stirring noodles in a mess tin.
‘I bet the worst is over. People will have got organised by now.’
‘You think?’
‘Yeah. When the chips are down, neighbours help each other out.’
Punch wanted to say: ‘Promise you’ll kill me. If I get infected, if I turn like Rawlins, finish me off. Don’t let me become a monster.’
Instead he asked: ‘How are the noodles coming along?’
‘Soon be done.’
The powerhouse. A steady hum from Generator Three. Massive megawatt output, enough to power a small town. Ghost had run a single domestic extension lead from the control panel. It ran through an air vent into the submarine hangar next door. A single plug socket. A single convection heater. Crewmen took turns to sit in the orange glow.
The crew were camped in front of the submersible. Steel manipulator claws curved above them like a protective embrace. A couple of crew huddled in blankets and played chess. One crewman relentlessly sharpened a knife. Bottles of drinking water were lined up in front of the heater to keep them thawed.
Ghost lay beneath three parkas. Short, bubbling breaths. Jane sat beside him. She stroked his head. Once in a while he opened his eyes. She smiled. She wanted him to see a reassuring face. She didn’t want him to feel alone.
He opened his eyes wide and steady.
‘How you doing, champ?’
Thumbs up.
‘Warm enough?’
Nod.
He stroked her face. Peeling skin.
‘Guess I got too close to the fire,’ said Jane. ‘Sunburn.’
He licked dry lips.
‘Drink something.’ She put a canteen to his lips. ‘Wet your mouth.’
She rearranged the coat beneath his head to give him a better pillow.
‘Get as much sleep as you can.’
‘Feel like I’ve been punched in the gut,’ whispered Ghost. ‘I can barely breathe.’
‘Getting worse?’
‘Yeah.’
Jane looked for Rye.
‘She’s in the sub,’ said Ivan.
Jane lowered herself through the roof hatch. Her flashlight lit tight banks of instrumentation. Rye sat in the co-pilot seat. She was listening to an iPod.
‘Rocking out?’ asked Jane.
‘About an hour of battery left. My last tunes.’
‘What’s the prognosis?’
‘Ghost? Not so great. I’m dosing him with antibiotics but the pneumonia is caused by chemical damage to his lungs, rather than infection. If his throat closes much further I might have to intubate.’
‘What are his chances?’
‘Fifty-fifty. His lungs might recover, given enough time. He could be back on his feet in a couple of weeks, if he’s lucky, if he doesn’t exert himself like he did yesterday. Another shot of speed would kill him stone dead.’
‘So there’s nothing we can do but wait?’
‘Like I say, I’ve been giving him antibiotics as a preventative measure. It might help, it might not. And plenty of painkillers just to keep him comfortable.’
‘Okay.’
‘Question is, when do we pull the plug? He’s used up his share of meds already.’
‘Give him everything he needs.’
‘I appreciate you two are close.’
‘He was a systems technician. He kept the lights on, the water running. He’s worth more than most of the crew out there, worth more than me.’
Jane climbed the side of distillation tank A. The tank was a cylindrical tower one hundred and fifty metres high. The ladder was glazed with ice. Her boots slid on slick rungs. She had a coil of red kernmantle rope slung over her shoulder.
She reached the frost-dusted expanse of the roof. She lowered the rope. Punch stood at the foot of the tower. He tied the rope to the radio case and Jane hauled the case skyward.
She set up the tripod dish and switched on the transmitter.
‘Rampart to Raven, do you copy, over? Rampart to Raven, do you copy?’
‘Jesus, Rampart. We thought you had been picked up and left us behind. We’ve been calling for days ’
‘There was a fire. We lost power. We’ve managed to get heat to a single room, but we’re still in a bad way. You have an electrician called Thursby, is that right?’
‘Tommy. Yeah.’
‘We desperately need his help. And we need a twenty-metre length of high-voltage cable.’
‘What kind of load?’
‘Our generators put out about three thousand megawatts.’
‘All right.’
‘You have a medic?’
‘ Ellington.’
‘We lost our infirmary in the fire. Most of the drugs and equipment got torched. We desperately need whatever you can bring.’
‘ Okay.’
‘When can you take to the rafts?’
‘We’ve been ready for days. We’ve been waiting to hear from you.’
‘Then get going, soon as you can. We’ve still got GPS. We’ll watch for you round the clock. Good luck, guys. God bless.’
Jane explored the powerhouse.
She crawled inside a conduit. She wrapped a scarf over her mouth and nose to protect against soot particles that swirled around her. She rolled on her side and inspected the high-voltage cable that ran along the duct roof. Burned and twisted. Melted insulation hung in ragged strips.
‘Reverend Blanc?’ Ivan’s voice.
Jane backed out of the duct.
‘It’s Ghost. You better come quick.’
Ghost panted for air. His chest heaved. He clutched his throat.
Rye ripped open his coat and fleece. She held him down and pressed an ear to his chest.
‘Can’t you get a tube down his throat?’ demanded Jane.
Rye prodded his chest and diaphragm.
‘Fluid in the pleural cavity.’
‘Can you drain it?’
‘I can try. Surgery by flashlight. Outstanding.’
Jane grabbed a SCUBA tank from a wall rack. She opened the valve and forced the regulator mouthpiece between Ghost’s teeth.
‘Breathe. Suck it down.’
Ghost gasped the rich Heliox mix.
‘Just keep breathing.’
Nail sat cross-legged on the storeroom floor. Ghost’s boat. He tried to make sense of the plans. The central hull had a cockpit for the skipper and storage space below. No clear explanation of how it was to be built. Plenty of panels designated ‘ AFC’.
