by Adam Baker
'Then what? Doesn't exactly look like the trains are running.'
'Steal a bike. Hitch a ride. You'll find a way.'
'Do you have a family?' he asked.
'My mother and sister live in Bristol.'
'Do you think they are okay?'
'You saw that riot on TV. Things are getting tooth and claw. My dad is long gone. They have no one to fight for them.'
'Come to Cardiff. We have a spare room.'
'I couldn't.'
'Seriously. We are going to touch down in a war zone. You'll need somewhere to go.'
Punch lived in a storeroom at the back of the kitchen. He dragged a couple of kit-bags from beneath his bunk and began to pack. Jane sat on a chair in the corner and sipped black coffee.
Clothes on the floor. Jeans so narrow Jane wouldn't be able to pull them past her ankles.
'It seems a bit premature,' said Punch. He stripped out of chef's whites and a blue apron. 'I'll probably have to unpack half this stuff during the week. But I just want to be gone.'
'You like comics?' asked Jane. Posters of Batgirl, Ghost Rider, Spawn.
'That's why I'm here. Six months, no distractions. I was going to draw my masterpiece. Blast my way to the big-time. Brought my inks. Brought my board.'
'No joy?'
'I pissed away the time. Thing is, what does a hero look like these days? Muscles and Lycra? Life isn't a contest of strength any more. Jobs, banks, taxes. Boring social reality. You can't solve anything with a fist. Those years are long gone.'
'Don't feel bad. Pretty much everyone on this platform is in a holding pattern.'
'Sure you're okay?'
'I may switch rooms later. All that despair. The smell hangs around like cigarette smoke.'
Jane picked a new room and unpacked her stuff. The room was identical to the last but it still felt like a change. She flushed her remaining painkillers. She had psyched herself for suicide, but the moment for action had passed.
She sat on the bed. Her life was one lonely room after another.
A double beep from the wall speaker in the corridor outside. A Tannoy announcement broadcast throughout the refinery, echoing down empty passageways, gently stirring motes of dust in distant rooms.
'Reverend Blanc, please come to the manager's office right away'
Rawlins's office was at the top of the administration block. A wide, Plexiglas window gave him a view of the upper deck of the refinery. A vast scaffold city of gantries, girders and distillation tanks lit by a low Arctic sun.
Rawlins ran the installation from his desk. A wall panel showed a plan of the rig dotted with green System OK lights.
Submerged cameras monitored the seabed pipeline, a concrete manifold anchored to the ocean bed.
He sat by the radio. Speakers relayed the hiss and whistle of atmospheric interference.
Jane pulled up a chair.
'Nothing from the mainland?'
'Comes and goes,' said Rawlins. 'I get snatches of music. The occasional ghost voice. Hear that?'
A man, faint and desperate:' Gelieve te helpen ons. Daar iedereen is? Kan iedereen me horen? Gelieve te helpen ons.''
'What's that?' asked Jane. 'Swedish? Norwegian?'
'God knows. Some poor bastard. He's out there, somewhere, calling for help. I can hear him, but he can't hear us.'
'This is starting to scare the crap out of me.'
'Look at this,' said Rawlins. He re-angled his desk screen. 'I managed to pull this from the BBC News site a couple of weeks ago.'
He clicked Play.
Police marksmen creeping through a supermarket. Footage shot low to the ground. A reporter crouched behind a checkout.
'. . . suddenly attacked paramedics and fled the scene. She seems to have taken refuge at the back of the store. Police have cleared the building and are moving in . . !
Something glimpsed between the aisles. A figure, creeping, feral.
'There she is . . !
Sudden close-up. A woman's snarling face masked in blood.
Police: 'Put your hands up. Keep your hands where we can see them . . !
She lunges. Gunfire. Her chest is ripped open and she is hurled backward into a shelf of coffee jars.
She's still moving. A marksman plants a boot on her chest, cocks his pistol and shoots her in the face.
Rewind. Freeze frame. That bloody, snarling face.
'What the fuck?' said Jane.
