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. He zipped the guns and their cleaning kits into a holdall.

'Get the shells.'

Jane snatched boxes of 12-gauge shells from a shelf and stuffed them into her backpack.

'There's a sell-by on these boxes. I didn't think ammunition expired.'

'Let's get going.'

 

Rawlins found he could see in the dark. Not clearly. Not well. But he could make out shapes.

He stood naked at the centre of the dive room. He wondered how he got there. Self-awareness came and went. Sometimes he was Frank Rawlins. Sometimes he was something else.

He lit a Tilley lamp so he could see better. Benches. Racks of diving equipment. The white, steel bubble of a hypobaric chamber.

He opened a locker and examined his reflection in the door mirror. One eye was as black as onyx.

Rawlins took a dive belt from a wall hook. He unsheathed the knife and used the tip to prise the eye from its socket. He did it left-handed. He sawed through the optic nerve. The eyeball plopped at his feet.

He stared at his reflection. The empty socket wept blood. He took a scuba tank from a wall rack and pounded the mirror to glass-dust.

Rawlins's office. A sign on the door:

 

STRICTLY NO UNAUTHORISED PERSONNEL

 

Punch switched on the lights. It felt like trespass.

'The desk drawer,' said Sian. 'That's where he keeps it.'

Punch levered the latch with a screwdriver. He took the Taser from its case.

'It feels like a toy. Should stop him dead, though.'

'Then what?' said Sian. 'If he has this infection we can't lay a finger on him.'

'Improvise a straitjacket. Tie him up in a sleeping bag or something. Lock him in a freight container. Quarantine, until we see what's what.'

Sian examined the desk screen. A couple of clicks brought up a floor plan of the refinery.

'He's on C deck, right? We can track him.'

Punch leaned over her shoulder. The C deck schematic was speckled with red dots.

'We dropped some of the blast doors when we powered down the rig. The doors show up on the status board. Keep watching. He might betray his location.'

'Don't move from that chair, all right?' Punch gave Sian his radio. 'If you see movement, shout.'

 

Punch lowered the blast door, sealing himself inside the accommodation module.

He was armed with a pool cue and the Taser.

He slid down the wall and sat on the corridor floor with the Taser cradled in his lap.

'How's it going?' Sian's voice. Punch took out his radio.

'Sentry duty.'

'Can we lock the hatches? Can we stop him moving around?'

'The blast doors seal tight in an emergency. Otherwise anyone can raise them. Only the airlocks have keypads. Protection against piracy.'

'We have to assume he is infected.'

'What else can we do? We have to treat him as hostile until we know better.'

'I wish we could be sure. Severe blood loss. He's going to freeze.'

'I know. I know.'

A thud against the door. Punch jumped to his feet. 'Frank? Is that you?'

Punch trained his Taser at the door. The hatch began to slide upward. He hit Close.

He pressed the intercom.

'Frank? Are you okay?'

'I'm cold. Very cold.'

'Are you infected? Your arm. Can you tell me? Did it halt the infection?'

'So cold.' Rawlins sounded weak, delirious.

'You've got to tell us, Frank. We have to know.'

'So tired.'

'We can't let you in, Frank. Frank? Are you there?'

He waited a full minute. He hit Open. The door slid back.

Nothing beyond but an empty corridor.

Punch called Sian.

'Frank just tried to get in.'

'Is he still there?'

'He's gone.'

'Wait. Someone just entered an airlock near Medical.'

'Did he go outside?'

'No. He just opened the interior door.'

'Anyone heard from Jane and Ghost?'

'No.'

'We need those shotguns.'

 

Rawlins ransacked the airlock. He struggled to pull up trousers. He shrugged on a coat. He stepped into boots.

He searched the rig for cigarettes. He dragged himself down dark, frozen passageways. He slid along pipework for support. He hugged the stump of his right arm, sheathed in an empty sleeve, to his chest.

Cigarettes were forbidden. Big red signs in each recreation area. 'No unauthorised sources of ignition.'

When Rawlins took control of the rig five months ago he smuggled cigarettes aboard. Two a day for the duration of the tour. He used to sneak outside and light up. He knew most of the crew smoked weed but he didn't care. It kept the men occupied. It kept them sedated. But he was the installation manager and couldn't be seen to break the rules. He kept a pack of cigarettes and a Zippo hidden among fire equipment near an airlock. He couldn't remember which airlock. He couldn't remember much at all.

He sat in the gymnasium for a while, one of the few rooms on the refinery with a large window. Weak daylight. It was noon, and the sun was barely above the horizon. Rows of cycles and treadmills glittered with ice. Centrefolds blurred by frost. He pulled up his sleeve and examined his bandaged stump. Metal spines protruded from the gauze. The skin surrounding his elbow had started to blacken.

'So here we are,' he thought. 'My dying day.'

Frank once saw a man clutch his chest and collapse while queuing in a bank. He guessed it was the same for most people. Walking round with a head full of humdrum until a terminal diagnosis or myocardial infarction struck out of the blue. Was it October? November? Hard to think straight. He was pretty sure it was Tuesday.

He lay on a sunbed for a while and woke up shivering. His parka had fallen open. He couldn't work the zip.

He remembered where he hid cigarettes. Airlock 63.

 

Jane and Ghost arrived back at the rig. They winched the zodiac into the boathouse.

Ghost showed Jane how to operate a shotgun as they rode the freight elevator to habitation level.

'You've seen it on TV a million times. Slot five shells into the receiver. Pump the slide. Pull it all the way back. Nice, firm stroke. Set the safety to Fire. And for God's sake don't put your finger on the trigger until you are ready to shoot.'

