Punch and Ghost backed away.
‘Dude, it would be great if you could stop right there.’
The engineer reached the top of the steps and limped towards them, sliding along a railing for support.
‘Larsen, if you can hear me, if you can understand my words, you need to stop.’
The man continued to advance.
Punch and Ghost backed into the control booth. Ghost shut the door and held it closed with his foot. Punch helped brace the door with his shoulder.
Larsen slammed against the glass. Ghost saw himself reflected in jet-black eyeballs. The engineer hissed and spat. Spittle dribbled down the glass.
‘Shoot him,’ said Punch.
‘We need the ammo. I’ll open the door. You hit him with the axe.’
‘All right.’
‘Ready?’
Ghost opened the door.
Punch stood back. He adjusted his grip on the axe. He held it above his head like he was about to whack a fairground testyour-strength machine.
‘Last chance, Hilmar,’ he said. ‘Can’t let you come any closer.’
The engineer got ready to lunge.
Punch brought down the axe and cleaved the man’s head in two. The engineer staggered backward, out of the booth. He toppled on to the walkway, axe buried between the two halves of his head. His legs danced a jig, last signals from a scrambled brain.
They stepped over the dead man and descended from the gantry to the floor of the engine room.
‘Flick every switch you find,’ said Ghost. ‘Turn every light green.’
They cranked dials and isolator breakers to On. Faint hum of current. Ghost took out his radio.
‘Raise the anchor,’ he told Jane. ‘Let’s get this thing going.’
Brief warning klaxon. Turbines hummed then roared. The propeller shafts slowly began to turn.
Jane stood at the helm and watched the turbine rev needles rise from zero to full power.
‘Feel that?’ she called to Ivan. ‘We’re moving.’
‘No shit,’ said Ivan. He was standing at the back of the bridge looking down into the stairwell. Heavy impacts against the barricaded door. Jumbled furniture began to shake and shift.
‘Hate to say it, but I think we woke the neighbours.’
Breakout
Ghost walked the floor of the engine room. Turbines roared.
He checked an engine panel. He tapped a dial. A drop of blood splashed at his feet. He looked up. The dead engineer was lying on the gantry above him. Blood dripped through the grate.
‘Better clean that up,’ said Ghost. ‘Any fire blankets around?’
They climbed the walkway. Ghost tugged the axe from the engineer’s head. He crouched and inspected the wound.
‘His brain is full of metal. Look.’
‘I’ll take your word for it,’ said Punch.
‘Little wires. Little filaments spread through his body. There’s some coming out of his nose.’
‘Sure he’s dead?’
‘Pretty sure. Better bag him up.’
Ghost wiped the axe blade on the engineer’s leg.
They wrapped the dead man in a couple of fire blankets and lashed his body with flex. They threw the body from the gantry. The corpse lay by a wall.
‘He’ll be okay down there for a while,’ said Ghost. ‘We’ll put him over the side when we get a chance.’
Ghost hefted the axe.
‘Mind if I take this?’ he asked. ‘The gun is too loud. If I shoot, it will bring a shipful of freaks down on us.’
Punch found a big power drill. He revved the trigger a couple of times to check the charge.
They stood at the engine room door. Ghost removed the wrench.
‘Ready?’
He twisted the handles and pulled the hatch aside. An empty passageway.
‘Okay. Let’s go.’
Jane sat at the helm. She tried to make sense of the screens. At a guess: engine output, fuel management, course correction.
She turned the joystick. She slowly pushed the thrust levers forward. A ball-compass mounted in the panel beside her rolled like an eye slowly looking left. The Alstrom dynamic positioning system. The ship was turning east towards the rig. It was exhilarating to think she could steer an object the size of a mountain by the touch of her fingers.
Jane dry-swallowed Dexedrine. Amphetamines were a basic Arctic survival tool. Rye kept an extensive stock of stimulants locked in a trunk under her bed. Hoarded them like a connoisseur. Treated them as her personal wine cellar.
Ivan stood guard in the stairwell behind the bridge. He watched the door at the bottom of the stairs. The steel hatch was wedged shut by a stack of chairs. He could hear relentless pounding from the other side like someone was hurling their bodyweight against the door.
He searched for more furniture to wedge the hatch. He fetched a sofa from the officers’ quarters. He rolled it through the bridge.
‘You okay?’ called Jane, over her shoulder. ‘Need any help?’
‘I’m okay.’
He tipped the sofa over the railing. It hit the barricade with a crash. Brief respite from the pounding, then the impacts resumed.
Ivan descended the stairs. He put his ear to the hatch. Scuffling. Grunting.
He tried to reinforce the barricade, pile more furniture against the door.
‘Got a moment?’ he yelled. ‘I think they’re going to break through.’
Chairs shook and toppled. Ivan put his shoulder to the door. He strained to keep the hatch closed. He blinked sweat from his eyes.
Jane ran down the stairs and joined him at the barricade. She pushed against the door.
‘This is no fucking good,’ she said. ‘Any more of those fire axes around? Maybe we can wedge this thing closed.’
‘Don’t know. Think I saw a toolbox in the purser’s office.’
Jane ran up the stairs.
Ivan braced his back against the door. His boots slipped on the metal deck. The barricade slowly began to collapse.
The hatch was pushed ajar. Ivan snatched an extinguisher from the wall and directed a jet of foam through the gap. He used the empty extinguisher to pound at clawing, scrabbling fingers.
‘I need some help here,’ he shouted up the stairwell. ‘Jane? Jane, you there? We’re in some deep shit.’
Jane vaulted down the steps holding a claw hammer. She flailed at the squirming hand. The hammer sparked metal. She mashed fingers with heavy blows.
Jane and Ivan threw themselves against the steel door and tried to slam it closed. They heard bone crunch. They threw themselves at the door twice more. Blood spurt. The grasping hand fell to the deck, cut through at the wrist.
Jane cranked the hatch levers closed, and jammed them shut with the shaft of the hammer.
‘Not on my bloody watch,’ she muttered.
‘Jesus,’ said Ivan, looking down at the floor. The severed hand clenched and unclenched like an upturned crab. It tried to crawl. The Russian crossed himself. ‘It’s still alive.’
Punch passed a kitchen doorway. The Commodore Grill.
‘We should keep moving,’ said Ghost.