'That's what I wanted to talk to you about,' said Rawlins. 'Not here, though. Outside.' He threw Jane an XXXL parka. 'Let's take a walk.'
They descended metal steps that spiralled round one of the rig's four great floatation legs.
Winter was coming. Ice had begun to collect around the refinery legs. Soon Rampart would be sitting on a solid raft of ice. As the days drew short and the temperature dropped further, the sea would freeze and the rig would be joined to the island by an ice-bridge.
Rawlins walked out on to the ice. Jane stayed on the steps. She inspected the vast underbelly of the rig. Acres of frosted pipework and joists.
'So what do you want from me?' asked Jane. She had been aboard the refinery for five months. This was the first time Rawlins had asked to speak to her.
'The microwave link to shore. I was hoping you could draw up a schedule, help the lads book phone time.'
'Reckon they can reach anyone?'
'That's what I'm saying. Navtex is down. Our sat phone is a fucking paperweight. The guys will demand to ring home, and when they do they will probably get no reply. They'll need a sympathetic ear.'
'Use my counselling skills?'
'Yeah. And there's an issue with the ship. Only fair to warn you. I managed to raise London yesterday. The connection lasted about thirty seconds. They told me the Oslo Star was on its way. They were picking up a drilling team from Trenkt then heading south for us.'
'Okay.'
'But I tried talking to London. I got nothing. The Con Amalgam office in Hamburg told me Norway is under self-imposed quarantine. All borders closed. Air, land and sea. If that's true, then Oslo Star hasn't left the dock.'
'Damn.'
'They've given me executive authority to evacuate.'
'Meaning what?'
'Nice way of saying we are on our own. Get home any way we can.' 'Shit.'
'It'll be fine. There are plenty of other support ships at sea. Hamburg is arranging a substitute vessel. It might take a while, though.'
'When will you tell the men?'
'Must admit I feel a bit of a fool. Telling everyone they are going home. Getting their hopes up.'
'So what did Hamburg say? What's actually happening?'
'Something bad spreading fast. It seems to be global. That's the sum of it. Most radio and TV stations are down. No one knows a thing. It's all just panic and rumour. Marco, our Hamburg contact, says most of the stuff we've seen on the news is recycled footage shot last month. Things have got a lot worse since then. He's says people are leaving the cities for the countryside in case the government firebomb.'
'So what is it? Flu? Smallpox?'
'A virus. That's what he said.'
'What kind?'
'Marco's English is pretty poor. A virus. Some kind of parasite. That's our little secret, okay? The men don't need to know.'
Jane returned to her room. She swapped her sweater for a clerical shirt and dog-collar.
'Get it together,' she told her reflection. 'People need you now.'
Jane headed for the gym.
The gym was monopolised each day by Nail Harper and his gang of muscle freaks. A redundant dive crew with nothing to do but lift weights and preen in front of the gymnasium wall mirror.
She heard Motorhead as she approached. Ace of Spades' echoing down steel corridors.
Nail was sweating his way through a series of barbell curls. He was stripped to the waist. He had a gothic cross tattooed on his back. He stood in front of the wall mirror and watched himself pump. Bull-neck, massive shoulders. Skin stret
ched taut over veins and tendons. He looked like he was wearing his muscles on the outside.
His gym buddies sat nearby. Gus and Mal. Ivan and Yakov. They took turns to use a leg press.
'How are you lads doing?' shouted Jane.
Nail set the barbell on the floor and turned round. He took his time about it. He looked Jane up and down. He stood over her, towelling sweat from his torso. He glanced at one of his buddies, a signal to turn down the music.
'Come to burn off a few pounds?'
'I'm going to hold a service in the chapel later on.'
'Good for you.'
'I know everyone on this rig tends to stick to their own little group, their own little faction, but maybe we ought to start thinking like a team. You saw the news. We're in this shit together.'
One of his buddies threw him a protein shake. He swigged.
'I've been here all day, every day. If you fuckers want to talk, if you actually give a shit, you can find me any time. We pass in the corridor, you don't even look me in the eye. You think me and my boys are dirt. Get off your high horse, bitch. You contribute zero to this rig. You can't do a damn thing. You can barely tie your shoes. You just sit around all day eating our food. So don't act like I'm the one with my nose in the air.'
