Nail was lashed to the girder by rope tied round his chest. Punch couldn’t tell if he was dead or alive.
Punch looked around. Raw rock buttressed by girders. At a guess, some kind of excavation tunnel. The bunker was half-built. Plenty of wide access passageways throughout the complex to get mine machinery below ground.
‘Hey. Hey, Nail.’
No reply.
Punch squinted into darkness. Something round in the shadows, like a giant cannonball. An open hatch. The capsule. Soviet space debris. Fell to earth miles away. How did it get here? Did Hyperion passengers retrieve the object? Drag it across the ice? Could the mindless mutants be guided and controlled?
He whistled.
‘Hey. Nail.’
Nothing.
Why leave them by the capsule? Did Nikki expect something to crawl out and feed? Ghost said he tossed a thermite grenade into the capsule interior. Nothing could have survived.
‘Hey,’ shouted Punch. ‘Nail. Nail, you fuck.’
Nail slowly looked up. Exhausted, frightened eyes.
‘What’s going on?’ asked Punch. ‘What does she want?’
Nail looked him over, but didn’t reply. His hands were bound in front of him, rather than behind his back.
He spat a fifty kopeck coin into his palm and started to sharpen it against the tunnel floor. There was a deep scratch in the concrete. He had been sharpening the coin for a while. Maybe he hid it in his mouth each time Nikki passed by.
‘So what’s the deal?’ asked Punch. ‘Is she going to eat us or what?’
Nail didn’t reply. He continued to sharpen the coin.
‘Guess it didn’t work out. You and her.’
Nail tested the edge of the sharpened coin. He put the coin between his teeth and tried to tear open his wrist, quickly drew his arm back and forth across the crude blade.
‘Dude, what the fuck are you doing?’ demanded Punch.
Nail drew blood but couldn’t reach an artery. Either the coin was too blunt or he didn’t have the courage to kill himself. He let the coin drop to the ground. He leaned his forehead against the wall and sobbed.
‘Talk to me,’ said Punch. ‘Say something, you dumb fuck. What the hell is going on? Has she got us lined up for dinner? Is that it?’
‘Worse. Way worse.’
‘Like what? What’s on her mind?’
‘I knew she was nuts. Talking to herself. But I had no idea. She’s pure darkness. She’s sicker, way sicker than those infected fucks. She’s a black hole. Total anti-matter.’
‘Is she infected? Does she have this disease?’
‘No.’
‘But they are here, aren’t they?’
‘She’s got an army out there in the tunnels. I’ve heard them. I’ve seen them.’ ‘Get your shit together, Nail. How sharp is that coin? Can it cut rope?’
‘No.’
‘Throw it over here. I want to try, anyway.’
Nail threw the coin. It chimed and skittered across the tunnel floor. Punch hooked the coin with his boot and kicked it towards his hands. He fumbled with his fingers. He tried to saw the rope binding his wrists. Nail watched.
‘So what’s your name?’ asked Punch. ‘Your real name? It’s not Nail. I know that much.’
‘What does it matter?’
‘I’m curious.’
‘Dave. My name is David.’
‘Why change it?’
‘You never wanted to reboot your life? Start again from scratch?’
‘Every hour of every day. Changing my name wouldn’t help, though. So who was the real Nail Harper? What happened to him?’
‘I honestly don’t think that’s any of your business.’
‘What kind of army are we talking about? What’s out there?’
‘Passengers and crew from Hyperion. They follow Nikki. I don’t know why.’
‘What does she want from me? What is her plan?’
‘You’re bait. She wants to lure your friends from Rampart. Jane will come running to your rescue. Ghost will come too. Sian will tag along.’
‘But what does Nikki want? Where is all this leading?’
‘She wants to keep you all here. She says this is our new home.’
Punch sawed at the rope.
‘You know what?’ he said. ‘Everyone gets tested. You never see it coming. But sooner or later the moment arrives and you have to account for yourself. Snivel like a bitch if you like, but I’m getting out of here.’
Ghost reached the island shore. Boulders and scree. He climbed fast as he could, trying to generate metabolic heat. He was slowly succumbing to hypothermia. Creeping numbness. Limbs weak and starting to stiffen.
He reached the bunker.
‘Jane?’ he called into the dark tunnel entrance. ‘Jane, it’s me.’
He took a flashlight from his pocket. Water behind the lens. Useless. He threw it aside.
The campfire was cold and dead. He piled more wood and slopped petrol from a jerry can. His hands shook. He poured too much gasoline. He struck a match anyway, and shielded his face from the flame-ball. Fire scorched the tunnel roof.
Ghost tried his radio. Waterlogged. Dead. He threw it aside.
He closed the bunker doors.
He didn’t have time to dry his clothes. He poured water from his boots then held them directly in the flames. Water fizzed, boiled and steamed. He wrung his coat, balled it and held it in the fire until it smoked.
He dressed.
Ghost took a burning stick from the fire, held it above his head and set off down the dark tunnel mouth.
Sian left the cab to fetch a flask of coffee. Kill time, she told herself. Do something ordinary. Kid yourself everything is fine.
She boiled a kettle in the canteen kitchen. Silent corridors. Empty rooms. What if Jane and Ghost didn’t make it back? Drifting for thousands of miles in the dark and derelict refinery. She was terrified of isolation.
She returned to the cab, unscrewed the Thermos and poured coffee. She let the metal mug warm her hands. The windows steamed up. She wiped away condensation. The island was receding. The wreck of Hyperion was a distant, ragged silhouette against the Arctic twilight.
She put her cup on the cab floor and uncapped binoculars. She looked south. She could clearly see the edge of the ice-field. The point where snow gave way to heavy black waves.
She estimated Jane, Ghost and Punch had less than three hours to make it back to Rampart before the refinery reached open sea and they were left behind. Sian took out her radio.
‘Rampart to Jane, can you hear me, over? Jane, do you copy?’ Static.
‘Jane? Ghost? Can you hear me?’
Jane stood at the open doors of the bunker.
A weak voice: ‘Jane, do you copy? Jane, do you copy, over?’ Jane took out her radio. ‘Sian? Sian, can you hear me?’ Nothing but feedback. Weak LED. Dying batteries. The campfire was lit. She crouched and examined sticks of burning furniture. A recent fire. Someone was here moments ago.
She examined a discarded flashlight. It belonged to Ghost. Weeks ago, she had watched him bind it with duct tape to seal a crack in the case.
Ghost had travelled from the rig. He must have headed straight for the bunker and reached it ahead of her. ‘Ghost?’ No reply.
Jane aimed her flamethrower down the dark tunnel. Flame-roar. She glimpsed concrete walls receding deep underground. Jane checked her watch.
She shone her flashlight on the tunnel floor. Scuffed boot-prints led into shadows.