A few nights ago, she and Ghost lay in bed and planned the future of the human race.
‘If there are kids,’ said Ghost, ‘will you tell them about Jesus?’
‘No,’ said Jane. ‘I’m happy to be the last Christian. If they come across a Bible I will tell them it’s all fairy tales and nonsense.’
Jane put her arm round Sian’s shoulder. They sat in the dark as the Arctic storm raged around them.
Jane visited Rawlins’s office. She thumbed through the personnel files. Gary Punch. She snipped his picture from the front page of his file.
She took the picture to the improvised chapel she had established in one of the dormitory rooms. She taped the photograph to the memorial wall.
She sat and contemplated the mug shots.
Crew who left aboard oil supply vessel Spirit of Endeavour:
Rosie Smith.
Pete Baxter.
Ricki Coulby.
Edgar Bardock.
Frank Rawlins, first to succumb to the infection.
Dr Rye. Missing. Presumed suicide.
Ivan and Yakov. Both ripped apart aboard Hyperion.
Mal. Murdered.
Gus. Murdered and eaten.
Nail’s picture lay on a chair. Jane didn’t want to add him to the memorial wall. He didn’t deserve it. No one would pray for him.
The canteen kitchen.
Sian sat morose on a bar stool while Ghost greased the damaged shotgun. He reassembled the weapon. He racked the slide. The mechanism jammed. He threw the gun down on the kitchen counter.
‘Fucked. And Punch took all the ammunition.’ Ghost took a cleaver from a drawer.
‘Want to help me patrol?’
They walked the perimeter of the rig. Ghost brought the ruined shotgun. He swung it round his head and flung it far as he could. They watched it fall to the ice two hundred metres below. They looked towards the island.
‘Nail can’t stay out there for ever,’ said Ghost. ‘Nothing for him in that bunker. We’ve got food, heat, everything he needs. Sooner or later he’ll try to make it aboard. I reckon he’ll try to climb an anchor cable. Doubt he could make it, but he’ll give it a shot.’
‘What about Punch?’ asked Sian. Jane hadn’t told her about the cannibalised remains they found in the bunker. ‘I don’t think he’s coming back.’
Ghost decided to give her a task, something to keep her occupied.
‘Do me a favour. Disable the platform lift. Take out a fuse or something.’
Sian headed for the airlock. She opened the exterior door and walked out on to the platform. She could see infected passengers milling on the ice far below her. She reached for the platform controls. She hesitated, then pressed Down.
The lift descended the south leg of the refinery. Infected Hyperion passengers and crew looked up. They saw Sian descending to meet them, and stretched their arms to reach her.
She opened the railing gate and closed her eyes, ready to be torn apart.
The platform jolted to a halt. Sian fell to her knees. The lift rose. She looked up. Ghost high above her, leaning out of the airlock door.
He dragged Sian back inside the rig. He helped her to her feet.
‘We’ll pretend that didn’t happen, all right?’
Jane sat with Ghost in the canteen. They emptied the backpack. They contemplated the stack of explosives and detonators on the table in front of them. Bricks of C4 wrapped in paper. DEMOLITION CHARGE Ml12 WITH TAGGANT.
‘Sian’s probably right,’ said Jane. ‘We’re kidding ourselves. We’re not moving an inch. We are trapped here for ever. This place is our tomb.’
‘I don’t know about that.’
‘This is the endgame. Nobody is coming to save us. We’ve got no ride home. If the cables don’t drop, we’re done.’
‘My dad died of stomach cancer,’ said Ghost. ‘He had a car, an E-type Jag. He was restoring it in his garage. He worked hard even though he wouldn’t get to drive it. I asked why he bothered. He said, 'Never leave a job half done.’'
‘I’m so tired.’
‘We’ve got a plan. We’ve got things we can do, moves we can make. Still plenty of fight left.’
‘Yeah,’ sighed Jane. ‘I suppose. But that’s the problem. I can cope with despair. But hope keeps fucking me up.’
Ghost stood and began to stack the explosives into three separate piles.
‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Get the job done.’
Ghost refilled the flamethrower. He used a SCUBA compressor to pump the tanks with diesel, and pressurise them with nitrogen.
They went outside and thawed the couplings. Jane fired a jet of flame at each giant lock pin. Ice liquefied and steamed, exposing metal.
Jane held the flashlight while Ghost rigged the explosives. He took off his gloves. He unwrapped C4. He slapped patties of explosive against the massive cable coupling, punched them with his fist, moulded them into a single tight mass. He pointed to a nearby wall.
‘This is good. This should work well. We’re boxed in. Nice, enclosed space. It should focus the concussion. Be a hell of a bang when it goes.’
He pressed blasting caps into the clay with his thumb before the explosive froze too hard to penetrate. They weatherproofed each charge with garbage bags.
‘What do you want to use for detonation cord?’ asked Jane.
‘Strip some wire from a few extension leads. Nothing much to it. All we need is enough copper thread to carry a single six- volt pulse. Click. Bang.’
They returned to the canteen and spliced wire. Heaters. Dehumidifiers. Computers. Cases prised open with a screwdriver. Flex stripped, coiled and stacked on a Formica tabletop.
‘We need about two hundred and fifty metres for each charge. We’ll run the cord to a central point. We have to blow all three charges at once. If we blow the cables one at a time the last rope will take the full weight of the rig. It will be under so much tension we’ll never get the pin to release.’
‘Right.’
‘No screw-ups. No breaks in the wire. We get one shot at this. No second go.’
The storm cleared. They slung cable over their shoulders and headed outside.
Jane helped Ghost run wire from each explosive charge. They spooled flex along the walkways and metal steps. They taped the wires to girders and railings. The wires converged at the pump house, a cabin that housed monitor equipment for the three great distillation tanks.
They smashed a window and fed the cables inside. Ghost webbed the remaining windows with duct tape. Proof against the blast. He laid three pairs of ear-defenders on a desk.
One last inspection to check the charges were properly rigged and the detonator wire unbroken.
‘Beautiful sky,’ said Jane. She pulled back her hood and craned to see a dusting of stars. A delicate pink twilight to the east.
She looked out over the refinery. A crystal palace. White-onwhite. Frosted steel. Cross-beams and scaffold towers dripping ice. Snow-dusted storage tanks. Crane jibs heavy with icicles. Every north-facing surface caked and glazed.
‘Reckon Nail is lurking round here?’ asked Jane.
‘Keep a lookout for prints,’ said Ghost. ‘I doubt he could make it up the anchor cables, but he’s desperate
