, the air heavy. Tala could hear Katja’s shallow breaths against her back as silence enshrouded them once more. For all the terror and travails wrought upon Tala in life and during her time aboard Murmansk-13, the truest, most personal horrors seemed a long way away in that moment. Tala felt Katja, grasp for her hand, fragile, cold fingers enmeshing with hers.
Sensing the draining catharsis of Oleg’s tale, Jamal slumped against the furry insulation of the conduit wall. “We’ll be safe here, maybe we should rest up for the night.”
“It’s fucked, Chief.” Hernandez eye traced an imperfect line across the gold coupling ring of the helmet. The acidic tang of vomit emanating from the headwear made Hernandez heave.
Slumped against a bulkhead, the helmets temporary owner Sammy, sat shivering and whimpering to himself. The yellowy effluence of his stomach still mottled his face and slicked his hair. Rinds of part digested food rations textured his skin.
Much as Tor had before, the old steward became spatially disorientated in the crossing to Murmansk-13. However, where unconsciousness kept Tor’s claustrophobic panic in check, Sammy’s had reached fevered levels. As the internal airlock door parted, Sammy stumbled out, dragging the rest of the team still tethered together. Madly he had tore at the vomit filled helm, before tossing it to the deck.
Tor had cringed as the helmet clattered loudly to the floor, part of him expected to see the same decayed faces, pressed against the airlock viewport awaiting his return. Where they’d gone or how far the infected ranged Tor could not know, but he didn’t want to draw their attention ever again and especially while they remained in one large vulnerable group.
Tor looked at Sammy, he was a sorry sight. “Diego, look after him and keep him quiet. We have to keep noise to a minimum.”
Diego baulked at the bedraggled steward, but knelt beside the old man, hand on shoulder trying to calm him. Tor was pleased to see some of the crew still recognized his seniority, if not his command.
Nilsen joined Hernandez as they inspected the helmet. “It won’t make a seal now Chief, I can try beating it flush.”
Hernandez motioned to bash the helmet coupling against the frame of the airlock. “No!” Hissed Tor.
Nilsen gave Hernandez a withering stare and took the wretched smelling helmet from him. “This is a precision spacesuit Hernandez, not your eses dinged lowrider.” Gently, the Chief Engineer placed the helmet on the deck. “We’re just going to have to find a second escape suit.”
“That’s assuming Tala is alive and able to rendezvous with us, Chief.” Pettersson said, studying the crude plan of the station he’d recreated.
“You don’t know that chick, she is fucking bombproof,” Hernandez replied, rearranging his hair and staring into the darkening curve of the service corridor.
Tor hoped Hernandez was right, the bosuns death already weighed heavily on his conscience, he couldn’t lose another crewman. In the chill of the service corridor, Tor removed his gauntlets, inside the rolled laminated plan of Murmansk-13 he had secreted a marker pen and a piece of paper with the Saudi Shipping letterhead. With shaking hands, he wrote Tala a message:
Tala, we came back for you. We are aboard the Station, every eight hours we will meet at the junction of District Seven and Central Command, they’re all numbered. Stay safe.
The final item Tor enclosed inside the plan of the station was a little fridge magnet he’d found in the ratings dayroom, two palms in silhouette, their fronds black against a tropical sunset, above which the word ‘Philippines’ traced the canopy of the trees. Quietly Tor fixed the note above the controls for the airlock with the magnet. Almost instantly the still moist fluids of the infected oozed into the edges of the ivory paper, degrading it.
Tor stepped back and felt the cold air of the station brush against his neck. Patches of the airlock bulkhead was smeared with fetid gunge, the odour faded in the days since the hoard had chased Tor and Mihailov back to the Riyadh. Behind him, his crew stared at the same scene, his letter to Tala an island of fading white in a sea of rancid gore.
“What the fuck…?” Hernandez stood beside Tor. “What is that shit?”
Underfoot, Tor noticed the patina of dust had been disturbed, Falmendikov’s final journey erased forever. There were defined barefooted imprints of the most intact infected, elsewhere drag marks bore witness to the more incapacitated. Droplets of bodily fluids lay in situ, drying on the deck or comingling with the dust, otherwise it had been drawn into short streaks that striated the flooring around the curve of the corridor. They could be just around the corner Tor thought, then reasoned that he could neither smell nor hear them. Wherever the hoards had gone, they were not close and that gave them some time. “It’s disease,” answered Tor, wishing he had Jamal with him, someone who could convey what they were up against. “We need to move.”
Nilsen nodded his head in agreement and gestured for Tor to lead the way. Taking point, Tor wondered how seriously the Chief perceived their threat. Since returning to the Riyadh, Tor knew he’d been unable to properly communicate the existence of the infected. As if his mind believed that refusing to acknowledge them or recall his time aboard Murmansk-13 would lessen the memory. Now he willingly led them into danger in relative ignorance. Tor reminded himself that the boarding was inevitable and that he’d tried to warn them about the infected in the mess hall meeting. The men had looked at him like a crazed hobo boarding a near empty subway car, hoping he wouldn’t sit next to them – trying to absolve themselves of his ramblings.
Beside him, Diego heaved Sammy to his feet. The stewards face was frozen in blank shock, all he’s seen so far was his up become down, what will he do if he sees one of the infected? Tor thought as he started down the gentle curve of the stations service corridor once more.
Tala felt dry, pillowy flesh press against her busted, swollen lip. Drifting between consciousness and the half-void of sleep, her eyes feathered open. Katja was kissing her. Asleep, they had drawn together. Her heart skipped and Tala pulled suddenly away, unsure who had initiated. Katja looked at her with hurt eyes. “I misunderstood,” she said quietly.
Katja turned over and Tala felt her still addled mind race. “No,” she said, as she tried to pull Katja back around, the girl shrugged her off. “No!” Tala spoke forcefully, tugging Katja on to her back. Absent or lucid eyes glittered in the dim of the conduit, Tala could no longer tell. Since her revival the girl had been so scrambled – so infuriating to read, Tala barely realized she was falling in love with the girl. All she wanted to do was protect her, she’d never asked herself why. “Is this what you want?” Tala asked, her voice now barely a whisper.
Katja nodded coyly, Tala hesitated.
“Are you sure?”
Katja lurched upward and pulled Tala’s lips to hers, dragging them both against the conduit bulkhead. Tala didn’t know if the entirety of Katja was acquiescing or just whatever portion was currently aware. Tala tried to pull away from Katja’s grasp as seedless roots of guilt spread through her mind, but the girls grip tightened and finally Tala submitted, their bodies intertwined in the confides of the conduit.