He stared down at Jane. There were centrefolds on the walls around her. Women spreading themselves, women hitching their legs. He was daring her to look. She held his gaze.
'Point taken. Fresh start, all right? The service is at seven. We'd all be glad to see you.'
Jane led prayers.
'Father, protect our loved ones in this hour of darkness. We commit them to your loving grace. Lord, in your mercy, hear our prayer.'
Nail and his gang sat in the back row and watched.
They sang 'Eternal Father Strong to Save', the sailors' hymn.
Jane blessed her small congregation. Rawlins stood and gave the news. The Oslo Star hadn't left port but a second ship was on its way. Oil support vessel Spirit of Endeavour. It would arrive at nine the following morning but wouldn't stay long. Everyone better be packed and ready to go.
Time to put the rig in hibernation. Rawlins assigned everyone a task.
Jane shut down Main Street. She threw breakers in a wall- mounted fuse box and extinguished the broken neon that blinked and buzzed above each vacant retail unit. Starbucks. Cafe Napoli. Blockbuster. Signage flickered and died.
Jane took a bunch of keys and closed C deck. Punch tagged along.
'Nice prayer,' said Punch. 'I heard a couple of guys say they liked it. Yakov. He's Catholic.'
Each corridor had a series of blast doors set in the ceiling. In the event of an explosion the doors would drop to prevent the spread of fire. Jane twisted a numbered key into the wall at each intersection and a blast door rumbled downward like a portcullis.
'I bet most of them didn't even know we had a chapel.'
'Do you think prayers are ever answered?' asked Punch.
'It helps to voice your fears.'
'It would be nice to think there was a cosmic parent ready to kiss it all better.'
'I wrapped my car round a tree a few years ago,' said Jane. 'They say I was dead for three minutes. I can tell you for sure there is no God, no happy afterworld. In fact that's why I became a priest. It's a short life and people deserve more than work and recreational shopping. They need meaning. A place to belong.'
They stood in the doorway of the stairwell. Jane took a radio from her pocket.
'C deck clear.'
The steady hum of heating fans died away. Somewhere, high above them, Rawlins flicked a bank of isolator switches to Off. The corridor lights were extinguished one by one.
Next morning the crew gathered in the canteen. They brought kit-bags and suitcases. They wore parkas and snowboots. They looked like tourists in a departure lounge.
They watched TV.
Berlin in chaos. Looting. Riot vans and burning cars. The Brandenburg Gate glimpsed through tear gas.
Bilbao docks. Refugees try to climb a mooring rope and board an oil tanker. Sailors blast them with a fire hose.
The White House south lawn. The President ringed by Secret Service armed with assault rifles. '. . . may God defend us in this dark and difficult hour . . ! Brief wave from the hatch of Marine One.
Punch found a box of crisps in a kitchen storeroom. He upturned the box and scattered crisp packets across the pool table.
'May as well use them up, folks,' he said. 'A ton of food going to waste.'
Nail and his gang hogged the jukebox.
Rawlins sat by the window.
'They'll be coming from the north-east.'
Time dragged. Punch took a pack of playing cards from his pocket. He shuffled and re-shuffled.
'There it is,' said Rawlins.
They crowded round the window.
'That ship don't look right,' said Nail.
The plastic canteen window was pitted and scratched, scoured by fierce ice storms. The approaching ship was a blur. The crew ran upstairs to the rooftop helipad for a better view. They stood on the big red H and braced their legs against a buffeting wind. A small tug approached from the north.
'Spirit of Endeavour my ass,' said one of the men.
'That's a dinghy,' said Punch. 'That's a fucking rubber duck.'
The ship drew close. It looked like a small fishing trawler. The wheelhouse was little bigger than a phone booth. Maybe a couple of bunks below.
'I think some of us might be staying behind,' said Jane.
