The first room on her right was the main galley; empty and quiet now where it was normally a crash and clatter of pans and activity. There were no bodies, no sign of disturbance; it looked like the place was waiting for the crew to arrive and make breakfast. The mess, the next room down the corridor, was a different matter. Tables and chairs were overturned, crockery lay strewn and smashed on the floor and blood, far too much blood, splattered across every surface, arterial spray washing across the ceiling. Congealed blood and tissue had splashed the portholes, the dim light coming in from outside casting the whole scene in a red, hellish, tinge.
She backed away, even as she saw she’d been walking in streaks of gore. The floor was covered with it, the width of the doorway itself, showing where the dead had been dragged out, into the corridor and out of the door leading onto deck.
She headed in the other direction; she wasn’t ready to show herself in the open just yet, feeling safer with walls around her. She moved quietly, not wanting to give away her presence and at the same time wanting to hear if there was indeed someone else moving around on board. She reached the stairwell leading up to the main superstructure. The smell of cigarette smoke was even stronger here. And as she stepped into the doorway, she heard something else; something completely unexpected. An Irish voice sang, high and pure, an old song Svetlanova had heard in bars and clubs in cities around the world; she had never expected to hear it here, on a boat she’d thought was long dead.
She followed the voice and the cigarette smoke as it led her up the stairwell.
The singer started the chorus again but choked after the first line and a bout of coughing echoed down the stairwell, followed by a soft ‘Fuck.’
She had the source pinpointed now; the singer was in the control room. She went up the stairs quickly until she stood outside the door and decided discretion might be the best approach to introducing her presence.
“Hello?” she said loudly in English, guessing it was best after hearing the song and the cursing.
She got another cough in reply, then a weak voice answered.
“Either I’m already dead and gone to Heaven, or there’s a woman at the door. Who’s there?”
“Svetlanova, Chief Scientist,” she said. “One of the crew of this boat.”
“Well, come on in, then, Svetlanova, Chief Scientist, and let’s be having a look at you. But be warned. I’ve got a gun pointed at the door and my nerves aren’t at their best, so if you’ve got anything in your hands, best put it down now.”
Svetlanova put her Dictaphone away in a pocket – she hadn’t even been aware she was still clutching it until now – and stepped into the doorway with both hands raised.
A pale, ashen-faced man sat in the captain’s chair. For her first few steps into the room, she only saw the gun, the black hole of the barrel pointing straight at her but after a few seconds, she guessed she wasn’t about to get shot and her attention turned to the man himself. He was obviously ill, perhaps severely so. His eyes were dark and deep in his skull, a cold sweat ran at his brow and his lips looked dry, bloodless, almost gray.
He wore a heavy hooded garment on top but his legs were almost bare and as she stepped closer she saw why; a small pile of soiled bandages lay on the floor and green fluid oozed from deep wounds on the man’s shin. She didn’t have to think too long to know what must have happened to him.
He ran into the isopods. Or they ran into him.
“Who are you and why are you here?” she asked.
“I was about to say exactly the same to you, darling,” he replied and tried to laugh but only a cough came out. He laid the weapon in his lap. Then he tried to light a cigarette but he lost control of his fingers and only succeeded in dropping his lighter on the floor.
“Bugger,” he said and coughed again. There was an accompanying rumble deep in his chest, as if something wet was stirring inside him.
He’s dying.
She stepped forward, trying to ignore the weapon, lifted the lighter, and lit his cigarette for him.
“You wouldn’t happen to have another of those?” she asked.
“Inside my jacket here, top pocket, left side,” he whispered. “You could give my nipple a wee tweak while you’re at it; might be the last chance I get.”
She found a blue and white pack of a brand she didn’t recognize, Embassy Regal but when she lit it up, it tasted fine to her, not as strong as she as used to but better for it. The first draw went down smoothly and she felt the hit float in her head.
The Irishman smiled.
“I like a woman that likes to smoke.”
They blew smoke at each other for a time. She sucked deep; because she enjoyed it and because it helped to mask the smell, almost acrid and rough on the throat, rising from the festering wounds on his legs. He saw her looking.
“Just my luck,” he said. “I meet the only woman for a thousand miles and I’ve gone dead in the trouser department.”
“What are you doing here?” she asked again.
He laughed, choked, and laughed again.
“Trying to find out what you were doing here. Her Majesty’s government got curious and sent us.”
“Special forces?”
“That’s us. Just not quite so special at the moment; you’re not catching me at my best.” He coughed again and this time there was blood at his lips; blood and a hint of green.
“My captain will need to talk to you,” he said.
“And I to him,” she replied. “Where is he?”
“Engine room,” the man said and coughed again, worse this time. Blood and green fluid bubbled at his lips. “Give him a kiss and say cheerio to him from me.”
“What happened to you?”
“I got crabs,” he replied, tried to laugh, then stopped when it forced him to cough up more blood and slime. “A really nasty dose. I’d stay away from the wee beasties if I were you. They’re not friendly.”
He dropped the stub of his cigarette on the floor. His eyes had gone cloudy, bloodshot streaks with green in them.
“At least I got to see a good-looking lass before the end,” he said. “So thanks, darling.”
And that was it for him. He died, between one breath and the next. Green fluid dribbled from his nose and mouth, the wounds on his legs foamed and bubbled and his chest sunk inward, falling in on itself. Svetlanova had to move fast; she grabbed the man’s weapon and took it with her as she headed for the door. The stench rose in a wave threatening to overwhelm her. She had one last look back; the poor man’s body looked to be melting, visibly shrinking away inside his clothing.
And I never even asked him his name.
- 9 -
The boat’s main electrical panel was situated in a small room off the entrance to the engine room and Banks was grateful they didn’t have to do too much stumbling around in the dark looking for it.
“We don’t need, don’t want, the whole boat lit up,” he told Briggs and McCally. “Just get the power on to the control room. I need to get to what’s on those computers. The sooner we do it, the sooner we can get off home.”
There were signs of more death and carnage down here; scratches and gouges on the floors and walls, blood spatter and shit smears where the dead had been dragged off. Banks put on his night glasses, walked three steps out onto a gangway overlooking the main engine room, and surveyed the area.