Murmansk-13

Still, the ducts should have been easier. There were only so many directions the narrow aluminium air ducts could fork. He’d been wrong. Due to the ducts feeding into reactor and engine compartments as well as habitation, recreation and security – there had been several convoluted valve gates Hernandez had been forced to circumvent. He assumed these were so certain decks could be isolated in the event of a toxic breakdown in the engine or a pressure bulkhead failure in the superstructure.

The net result was a zigzagging route that had lead him as far laterally in several directions as it was simply down. In trying to return the route he’d come, Hernandez hoped to follow the valve gates he’d forced open like a trail of breadcrumbs. But at some point he’d been turned around, perhaps one of the gates had slid shut behind him. The aluminium plates all looked the same. As time passed he grew increasingly panicked. As he pushed through the first gate he thought should have been open, he knew he wouldn’t find his way back.

Tala could be dead, they all could be dead.

Hernandez paused, exhausted, having wriggled up another smooth duct. He knew he had to keep moving, had to find his way back to security but the effort ascending the sheer aluminium shafts was leaving him spent.

The muscles in his thighs and shoulders raged with lactic acid. Each ascent was an act of rapid increments, arms and legs pressed into the sidewalls, always three points of contacts as he banged and inched his way upward. A slip would be lost time, lost energy, so each movement was tempered by a need for precision and focus that expended his strength further still.

Hernandez dried the sheen of sweat from his palms, rubbing his hands across his long johns. Cold air fluttered infrequently through the ill lit shafts, crinkling the metal that surrounded him and chilling his moistened flesh. Somewhere far away in the darkness, the passage of air emitted an eldritch moan. Hernandez could hear movement below, cautiously he bellied to a vent shafting thin beams of weak light into the duct and peered down.

Beneath was a bright corridor, Hernandez thought it maybe the wide corridor leading into Central Command. That would correlate with the last estimated position he’d taken which had been a shaft overlooking a derelict monorail station. He’d hoped his route had tracked him back toward the superstructure, but he seemed to be further out still now, erroneously following an arm of duct leading away from the stations core. The gravity here was still the generated gravity of the command centre, but the pull was lessened. He was nearing the disorientating border where generated gravity gave in to mechanical Coriolis spin.

Hernandez held his breath. He could hear booted footfalls trace a steady, heavy jog out of sight. Hear a plastic material shuck loosely against its human occupant, both sounds growing distant. Hernandez strained to see what was producing the noise, not smelling the dead flesh of the infected.

A second group entered his limited frame of sight, holding their ground just below his position.

Men, he assumed, in full hazmat environmental suits. No need for EVA capabilities, their ship had clearly docked and coupled at the ring in an orthodox fashion. Regardless, Hernandez could make out the cumbersome outline of breathing apparatus beneath the yellow tarp like covering of the suit. They’d come prepared, no Soviet insignia, no insignia of any type. These were Dr. Smith’s cleanup team and they were carrying low calibre semi-automatic pistols.

“Squadron leader, backup. Finally got word from Vanguard. Abandon main corridors. Central Command main deck compromised.” The voice was male, or at least synthesized male. The words were processed through a small microphone at the front of the suit in a squeaky, static laced American brogue.

They waited back-to-back until the point team returned, ready. They’d received the briefing the crew of the Riyadh never did.

“No sign of hostiles in Central Command yet,” one of the point men reported, this voice similar but different.

“Vanguard reports large numbers of walkers in the engine compartment, pinning down the bystanders. Says we should proceed via personnel corridors that lead directly into the command centre.”

“Copy that.”

The knot of yellow suited soldiers disentangled with an economy of movement that belied military training. They set off in the return direction. At least Hernandez now had a datum point for Central Command and the outer service corridors. He also knew he was out of time. The Doctors people were aboard, soon they would reach Central Command and Tala.