The slow and steady creaking of the station is a constant. It's almost comforting in a way. I only notice it when I think about it, otherwise I would have long since gone insane, but its consistent in a way that nothing else is nowadays. It's a simple way to ground myself amidst it all, the split wires and crushed steel which I brush through. My hand waits in front of me to move apart the rubble: I haven’t been in this part of the station since it happened, so there hasn’t been a chance to clear out any of the more dangerous wreckage and much less the random debris. I part a flat sheet of rubber once used for insulation that obstructs my view, carefully navigating my legs around the seemingly endless pile of metal scraps and carbon-fibre tubing. As the rubber moves above my head I freeze.
Currently a steel beam stands in the center of the hallway, clearly having sheared through the superstructure before hitting the armor plating on this level, if one is to go by the massive hole in the wall along its arc. This section was a buffer between the inner and outer station, meant to ensure nothing happening in the former affected the latter. A surprisingly well thought out countermeasure given the otherwise uninspired construction, and one that I am immensely happy for. I don’t doubt that the superheavy support would have gone all the way out into the void had it not been stopped by this well placed armor belt. Shame that they had skimped on that same protection for the actual outer hull and had instead gone for exterior shielding, something about having to only protect one side from what I had heard in the break room. Because of that little cost saving feature I couldn’t go anywhere near sections 21-b through 34-b This was especially unfortunate given that was where the hangar was.
In any case, the beam. The area surrounding it was no less cramped and unpleasant than my current position but the lights which covered every side, floor and ceiling in the station were on and I could see the few control panels with unbroken screens flickering idly. That was a good sign: it meant that the support hadn’t snapped all the redundant wiring on its way down, even the closest ones. A lucky break if there ever was one. A somewhat less fortuitous turn of events is the state of the hunk of metal itself
An electrical line (neon green) is snaked around it which is, really, not my favorite part of the day so far. I lower my hand, my left, before raising its righty counterpart and whispering in a low, calm tone “Mini, detect energy signatures.”
A high and squeaky response comes almost immediately. “Sure thing, boss!”
My construction suits visor fills with lights. Some of them are represent numbers, other words, but I don’t need to look at them to know the verdict. An overpowering blue haze has fallen over the exposed wiring. “Fuck,” I curse softly.
Neon green wiring led directly to the secondary reactors. The ones that were currently on and spewing out enough electricity to electrocute the populations of most habitable moons. My construction suit is pretty good at dealing with that kind of thing but there’s a limit there.
“Do you want me to read you the voltage readings, Boss?”
I sighed. “No thank you Mini”
“Whatever you say Boss!”
Whatever idiot “HR guru” designed the standard VI like this deserves a special place in hell, I muse as I glance towards my power indicator at the top left of my visor. It reads “45%,” which translates as about two hours. Another “cost saving feature” from management: shitty battery life. It took me an hour to get here, which means another hour to get back plus whatever time it takes to grab the stuff and run. I don’t have time for this.
I sigh again, deeper this time, and turn to my left. Keyboard, floor panel, adhesive, expired ration pack. Just more junk. I turn to me right and what I see makes my eyes widen slightly. A scratched up sign reads “Cafetaria, 20m” with a little arrow pointing in the direction of my obstacle. I’m close.
I turn my head back around and stare at the beam. “Mini, turn off energy detection”
The little thing in my head chirps in the affirmative and the blue haze lifts from the room. I can now clearly see a door behind the thing blocking my way. My heart beats slightly faster. I need in, I think desperately. The food recycler in there was going to make foraging expeditions a thing of the past. Sure the supplies back home would last me a while longer but things were getting more and more dangerous every time I went out. The way things were going I was more than likely going to bite it sooner than later.
An unpleasant thought enters my head. What if its locked? I didn’t have a key card to the mess, none of the laborers did. The cooks mostly left it unlocked except during the night but occasionally they kept it closed for privacy, presumably because some waitress was shagging a chef. Everything had gone to shit during the afternoon so it probably wouldn’t be locked. But what if.
I shook my head. I’d survived this long and I wasn’t exactly enthused about the other option. Just...get to the damn door first. All I had to do was somehow get past the electrical deathtrap between me and it.
I take a closer look. Sections of wire, still clearly connected to the main line, are spread along the ground. There’s enough space between them that I could perhaps move between them if I was desperate, although I would rather not take my chances. All it takes is a split second of contact for me to literally combust much like a juice-filled water balloon. The walls have some handles in case the artificial gravity fails and they seem to be free of any coppery vines of death. That being said the massive holes in either end make them seem somewhat...unstable. Better than the floor, though. I consider for a second just getting rid of the obstacle: my blowtorch isn’t going to be running out of fuel anytime soon and it has enough range to cut the whole thing without my getting unduly close, but the idea of the entire superstructure falling on top of my make the idea somewhat less palatable. No way I can just cut the wires at the distance I need, either. I’m good but not that good.
