The Platform by D G Jones Page A

here,” I say, slumping
down beside Cora. I look at her cards and see she is going to lose.
                 “You really think it’s happened?”
Helst asks without looking up from his cards.
                  “Yeah,” I nod. Yes, I do.
                 The Platform is the last outpost
before the Polar Regions and Continent Two. We are a supply port for all the
warships heading up that way, and supposedly working on six months’ postings,
though now we are three weeks overdue. There has been no communications from
anyone and the sky now permanent black ash, so, yeah, I think the final war has
been fought. All over the globe, there is now nothing but burning citadels,
empty streets and corpses. I think we are the last people left alive, except
for anyone left in their bunkers, but no one is going to see them for years as
they cower at the carnage on the surface. Everyone on the Platform knows it,
they are just too afraid to say.
                 When I arrived here the war was
already going on, at least around the edges, and every day the news got worse.
They seem determined to start it – perhaps they wanted to try out all those
weapons. Somewhere, my family is probably nothing but vapour by now – my
sister, my parents, all of them. And we are the last. Out here, forgotten.
                 The Marshall is dead – killed
himself, they say – and all we see now is Clook, the next in line, and his
cronies. He is as acid as the sea that boil beneath us and his heart as black.
He is a worm, a coward. Everyone is close to breaking now; they held it
together at first, when there was hope, but now everything seems as dark as the
skies. That’s why I don’t like talking anymore, because I end up saying the
things the others don’t want to hear. Freen went over the guard rails the other
day, ended up charred on the electric netting. So far no one has bothered to
clear him away, he’s just been left him cooking there. I didn’t like him anyway.
But this is how it is now: the rules are beginning to slip, tempers are flaring,
and we know it’s not going to be long now. It’s just a matter of how.
                  “Maybe…” Cora tries. “Maybe it’s just mis-comms,
you know?” Even she knows that’s bullshit.
                  “You seen the sky?” Skea answers. “That’s not mis-comms
– that’s people up there, or at least the ashes of them.” I think she’s right.
Unease greases every gut; that slimy feeling of fear and dread, and knowing
that there is now somewhere a clock running down on us. No one likes to man the
four-gun towers anymore; no warships have been seen or heard for three weeks now,
and never has that been the case. It’s
like the world is so big and empty now and we are the last ones in it. Everyone
is thinking of their families and knows we are all we have.
                  “What now?” Helst asks, though it’s not really
a question because he knows the answer.
                  “We wait,” I mutter.
                 “For what?”
                 “To die, I suppose.”
                  “Man, you are so fucking cheerful,” Jem laughs
bitterly, but in his heart he knows I’m speaking the truth. The food is almost
out; the rations are so small we can hardly take two bites of a meal. And then
there is the matter of fuel: we must be on vapours by now, and when it finally runs
out, the electricity goes, and with it our defence against the abominations. It
won’t take them long to realise there is a free larder up here waiting for
them. We have plenty of bullets, but not enough for an ocean. It’s just a
matter of what comes first.
                  “What
the fuck are you lot doing?” a voice screams behind me, and I know that hideous
shriek belongs to Sergeant Meska: a fucking by-the-rules shithead who throws
her weight around all too often. It almost