All Aboard
Chapter 44 - Act III - INGRESSION
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Chapter 44 - All Aboard
Paysha
After the brothers have extorted the last pound of flesh from the final ‘fugee, their yells jolt us into shuffling along the train, urged on by the rank smell from the Aqualoop’s cavernous tunnels. As Pavel passes each connected capsule, he ducks underneath to undog its entrance hatch and let a short rope ladder unroll to the ground. The racket from the compressors cuts out and Stanis walks back up the line to help his brother roughly corral us into groups, one to each capsule. But Tom ignores them and pushes his way through the jostling passengers towards the centre of the train, Archie and I in his wake.
The middle capsule is larger then the rest, with more pipework on its roof. Elbowing others aside, Tom shucks his pack and climbs the short ladder. A pause, then his hand beckons me up and I discard my own pack to pull myself through the narrow hatch. As I stand up, the acrid taint of salt, sweat and fear fills my nostrils. Slatted benches line the capsule’s cylindrical walls, piled high with old neoprene skins. Empty wire racks sit at head-height above them and diving boots litter the damp metal floor. Dead people can’t undress themselves, but the discarded skins tell me water must still be entering the capsule when it descends into the ‘Loop.
I look around for a source of breathable air. Fixed to the upward curve of one wall is a series of pipes and wheeled valves. But only one pair of coiled hoses is hooked to a small distribution board. So how do…? Then it clicks into place: each capsule isn’t a sealed submersible, like the submarine acting as a tractor engine. They’re more like diving bells. The hatch won’t be clamped shut until we reach the tunnel’s maximum depth. Then we’ll only have whatever oxygen remains inside to keep us alive.
Archie’s impatient cries come through the hatch, and Tom and I haul in the packs he shoves through the opening, followed by himself. More ‘fugees follow impatiently, pushing and pulling their belongings through the narrow opening, until there’s about twenty looking around, faces etched with anxiety. Many of them are openly staring at me and I glare right back until Archie leans over and whispers, “You haven’t fooled them.” He’s right. I’m the only woman in here. The rest must have boarded a separate capsule with the children.
I can hear meagre clothing being stuffed into bags, then the stretch and squeak of old skins and boots being pulled on.
“I’m not leaving,” I reply. “The other capsules will be full.”
Archie shrugs. “Up to you. Just watch out for that big Stinker who’s been sniffing around for ages.”
I thump his arm in reflex. “Idiot.” He looks more scared than he should be.
One man starts undressing. There’s a brief pause and the rest follow. I turn away to avoid awkwardness on both sides. I can hear meagre clothing being stuffed into bags, then the stretch and squeak of old skins and boots being pulled on.
“Grab me some skins before they run out,” I hiss to my ungallant companions. As Tom hops on one foot, half-undressed, Archie grabs an undersized suit with mismatched boots and shoves them into my hand. Necessity is the mother of invention and I perform a contortionist’s act to change into them. I only partially succeed. When I turn around, at least forty eyeballs swivel elsewhere. “Thanks for the help,” I say, stuffing my clothes and boots into my pack. I might have lost my tits, but I’ve still got my hips. Get over yourselves, gentlemen.
Archie’s grin has been replaced by his earlier frown. “You’re the diving expert, Pash. What’s the deal here?” he asks, receiving an eye-roll from the bigger Stinker with greater expertise.
“I think they’re going to let the air in here naturally compress as we go deeper into the water, then add hydrogen to counter the bends. It’s going to become very cold, wet and smelly. Not sure how fast this thing goes, but hopefully it won’t take long.”
“Hydrogen?”
“Yeah, I know. But better a squeaky voice and chilled to the bone than being dead from the bends.”
“Suppose so,” he replies dubiously. “So why are we wearing skins?”
Tom is dying to outdo the non-diver: “Because when the air in ‘ere gets squished, only thing left to fill the space’ll be close to a ‘undred tonne of stinkin’ water.”
“They’re not closing the hatch?” says Archie. I shake my head, wondering why his voice sounds like he’s already breathing a hydrogen mix.
As we stuff our clothes into our packs and stow them on the overhead racks, Stanis and Pavel enter the capsule, the latter pulling up the ladder without closing the hatch. Stanis is now silent and his actions business-like; a diver about to descend. They mate their suits’ hoses to the distribution board’s extensions and Stanis opens a valve. A light on the panel flips from red to green and, with a mutual thumbs-up, they lower their masks onto their faces. Tom and I trade looks. Everything that’s happening is against our ingrained Stinker habits. Failure to perform pre-dive checks breaks all the rules.
There’s still a tightness in my chest and Tom shifts uneasily on his feet, as we get under way with a jolt, the screech of the wheels piercing my ears. Through the hatch opening, the track hypnotically rushes by, faster and faster, as the ancient fluorescent tubes that sway from the ceiling replace sunlight. We enter the Loop’s tunnel with a deafening roar, the stink of decay increasing a thousandfold. The brothers flash their torches intermittently on faces which stare back in mute fear. We’re without masks or melons and our fate depends on three reckless submariners.
Archie stares at the dark hole in the floor, knuckles white from gripping the overhead racking. I’ve never seen him look so scared. “Don’t worry,” I shout. “The water won’t fill the capsule or else we’ll all drown.”
Archie holds up a trembling hand to shield his eyes from the torchlight lingering on his face. “It doesn’t have to rise at all, Pash,” he says, suppressing a shiver.
“What do you mean?” I reply, the torch’s blinding beam finding my face.
“I don’t…I can’t swim.”
Oh, Archie. I reach out to him and he clutches at my hand like so much human flotsam. “It won’t be as bad as before,” I say, in a vain attempt to reassure myself; to shut out a Flood’s worth of cold dark horrors.
The torchlight blinks out, leaving a retinal kaleidoscope of blotches on a pale, terrified face as we breach the reeking depths, unwilling passengers descending into another man-made hell.
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Oh! You're teasing us now, having to wait till Thursday for what happens next...