Outpost

Jane woke, stretched, and decided to kill herself. If she hadn’t found a reason to live by the end of the day she would jump from the rig. It felt good to have a plan.

Sometimes people don’t have to say or do anything weird. They just sit there, quietly sipping tea, all the while putting out an ultrasonic scream like they are dying inside.

you know,' said Jane, 'for a while there I thought we would be okay.

They say a happy childhood is a lousy preparation for life. Kids who spend their playground days fat, ginger or gay know the truth. The world has always been full of vicious predators. For plenty of people this carnage and savagery is business as usual.

Negative courage. Give up on yourself, and you have nothing left to fear. You become invincible.

But if you fake any trait long enough it becomes an essential part of you, like your fingerprint. So there’s no point telling yourself not to be scared. You can’t control your thoughts and emotions. But you can control your actions. In the end, we are the sum of what we do.

But imagine if we were the only people left. The last men on earth. I’d be the best golfer in the world right now. You’d be the only priest. And Ghost would be the only Sikh. Imagine that. A four-hundred-year religion terminating in a dope-head grease monkey.” “I thought you liked the bloke.” “I do. But think about it. All the people that made you feel worthless and small down the years. The bullies and bosses. All gone. It’s exhilarating, if you think about it. Freedom from other people’s expectations. We can finally start living for ourselves.

The operating table was empty. 'Where's he gone?' demanded Jane. 'he didn't leave a note,' said Rye

The burden of selfhood,” she sighed. “Life-long anguish. Straining to support an elaborate artifice every waking moment. Trying to maintain our bullshit personas. Haircuts, clothes. Making our big fucking statements to an indifferent world. We drink, we smoke, we squander fortunes on DVDs, anything to escape ourselves for a few blessed minutes.

Everyone gets tested. You never see it coming. But sooner or later the moment arrives and you have to account for yourself.

Yeah,” sighed Jane. “I suppose. But that’s the problem. I can cope with despair. But hope keeps fucking me up.

Jane felt self-conscious each time Ghost saw her naked. A lifetime of fathood had left her with sagging skin. Ghost didn’t seem to mind. He had a paunch and a hairy back. “All the supermodels are dead, baby,” he told her. “Let it go.

Kill me,” he said. “Do it clean.” He sat at a cocktail piano. He played ‘I Get a Kick Out of You’. Rye stood behind him. “You’re pretty good,” said Rye. “Yeah. Always wished I’d gone professional.” Rye killed him halfway through the third verse.

I read a lot of travel books before I came here. Fantasised what it would be like. I read Scott’s journal. Those last entries as they froze to death in that tent. ‘Had we lived, I should have made a tale to tell of the hardihood, endurance and courage of my companions which would have stirred the heart of every Englishman.’ I got totally caught up in the romance.” “Scott was a self-aggrandising dick.

Thing is, what does a hero look like these days? Muscles and lycra? Life isn’t a contest of strength anymore. Jobs, banks, taxes. Boring social reality.

I’m going to miss you, girls,” he told the plants. “You have names for them?” croaked Jane. “This is Beatrice.” “You’re not really a people person, are you?” “Humans piss me off.

A slow dragging sound from below the walkway. 'i don't think we're alone down here,'said Punch

Ghost grabbed the cab cage and kicked at the driver. Flesh tore. The crewman ripped away from the forklift and fell on the ice, steering wheel welded to his hands. Ghost stamped on the man’s head until it burst. “Konecranes. Not one of ours.