Outpost by Adam Baker Page B

kerosene and set it alight. It burned with
a blue flame. The hand slowly clenched as it cooked.
     
    Medical.
    Rye
checked on Rawlins. He lay on the examination table draped in a sheet. The
stump of his arm was bandaged. Steady beep from a monitor.
    Rye
examined a drop of blood beneath a microscope. Red platelets. Black, barbed
organisms swarmed and replicated. Hard to see detail. She wished she had better
magnification.
    Movement
in the periphery of her vision. Maybe Rawlins stirred in his drugged sleep. Maybe
she imagined it. She watched him for a while. She got spooked. She played music
to feel less alone. Charlie Parker. Live at Storyville. CD fed into the player. Cool
jazz echoed down empty corridors.
     
    Jane
helped make dinner. Spaghetti greased with a crude pesto made from dried basil,
garlic paste and a squirt of tomato puree. She carried her bowl to the table.
    'I
can't stop thinking about it,' said Punch. 'I'd rather my mother was dead than
walking round with that shit sprouting out of her skin.'
    'Don't.
It'll drive you nuts.'
    'We
should take the Skidoos and split for Alaska. Seriously. You, me, Sian. Ghost,
if you want. Anyone can see you dig the guy. A few more weeks and the sea will
be frozen. We'd have a shot. We'd have a straight run.'
    'What
about everyone else?'
    'Fuck
them. Sorry, but fuck them.'
    'We're
not at that point yet. We've still got options.'
    'Then
somebody better lay out the Big Plan. Look around you. Morale is down the
toilet.'
    Rye's voice on the intercom: 'Jane. Punch. We need you
in Medical right away .'
     
    The
operating table was empty.
    'Where's
he gone?' demanded Jane. 'He didn't leave a note,' said Rye. 'You left him
alone?'
    'I
need to eat now and again. And the occasional shit.' 'How long were you gone?'
'Fifteen, twenty minutes.'
    The
drip stand lay on the floor. The cardiograph was smashed. Jane kicked at a
scrap of surgical dressing with her boot. 'He tore the canula out of his arm,'
she said.
    'He'll
be losing blood.'
    'He
had his arm chopped off two hours ago. How is he able to walk around?'
    'I've
no idea.'
    Ghost
arrived.
    'He's
gone walkabout?' said Ghost. 'You're kidding me.'
    'We'd
better find him quickly,' said Jane. 'It's minus twenty in those corridors. The
cold will kill him in minutes.'
     
    C
deck. Household stores. Sian scanned the shelves by flashlight. She loaded a
trolley with toilet roll, liquid soap and paper towels.
    She
pushed the trolley down unlit passageways, Maglite clenched between her teeth
like a cigar. Movement in shadow up ahead. 'Hello?'
    She
reached a junction. She shone her flashlight down a side tunnel. A figure. A
glimpse of bare flesh.
    'Hello?'
    Sian
stood in a doorway. A dark chamber. Stacked lengths of pipe.
    A
naked man crouched in shadow. Rawlins. 'What's the deal, Frank?'
    She
stepped closer. She saw the bloody, bandaged stump where an arm used to be. And
she saw the face. One eye was jet black. The other eye looked at her in cold
calculation. She felt herself appraised by a keen alien intelligence. She
backed away and ran.
     
    They
searched rooms and passageways near Medical. They found the airway tube.
Rawlins had pulled it from his throat. It was lying on the deck plate. It was
glazed with frozen saliva.
    'We
better split up,' said Ghost. 'Cover more ground.'
    'Hold
on a moment,' said Jane. 'This has to be the same shit we saw on TV, right?
Drives you nuts like rabies. Maybe Frank is okay. But maybe not. We have to be
prepared.'
    'What
do you have in mind?' asked Punch.
    'I
think you should go back to the accommodation block. Warn the others and
barricade the door.'
    'What
are you and Ghost going to do?'
    'Head
to the island and fetch the shotguns.'

The Hunt
     
    Ghost
hauled open the bunker door. His flashlight lit shelves and boxes, and the
snowmobiles shrouded in tarpaulin.
    'Okay.
Better be quick.'
    Jane
unboxed shotguns.
    'Give
them to me.'
    Ghost
checked the breech of each weapon and dry-fired to make sure they were safe.