Murmansk-13

An unsure step forward, Tor watched Jamal purposefully turn to him and mouth, “run.” The seemingly silent word rushed toward him, a toneless order as Jamal yanked the near limp Katja toward the recess, Tala rushing to help apparently successful in decimating the grating. Gagging on terror, Tor watched the clamorous wave of clawing limbs and snapping jaws descend upon them, the two parties meeting at the low entranceway. Where Tala, Jamal and listless Katja had been mere seconds before were now feral bodies twisting and hacking at one another, each trying to wriggle into the conduit access, each trying to feed.

Paralyzed, Tor watched until Mihailov stirred beside him. “Captain,” he slurred, turning his head like a souse. “I think we better move.”

The infected’s rearguard had halted their attack on the recess apparently conscious that further assault would be to limited gain. Instead, numerous viscid eyes turned to Tor and Mihailov, the unmoving pair the subject of their renewed desire. The wizened, skeletal figures began marching inflexibly toward them from the dim, breaking from their fellow afflicted at the recess.

Tor took two backward steps to confirm his fears before wrapping his arm around Mihailov’s lean frame and turning tail.

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The grey curve of the corridor felt like an endless visual dirge, the edge of Tor’s vision darkening as he and Mihailov stumbled away in the flickering shadows. The monotonous coronach of the infected chasing them, somehow disorientating them, despite the seemingly infinite straight plain before them. Tor thought about the hard empty vacuum of space mere metres away as his feet pounded down the service corridor, the pain in his ankles, his calves, his whole body the only indication he wasn’t asleep, or in a coma and instead just trapped in a waking nightmare far worse. Mihailov’s agonized breathing provided a rhythm to their movement.

They gapped their pursuers, or at least it sounded so. Tor could no longer judge, could barely breathe. He just knew he had to keep moving, he’d lost Peralta, he’d lost Tala and he’d lost Falmendikov’s daughter. He couldn’t let another crewman down.

The interminable curve of the corridor was punctuated abruptly by the emergency airlock. Four primary life support systems lay discarded in the dust beside Falmendikov’s EVA suit, never to be required again. Peralta’s leather cam bandolier lay beside his helmet, sentiment required he recover the bosuns personal items, practicality demanded otherwise.

Ignoring the effects of his lost party, Tor rested Mihailov against the bulkhead and punched the airlocks entrance, the opening door causing a spindrift of dust to flutter at the threshold. Dispassionately, Tor began loading the airlock with two helmets, two life support systems, a roll of gaffer tape they’d used half of to create Mihailov’s rifle scabbard and a small motorized emergency pulley that he liberated from the bosun’s bandolier.

“We’re not going to have an awful lot of time.” Tor said as Mihailov absently watched his preparations.

The shuffling, keening sound of the infected became exponentially louder as Tor turned to his Second Mate. Mihailov was drawn and sweating profusely despite the cold. Quaking as if fevered within his EVA suit. Tor could see the first flickering shadows of their pursuers perform a ghastly dance across the opposing bulkhead, seconds later their skeletonised forms rounded the gentle curve.

“Time to go, Mihailov,” Tor said, he tried to heave the Bulgarian to his feet, but the ailing Second Mate was a deadweight. “Mihailov!” Watery, confused eyes like those of a senile relation peered at Tor. Summoning what little strength remained in his body, Tor hauled Mihailov to his feet, almost dragging the larger man to the airlock and shoving him in.

Mihailov fell heavily and sideways into the dark chamber, yellow and black warning lines helter-skeltered in disorder around the bulkheads. For a panicked second, Tor couldn’t find the interior locking mechanism, he’d been unconscious the last time he was in the airlock. As the twisted wreckage of anthropoid faces faltered toward them, their jaws at their inhuman extent, Tor managed to find the control protected beneath a thin Perspex cover. He felt relief wash over him as the ardent wailing that had so long accompanied their journey was cut off by cast aluminium. Desiccated bodies and rotten limbs pounded dully on the airlock door.