Night Shift

by Robin Triggs

  Only Abi and Max and Weng had jobs anymore; Max was still trying to improve the heating and ventilation systems, while Abi managed our rations. Weng had to make sure that Fischer and Mikhail survived along with us.

  The passivity sickened me. I couldn’t take the waiting, the static fugue of existence, anymore. I hauled off the many covers that were piled over me and swung my legs to the floor. Every movement was painful now. At least there was no risk of diseases or malnutrition; Abidene and Maggie had plenty of vitamins to draw on. The pain was simply from a lack of calories.

  The only thing we had in abundance was water. I took a long drink, trying to assuage my emptiness.

  Max was awake, crouched by the brazier. She was trying to direct a small fan into the grate. I got unsteadily to my feet and staggered over to her. In the firelight her face looked shallow, haunted.

  “Hey,” I croaked. “What are you doing?”

  She didn’t look round. “Moving air will make the coals burn better, and, if I can get it right, keep the smoke going up the flue rather than poisoning us all,” she said.

  I felt a sudden surge of anguish. “Max—”

  “Don’t,” she cut me off. “I’m sorry, but – I’ve too much to do. Maybe – if we get through this – maybe then we’ll work out who’s to blame. But I’m too busy for any more bullshit now. Too tired. Too cold.”

  I felt rather than heard Weng sitting behind us, on the edge of her bed. On the other side of the fire, Fergie shifted beneath his duvets.

  Above the smell of coal and the acrid taste of the air I caught a whiff of body odor. I wrinkled my nose.

  When I looked at her again, I saw that Max was watching me carefully. “I didn’t do it, Max,” I said in a whisper that I’m not sure I even meant her to hear.

  “You still deny it?”

  “Of course I do.” I was crying. I hadn’t been aware until a drop landed on my hand. I wiped my cheek, and when I looked at my arm I saw I was covered in coal dust, filthy. I felt a sudden wave of revulsion at myself. I wanted to be clean; I so badly wanted to be clean.

  Max sighed and turned back to her work. “We’re nearly out of coal,” she said. “Find someone else and get some more.”

  I stared at her for a moment, then stood. I watched her for a second more, swaying slightly, before turning away.

  “I’ll go too,” Weng said from behind me. It said a lot about our collective states of mind that no one objected, pointed out that Weng was far too slight to defend herself.

  I led the way to the stairs, snatching up the empty sack we’d been using to carry the fuel. Together we put our warmsuits on before going out into the unheated upper levels.

  * * *

  There was something eerie about walking these corridors now. It wasn’t right to say they were abandoned; there were still enough reasons for us to go up and out. But now we’d turned off even the mine lamps and relied on our heavy torches. There should have been rats, or cockroaches, or some other symptoms of decay, but nothing moved. The only sounds were of our feet. I trailed my fingers over the wall, expecting to feel the icy chill, but my gloves registered only the smooth texture. Our breath froze in the air. The empty sack I carried brushed the floor.

  “I need to check on Fischer and Petrovic,” Weng said.

  “Right.”

  We stopped at the door, unlocking it manually and shouldering it open. I held it closed as Weng crossed to the figures on their beds. This room still had power, and I was momentarily blinded as Weng turned on the lights. The heating was working, and for a moment I felt a rush of warmth before my suit adjusted to the ambient temperature. We took our masks off, both of us. I felt unsettled, uncomfortable; only a month underground and it was this room that seemed abnormal, our subterranean existence the natural order of things.

  As my eyes adjusted, I turned to the casualties. They looked so peaceful, Julia and Mikhail, as if suspended in time. The doctor had a faint smile on her lips. Only her pallid skin seemed wrong. That and the tubes running from her nose and mouth, and the drip plugged into her arm.

  If only the room was larger. If only we could be here without multiplying our energy use. If only our presence didn’t endanger the patients. Then we could have stayed here, in the light, if only in shifts.

  Desires hurt too much so I focused on Weng as she examined Julia and Mikhail. She checked all their vitals before she replenished the drips with the nutrients that served as their meals. She changed catheters and bowel bags – an unpleasant business, keeping people alive. I had not seen this before, not seen this side of Weng, this caring, gentle woman. She didn’t seem to notice the smells, the mess that caused me to turn away. When I looked back and met her eyes, they seemed softer than usual. Maybe that was just a trick of the light, but still it was enough to make me try and start a conversation.

  “Are they okay?” I asked.

  “They’re as expected.”

  I took that as a yes. “How are you bearing up?”