My lips purse slightly as i think. My options don’t look good. Either I risk myself dying to human error, and I’ve never been very graceful, or roll the dice on the station not being shit, which is a bad bet to make given how much the union complained about it. “Looks like I’ll be scavenging for rations a while longer” I murmur to myself lightly. I turn around, moving the junk around me in the process. I’ve already gone through the workshop and armory for tools, though I haven’t gone through them all, so there should be something in the stash to help. Worst case scenario I’m wrong and I come back. No harm done.
A thud echoes through the hallways.
I stop suddenly. My breathing slows as my heart rate increases.
No no no no no no it’s supposed to be on the other side of the station, I saw it on the goddamn cameras.
Thud. I can feel a tremor in my boots
Fuck, it can’t be more than two junctions down. I was too caught up in everything to notice it. I’m getting sloppy, too confident, and it's going to get me killed.
There’s no point in running. It’s faster than I am, much faster.
Too much noise and it’ll decide to stop playing. Have to get out of here. I carefully turn around back to the door. I’ll have to risk going through.
My breath hitches: it's the goddamn wires. The shaking’s moved them around, they’re everywhere. No place to step. Every inch around the beam is covered.
I don’t want to die I don’t want to die, not like Jenkins did when it got him, I can still smell the skin on the bulkhead
...only sixty days left, goddamnit, sixty days and I was free...
Thud. A low drone can be heard.
Jenkins had talked management into setting up the insulated flooring everywhere. I remember the party the union threw after it. Man wouldn’t shut up about.
The flooring is close to one hundred percent non-conductive. Better than plastics as a rule, except in cost efficiency. Problem is that it’s not as strong nor as heat resistant as the treated steel, so much so that they have to replace it every so often...
...so much so that I can cut it right out of the floor. If I can do that than I can take it and put anywhere I need, anywhere that I need not to be electrocuted…
I move at once. My blowtorch comes out of the holster on my hip in one smooth movement. There’s a dial on the side with a red to green color gradient along its axis. With my thumb I move the pointer towards the green, the lower settings. If I’m too loud I’m done for. Memories of bleached skin and still twitching limbs stretched over air ducts fill my mind. I lean down towards a bit of unobscured floor large enough for my needs, bring down my tool and pull the trigger.
The droning grows louder, bit by bit. I can feel the urge to curse but hold it back: its not running yet, I still have time. My arm moves deftly to cut out two small squares, each large enough to fold around my feet. I can tell already that I didn’t bring any adhesives, wanting to take as little as possible to make it quick. It wasn’t supposed to be here I think wildly as I set the torch to its lowest possible strength and heat up the metal. This wasn’t going to be fun.
The construction suits were designed with use of tools in mind. It is because of this that the standard suit had thermal shielding in the upper body, to avoid blowtorch injuries. But not the lower body. That’s where all the mountings were, not enough space to pad it out with all that material. There was enough that this wouldn’t kill me…
But damn me if it wouldn’t hurt like hell.
I take one of the red hot metal sheets on both hands. I can barely feel the heat. I bring it slowly down to my right foot.
It’s all I can do not to scream. I bite my tongue as heat diffuses throughout my foot, through my blood and through my mind.
With a cry held behind my teeth I bend the now malleable steel around the edges of my boot. I can feel it cooling, fitting my limbs form like a glove. With shaking hands I reach for the other, confirming that it’s still hot enough to work with. I bring it to my other foot and do the same the before, the pain no less for the repetition as the damnable noise comes ever closer. I can hear the breathing now, a terrible discordant thing with a hundred tones overlapping in a low, husky cacophony. Sometimes I think I can hear a muffled moan amidst it.
I move swiftly. It’ll smell me any second now, its right around the corner. I can almost see the shadow out of the corner of my eyes. I move without hesitation over the wires. Either it’ll kill me too quickly for me to care or I’ll get across. I do so in two long leaps. I can feel eyes on my back as the low drone turns into a high wine. Its spotted me, its breathing has grown heavier and louder. “Cafeteria door, open!” I yell, feeling no shame at how my voice cracks.
In that moment, everything slows. I can’t help but think that it would be ironic if the door was locked. Fitting, even.
I slam my hand against the door controls, pressing the back of the fist against the ID reader. Every breath is an eternity, every eternity something beyond that, something indescribable except to those who know what total fear is like.
The door opens and I fly in. The floor tremors.
I turn around as the door shuts. My eyes fall on the crack between the two reinforced sections. A gaunt, stretched face with black eyes smiles at me upon four legs as I watch it fully close.
I stand there for a moment, looking at the entry. I can still hear the breathing through it, lessened though it is. My visor is filled with warnings about my heart rate, about exhaustion and about nerve damage. I ignore them.
I move away from entrance, heading towards the back of the kitchen. The mess tables are full of opened ration packs, long since inedible. I think I can see bits of flesh in some of them. I ignore them, instead looking only at the vat that sits on the top of a counter, sitting innocuously among the silverware. On it, in bold faced yellow lettering, is the words “Food Reyc Vat, Use With Caution”
I sit down on the ground against some of the drawers and stare at it. Never again, I think.
As I lay there in a backdrop of a world gone mad, from outside the door, clear as day, I hear singing.
