Infestation

- 22 -

“Are you okay?” Hynd asked Svetlanova as they each carried the last two canisters of cooking oil up from the larder to the top deck. Her arms hurt from the two previous journeys, she felt dog tired and ready to lie down and sleep. But it wasn’t what the sergeant was asking her and they both knew it.

“I’ll live,” she replied, then realized in her tiredness she’d spoken in Russian, so she repeated it in English. “I’ll live. It’s seeing them go so fast; it’s not something I’m going to forget in a while.”

Hynd hefted his two oil canisters up onto the top deck, then came back down to take hers.

“We remember them,” he said. “In our thoughts, in our stories, in our dreams, and in the dark nights when we can’t sleep.”

“We’re their libraries, as they were ours? Is that it?”

“Aye, lass. You talked to Mac long enough to learn that, at least. He’d have liked that.”

He lifted the canisters up top, then came back to lend her a hand up the short steps to the upper deck.

It was almost full dark now, only the last glimmer of sunlight far to the west. A crescent moon rose in the east and the sky had cleared from the north, with a blanket of stars slowly taking form overhead. She’d always loved nights like this in the past and had stood on the deck for long hours, marveling at the sky until the cold forced her inside for bonhomie and chatter with the kitchen crew, then vodka and chess with the captain.

All gone now, never to return.

Now the boat felt as dead as the empty place in her heart. She pulled her jacket closed and put up her hood against the cold. She had thick, fur-lined gloves in her pockets but kept her hands uncovered for now; the metal of the weapon already felt icy cold in her hands but she wouldn’t be able to pull the trigger if gloved.

And I’ve got a feeling the shooting is going to start soon.

She looked ahead; the boat was pointed, straight as an arrow, at the island ahead and the wind was still at their back, although nowhere near as strong as it had been an hour before. But they didn’t seem to be getting any closer to land and the boat felt heavy and sluggish, without its usual slow yaw; now it was more of a floundering, like a dog paddling frantically trying to keep afloat rather than the smooth stroke of a seasoned swimmer.

Captain Banks and McCally climbed up through the hatchway a few minutes later.

“Make sure you’ve got a full mag to start with,” Banks said. “This is going to go fast and hot. And if you have to reload, step back behind the others, let them cover you.”

He was speaking for her benefit and she nodded to show she understood. She had to ask for a spare magazine from McCally.

“How are we doing for ammo, Sarge?” Banks asked.

They did a check. Both the sarge and Banks had three mags each. McCally had two and Svetlanova had the fresh one she’d been given and six rounds left in the one she replaced.

“So there’s that,” the sarge said when they were done, “these flares I got from the lifeboat, and these bottles of oil here. Not a lot.”

“But it’ll have to be enough. It’s all we’ve got. When I say run, you run, all of you, no heroes. Either down the stairs or down the hatch; take the quickest route for you and meet at the port side lifeboat; the shackles are loosened so we can get it in the water fast. Remember, nobody else dies here.”

Banks took out the satellite phone and switched it on.

Down in the cargo bay, the blue luminescence shifted.