  She had been apportioning saline solution to add to the drip, but her head shot round in response to my question. She froze for a moment, the shadow across her face distorting her features. For a moment she looked haggard, like a witch. Then she straightened, and for the first time I really noticed how thin she was. Her breasts had shrunk and she looked disturbingly androgynous. “I’m fine,” she said, her quiet voice carrying clearly through the silence.

  I couldn’t think of anything else to say. Weng returned to her work, then came back to stand by me. I moved to open the door for her, but she held out a hand to stop me.

  “You didn’t kill anyone, did you, Nordvelt?”

  I was taken aback. “N-no,” I stammered. “No, I’m not a killer. I’ve had nothing to do with any of this.”

  She held me in her eyes – dangerous eyes that seemed to swim in and out of focus, seeing and not seeing.

  “Do you know who the killer is?” I asked.

  She shook her head gently, not looking away.

  “We should get the coal,” I mumbled after another pause.

  She nodded, but still did not move. She was standing so close, so close to me now; I could feel her breath on my face, could smell the sweat on her skin. I could see the dirt encrusted on her face, see how ragged her hair had become. What once was strong and lush was now brittle and split. And all the time I was looking at her, she was watching me. She saw nothing better in me.

  She reached out a hand to touch me. She laid her hand on my chest as if trying to feel the bones through the thin skin of my suit. Then she raised her hand to trace the scar on my forehead. And then she lowered it – all the same hand, her right – down to my crotch and she stroked me.

  “De Villiers abused me,” she whispered as if she were in a trance. “I went to McCarthy and he did nothing.”

  “Weng…” I was sweating, my back pressed hard against the door.

  “I was going to kill de Villiers. I planned it all, I worked out how to murder him without anyone finding out it was me. It was the perfect crime.”

  “Weng, please…”

  “I told McCarthy how I felt. He made Fischer give me sedatives.”

  “Why are you telling me this, Weng? What are you doing?”

  Suddenly, without warning, she grabbed the back of my head and pulled me forward and kissed me. I should have pulled away. I should have fought it, but I was so surprised – and despite her skeletal form, it was hardly unpleasant. But then she started to bite my lip. I jerked away, blood running down my chin. I grabbed her shoulders and held her at arm’s distance. “Weng, this isn’t right. What’s got into you?”

  She looked at me for a moment with the light of madness in her eyes. In a second that seemed to run in slow motion, the passion drained from her. Then she was crying. Crying like a little girl. She dissolved into sobs and threw herself at me.

 
What could I do but hold her?

  After maybe half a minute, she pulled back and wiped her eyes with a dirty hand. I could almost see her regaining control. “We should get the coal,” she said with only the slightest tremor of emotion.

  I nodded. We left the infirmary, my lip still stinging from her bite. Madness. I didn’t know how to fit her story into my mind – I believed her, had no doubt that she’d planned de Villiers’s death in the silence of her own private quarters. But I couldn’t see her actually going through with it. Her confession was of hatred, not murder. And I could see no reason for her to destroy the oil rig.

  Opening the vestibule door took most of my strength. We were all so weak, so fragile; without computer assistance, the mere effort of pushing open a door as heavy as that of the main base entrance was a struggle. I stood for a moment, panting, before I attempted the exterior door. Weng watched me in silence as I took a drink of water, declining with a gesture when I offered her my bottle. She dropped her head every time I looked at her.

  Getting the second door open was even more of a struggle, but I managed unaided. My legs could barely sustain my weight. When I felt the heavy metal unseal I paused to pull my mask over my face. And together we went out into the darkness beyond.

  Was this daytime? I could see stars as the breeze darted around me, and for a moment I wanted to just lie down on the ice and sleep. I was aware of the emptiness. I felt it somewhere deep in my soul, felt like I was drunk on it, giddy, and I may have laughed. Then, the moment I wondered if Weng had heard me, the high turned back in on me. It became paranoia, became an agoraphobia that chewed at my belly as if it wanted to burst out of me and explode into the eternal night.

  All the lights that illuminated the courtyard that was Australis base had been extinguished. Our torches glowed feebly – so small, so insignificant. I struggled to control my breathing, swallowed, swallowed again. This was the sort of place in which religions were born. I drew a deep breath and let Weng go ahead, then shoved the door closed behind us.

  Weng led the way towards the workshop and the smelting plant – not that we could see the buildings, or anything beyond the limbus of our lights. I followed her closely.

  “You can have me,” she said quietly, the mask transmitting her voice above the whip of the wind.

  “What?”

  “Max is closed to you. You can have me.”

