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treat people at the same time. Normally the first room was used as a reception and waiting area. A door at the back led to the main treatment room. Given the size of the task at hand though, both rooms were being used to tend to the injured.
    “I’ll take care of your hand and then you’d better get on,” Grau said, surveying the chaotic scene.
    “This is ridiculous. You can’t cope with this many people in this space!”
    “No, I know. I’m going to commandeer gym, but that’s my problem to organise, not yours. Come on, we need to patch you up.”
    “And who is going to patch you up?”
“I’m an old man, I’m used to working at reduced capacity,” Grau said with a grin. He leaned his crutch against a cabinet, opened a cupboard and pulled out a large plastic box. With a quick rummage inside he produced a sterile patch.
    “This will take away the burning sensation and protect the remaining skin. It also contains a mild anaesthetic which will help with the pain,” he said, sticking the self adhesive patch on Lucya’s hand. “It will be good for twelve hours, then it needs to be changed, so come back and see me then.”
    “In the gym,” Lucya said smiling.
    “Yes, in the gym. I hope you will bring with you good news from your radios.”
    “I hope so too Grau, I really do.”
    She left quickly, intending to return to the bridge as instructed, but at the stairs she hesitated. Her hand had been dealt with quickly, perhaps she had time to change out of her clothes? They were covered in smelly ash, and had begun to melt in places, no doubt from the heat of the burning lifeboats. She took a snap decision, and headed down towards deck three.

Twelve

    THE SOUND HAD come from further down the corridor. A couple of cabins away at the most. Jake’s heart leaped into his mouth. He had heard a gunshot only once before. He was just a child at the time, visiting a store with his father late one night. It was in their home town of Portsmouth, a wealthy area with a low crime rate, and an even lower rate of violent crime. On that particular night the store was having its takings collected by the security company. A pair of masked gunmen had burst through the doors just as the security van driver emerged from the cashier’s office. They didn’t even threaten him in order to take the cash, they just shot him once in the neck. His bullet and stab proof vest and his helmet offered no protection, and he was killed almost instantly. Jake witnessed the whole thing. The gunman had even winked at him through his balaclava on his way out. He’d had to provide a statement to the police. He’d also needed a year of counselling from a specially trained child psychologist.
    The sound of the gunshot he had just heard brought the memory flooding back. Sweating, he paced silently along the passage. He could hear his heart pounding in his ears. There was no question of trying to locate the source of the sound. Better to get back to the bridge and find Max Mooting, tell him to get down here pronto. He was passing the door to Johnny Hollen’s cabin, and stopped. Was that a groaning sound coming from within? He hesitated. There was nobody else out here in the passage. If someone had been in that cabin with a gun, they were still in there. He turned to walk away, when the cabin door flew open. A tall thick set man with horn rimmed glasses stepped out. In his right hand he held a semi automatic pistol. In his left hand, a whistle.
    “Hello Jake,” the man said. His voice was flat, devoid of emotion.
    “Captain Ibsen, we’ve been looking for you. Are you alright? I heard a gun.” Jake said, staring at the gun in his captain’s hand. A hand, he realised with horror, that was being raised into the air. A gun, he saw, that was now pointed directly at him. He tried to speak, managed only one word: “Why?”
    The captain took a step towards him. “This is my duty, First Officer. We were supposed to die, like everyone else. We all saw it