'Cool.'

'Press the gun to your shoulder. Brace your legs. Boom.'

They took a shortcut. They crossed the deck and entered an airlock.

Ghost took out his radio.

'We're back.'

'I'm in Frank's office,' said Sian. 'I'm watching the doors. Someone just opened airlock 27.'

'That's us. We just came aboard.'

'Watch your selves. You might run into him.'

They opened the internal door of the airlock. Ghost surveyed the corridor, shotgun at the ready.

'This feels a bit over-dramatic,' said Jane. 'This is Frank we are talking about. He's probably just confused.'

'You saw that shit growing out of his hand. Want that to happen to you?'

'Not particularly.'

'Don't point that thing at me, all right? Point it at the floor.'

 

Rawlins hugged a corridor wall. Dancing flashlight beams. Two figures stepped out of an airlock. Jane and Ghost. They carried shotguns.

He padded behind them as they entered the pipe store. He stayed in shadow while they crouched and examined the floor.

'This is where Sian found him,' said Jane.

'Blood drips. Must have been squatting here a while. Wonder what was going on in his head.' Ghost took yellow spray paint from his pocket, shook the can and circled the blood drips. 'We'll have to clean this level room by room. Bleach the whole fucking place.'

'Sian said his eye was black.'

'Could be a haemorrhage. Not necessarily proof of infection.'

Rawlins stood behind them. He fought rising bloodlust. He wanted to seize them. He wanted to bite. He wanted to rip and tear.

He ducked behind a pillar as they stood and turned.

'Might be worth re-checking Medical,' said Ghost. 'It's been a while. He might go back. He might want something for the pain.'

 

They made their way to the accommodation block. Ghost pounded the blast door with his fist. He shouted into the intercom.

'It's us. Me and Jane. We're coming in.'

He hit Open. The door slid back.

'Frank tried to get in,' said Punch.

'Is he infected?' asked Jane.

'I heard him. I didn't see him.'

'He's alive at least.'

'Look,' said Ghost. He shone his flashlight at the deck plates. Footprints on frosted metal. 'He left a trail.'

'Where?'

'See that?' he said, pointing at a cluster of prints. 'That's us, coming and going. But look here.' Bare footprints near the wall. 'That's him. Is Rye upstairs?' 'Yeah.'

'Find her. Tell her to load a hypodermic with some kind of sedative.'

'You want me to tag along?'

'No. Just me and Jane. Keep the door shut, okay? We'll be back in a while.'

 

They tracked footprints to the gym.

'Looks like he took a nap,' said Ghost, examining a sunbed. 'More blood. Here and here.' He took out his spray can and circled the drips. 'He can't give us the run-around much longer. Not in this cold.'

They tracked prints down a C deck corridor.

'Boots,' said Ghost. 'Fresh.'

'Sure it's not us?'

'We haven't been down this way.'

The footprints led to an open doorway.

 

FUEL STORE

 

'Put your safety catch on,' instructed Ghost. 'No shooting, all right? Don't want to blow us all to hell.'

Ghost stood in the doorway.

'Frank?' he called. 'Are you okay?' No reply. 'I'm coming in, Frank. Is that all right?'

Ghost shone his flashlight into the storeroom. Stacked oil drums. Jerry cans. Tins of kerosene.

'Frank? You there?'

Ghost went inside. Jane followed.

Rawlins was kneeling in the corner shadows. Jane saw him first. He was soaked in kerosene, an empty fuel can by his side and an unlit cigarette between his lips.

'Hey, Frank,' said Jane. 'How have you been?'

'Fucked-up day.' His fringe dripped like he just stepped from the shower.

'Yeah. It's been a bad year all round.'

Rawlins had taken off his coat. His arm and neck were bruised black and yellow. His empty eye socket wept blood.

'So what do you say, Frank?' asked Ghost. 'How about we take you back to Medical for a while and look after you?'

Rawlins gave a woozy smile and shook his head. He gestured to his mutilated arm, his missing eye.

'I don't think Lemsip is going to help much, do you?'

'Yeah, but I'd rather you didn't light up. You have to show a little consideration for others.'

'There's no way home. We all know it, so why drag it out?' He stroked the black flesh of his throat. 'It wants things. This disease. It has an agenda.' He reached into the pocket of his ragged trousers. 'Sorry, folks.' He flipped open his Zippo. 'I've got to go while I'm still me.' He closed his eyes and struck the lighter. Blue flame washed over him.

Jane and Ghost ran for the door. They slung the shotguns over their shoulders and snatched extinguishers from the wall.

Frank was dead and burning. They trained jets of carbon dioxide at the fire, but the flames spread between oil drums.

A propane tank blew. It ricocheted off three walls and burst a couple of jerry cans, triggering a massive fireball.

'We've lost it,' yelled Ghost. 'Let's get out of here.'

They ran for the door. Jane hit Close. The door dropped like a guillotine, blocking the tide of flame that threatened to flood the corridor and incinerate them.

Ghost touched the door but quickly snatched his hand away. Superhot metal.

'Let it burn. It'll drink all the oxygen soon enough.'

They jogged down the corridor.

'You okay?' asked Ghost.

'Yeah. I'm fine.'

An explosion punched out the fuel store door like a fist. The heavy hatch cart-wheeled down the corridor towards them, propelled by fire.

They ran for the stairwell. Jane hammered the Close button with her fist. The blast door slid down as a juggernaut of flame rushed to meet them. Fire flickered round their boots as the hatch slammed shut.