Murmansk-13

Hernandez peered out of the duct, his eyes small and his skin slicked with sweat. His EVA suit was gone and he winced with a pain Nielsen struggled to categorize as physical or emotional. The motorman eased himself to the edge of the duct and motioned to jump.

“Don’t jump Hernandez, you’ll break your fucking legs!” Nielsen yelled with tired resignation, Hernandez stared at him curiously. “They’re all vent shafts, all high up.”

Hernandez’s vision seemed to adapt to the dim half light that from above would give the corridors tar coloured anti-slip coating a deceptive shallowness. He scooched back, apparently aware the ten meter drop would probably fuse his ankle bones. He was breathless and the incessant sound of the infected seemed to rob the Mexican of his typical bluster. For a moment he stared hopelessly down at Nielsen and Pettersson, the Swede remained preoccupied with the barricade.

“This is bad, ese.” Hernandez voice managed to sound like an anxious whisper over the infected.

“No shit!” Replied Pettersson, dashing into the control room again. Nielsen imagined he’d be coming out with stationary items next, staplers and pencils, every gram stalling the inevitable. He was surprised to see Pettersson reappear, struggling with a sturdy leatherback office chair and Nielsen subconsciously wondered why he’d brought the waste paper basket out first. The door bowed dangerously in his brief absence and Nielsen was pressed into assisting his understudy at the barricade, resting the rifle against the bulkhead.

“What the hell happened to you, Hernandez?” Nielsen asked through clenched teeth, pushing back against the blast doors. Gnarled, emaciated digits pawed through the crack in the doors the stench was becoming unbearable. Nielsen could sense the throng strengthening in the stairwell, the sheer press of dried flesh threatened to pop the doors, spilling the infected upon them.

“Doctor Fucking Smith happened to me. She collared me at gunpoint when I was headed to the rendezvous.” In the corner of his eye, he could see Hernandez becoming animated, rising to his haunches in the tight duct inlet. “She’s nuts, she has Tala and Diego and the Captain and some chicha I’ve never seen and two other guys locked up in cells. I think one of the dudes is turning into whatever is outside those doors.”

Another surge, the crack in the door widened, Nielsen and Pettersson were no longer getting it fully closed between surges, Nielsen could feel his strength and resolve sapping. “And you got out?”

“No chief, this conversation we’re having is by means of telepathy,” Hernandez replied, his tone sardonic. “ Yeah we got the key, well Tala, but only I got out. The key only opened the cell I was in. I was supposed to get you to get them out… shit.

“We have to get you out of here,” Hernandez scanned the wide and dark access way, his gaze fixing on one of the escape shafts.

“I tried those, more of these fucking things at the top.” Nielsen finished shoring up their defences as the infected surged again, something sharp jagged into the back of his leg. A brass coupling for a fire hose that had unspooled beneath the pile.

Hernandez eyes widened. “Oh, hoy! The hose, throw me the hose.”

Nielsen looked at Hernandez’s position speculatively, high up in the shadows. The hose was tightly corded, vulcanized rubber, pressure braced with steel wire that earthed into the hydrant coupling. Dragging it from the barricade, items toppling around him, Nielsen felt the heft of the object and the lack of flexibility in the pipe construct. “I don’t think this is going to work.”

“Ain’t much to lose now Chief.” Nielsen could see Hernandez shrug.

“He has a point,” replied Pettersson.

Removed in its entirety from the barricade, the hose measured thirty meters. Nielsen needed to propel a third of the stiff hose to Hernandez, his short arms reaching to their maximum extent as he leant out from the duct. Dampers and air ducts were always set up near deckheads in engine compartments, and the compartments themselves were always lofty. It permitted optimal air flow and space for colder air to recycle. It seemed unnecessary in the comparative cool of the stations heart. Almost obstructive and entrapping.

Nielsen considered removing the brass coupling, but it would help provide mass and momentum like an athlete’s hammer. Even with the coupling removed, he doubted he could slither the hose up ten metres of bulkhead without it collapsing under its own unsupported weight.

Pettersson continued to monitor the door whilst watching Nielsen. The Chief suddenly felt very small. This was their last hope and as he started winding up his throw, letting the hose twirl in his hand as he would a lasso, he knew it would fail. When there had been no plan there had been no hopelessness, just strategizing and surviving. Now there was focus and expectation. Even if they could get the hose to Hernandez, they both easily outweighed the motorman and there was no likely securing point in an aluminium air shaft.