The List
The tug entered the shadow of the refinery, splintering ice, and docked at the north leg. The tiny vessel bobbed on the swells like a cork. Chugging diesel engine. The crew watched from the helipad railing.
Rawlins met the captain on the docking platform. He caught the mooring rope and helped the captain aboard. They saluted. They shook hands. The captain wore snow gear and carried a shotgun. No one was surprised to see the gun. Most Arctic teams carried protection against polar bears.
Rawlins led the man up steel steps to the habitation levels of the rig. The first mate stayed on the tug. He paced the deck with a shotgun held in the crook of his arm.
The captain was a short man in his fifties. He took off his parka and sat at a canteen table. He kept his gun within reach. Punch put a steaming mug of coffee in front of him.
'Got any food?'
The skipper ate two Snickers bars and started on a third. The Rampart crew stood over him and watched him eat.
'I've got room for four men,' said the captain. 'That's all I can take.'
'Jane. Sian. Upstairs,' said Rawlins.
Sian was the rig administrator. A timid, petite girl in her twenties. She also cut hair.
Rawlins sat the girls in his office and dumped a box of manila personnel files in front of them.
'Work up a shortlist,' he said. 'People we can live without. People who deserve to go. There's a weather front moving in. The captain says he'll stick around for a couple of hours then he wants to be gone.'
'Why me?' asked Jane, daunted suddenly to find herself in a position of responsibility. 'Why do I have to choose?'
'You're a priest. You're impartial. And I better stay downstairs otherwise there'll be a riot.'
Rawlins took his yellow Taser pistol from his desk drawer and checked the charge.
'Let's finish this quickly,' he said. 'The sooner that boat is out of here the better.'
'Christ,' said Sian, when Rawlins was gone. 'We could be deciding if people live or die, you realise that?'
'Let's start a list,' said Jane. 'See if we can narrow it down.'
There was a whiteboard on the wall next to a picture of a tropical beach. Jane bit the cap from a pen and wrote names.
'Okay,' said Jane. 'Who stays for certain? Who can we strike off the list right away?'
She put a cross through FRANK RAWLINS. 'Goes down with the ship. He'd be insulted if we even considered him.'
She put a cross through ELI
ZABETH RYE. 'The installation needs a doctor. Essential personnel.'
'Says here she has a son,' said Sian.
'Rawlins won't let her go. I guarantee it.'
She crossed out GARETH PUNCH. 'We need a chef.'
'Any fool can flip an egg.'
Jane shook her head. 'Everyone is talking like we will be out of here in a week or two, but truth is we might be stuck a while. We need someone who can manage a kitchen, eke out provisions.'
Jane crossed out three more names. 'Senior ops. Maintenance. Maintenance. We need people who can keep the lights on.'
'Six down.'
'Anything in the files?'
'I can give you two names right away. Rosie Smith and Pete Baxter. Rosie is diabetic. She injects insulin every day. They have a crate of the stuff on ice in medical. We're supposed to feed her sugar or something if she has a fit.'
Jane circled ROSIE SMITH. 'All right. She's on the boat. Pete Baxter?'
'Heart attack four years ago. He takes some kind of blood- thinning medication. I heard he brought his own defibrillator. Keeps it by his bed. I'm astonished they gave him a job.'
Jane circled PETE BAXTER. 'Two more. Maybe we should pull names out of a hat. It might be the easiest way.'
Fox News looped the same footage over and over.
'. . . may God defend us in this dark and difficult hour . .
The President's sombre wave as he climbs aboard Marine One and flees the White House.
Food riots. Flaming cars. Humvees in the street.
Nail stood, arms folded, in front of the TV. He stood close enough to see the President's face reduced to picture grain and blur.
He turned round.
The captain was sitting in the corner of the canteen. He was hunched over a bowl greedily spooning soup. His shotgun rested on the Formica tabletop easily within reach.
Nail crossed the room and sat next to his gym buddy, Ivan.
'Reckon you could pilot that boat?'
'Little tug like that? Sure,' said Ivan.
'Seriously. You could get it going? Navigate?'
'Yeah. Pretty certain I could.'
'We have to get his gun.'