  “Weng—”

  “I’m used anyway. If you want me, you can have me.”

  I almost laughed. To be having this conversation out here in the frozen wastes, pack ice sighing beneath my feet; what were we supposed to do, just throw away our suits and get to it? And the masks – it’d be like making love to a locust, some alien insect… I shuddered and desperately searched for some way to respond.

  “I’m going to be too busy defending myself against a murder charge to have anybody,” I said.

  She didn’t seem to hear me. “After McCarthy sent me to the doctor…later, a few days later…I told McCarthy he could have me if he helped me destroy de Villiers. And do you know the funny thing?” There was an echo of madness in her laugh.

  We fought the entrance to the coal store open and staggered inside.

  “What’s the funny thing, Weng?” I followed my torchlight to the edge of the giant mound of coal and dropped the sack on the ground before kneeling by it. Slowly, laboriously, I began to shovel lumps in with my hands.

  “He didn’t even hear me.” She gave another mad laugh. “It was late – or early, maybe. Everyone else was in bed, but I couldn’t sleep. Even with the sedatives.” Her voice had taken on its own dreamy quality, and I knew she was lost in her memory. “I wandered the corridors, and I came across McCarthy. I remember so well. He was walking away from me, towards the stairwell. I called to him. I was desperate – it was in that time…” Her voice faded a little. “When the hurt was so clear, the pain a burning needle in my brain. I called to him. He didn’t seem to hear. I called again. I told him I’d be…I’d do anything if he got rid of de Villiers for me.”

  I paused in my shoveling and looked back at her. She was invisible in the darkness, her torch pointing at the ground a few meters away from where her voice was coming from. “What happened?” I asked softly.

  “He walked away. He didn’t even acknowledge me. Just went into the stairwell, murmuring to himself – a name, he kept saying a name, ‘Francis’. McCarthy left…just left. I – I was…I was crying a lot at that time. I kept expecting him to say something to me, to come to me to talk – maybe to…maybe to…to fuck. But he acted as if nothing had happened. Like he didn’t even know I was there. Though he and I were closer than you are to me now.”

  “He was sleepwalking?”

  “I realized that later…” Her words came from a distance, as if she were talking to herself. As if I was a walk-on in a lucid dream.

  The sack was full now – or at least as full as I could carry in my weakened state. I stood and tried to swing it onto my back. I couldn’t. So I dragged it along the floor, just not caring anymore. I was far more concerned for Weng.

  “Come on,” I said. “We’ve got the coal. Let’s get back downstairs.”

  Weng looked up at me as I shone my torch at her. She’d taken off her mask. Her eyes reflected like a cat’s, so clear that I could even see myself, the suited, masked figure who could have been anyone.

  And then it hit me. I knew. I knew who the killer was.

  Chapter Eighteen

  I stood there swaying in the ice-cold wind. My warmsuit protected me from the chill but couldn’t stop the despair from washing over me – and I embraced it. Ahead of me, Weng was making her way back to the barracks, her torch casting a light that seemed mere fodder for the darkness.

  I switched my own torch off. I didn’t want to see. I dropped the sack.

  I took long, slow breaths. Nothing changed, except that Weng was a little further away. Abstractedly, a phrase came to me: winter-over syndrome. They’d gone to great lengths to explain it to me in my training. Winter-over syndrome. It was the reason Weng had been behaving so oddly, I was sure. An observed danger of long periods in Antarctica, winter-over syndrome is caused by stress, social isolation, and a lack of natural light. It can lead to cognitive impairment, hallucinations, insomnia and depression. I could hear the voice of my instructor. I could hear everything in that moment, in that great emptiness: all the words I’d ever heard crashing through my brain all at once and somehow, magically, coming together in harmony, as the pure note of the Antarctic gale.

  I knew who the murderer was. And I wasn’t sure I could live with the knowledge.

  Weng hadn’t noticed that I’d stopped. She wasn’t supposed to leave me alone – no one alone, under any circumstance. But she’d been so wrapped up in her own mind that she’d never really been with me. Maybe this was all a dream to her; it felt enough like that to me. Maybe she was still imagining me by her side, still talking to me. She showed a strength I wasn’t sure I had in me when she forced open the barracks door and disappeared inside.

  I turned aimlessly and wandered away from the barracks, not paying any attention to my surroundings. I was in true darkness now, like I was walking through the void. Cocooned as I was in my suit, all I could feel was the gentle buffeting of the wind.

  I was heading out to die.

  And so I had a new sense of purpose. I oriented myself on the hills that surrounded the base, which showed up only as a deeper black against the sky, and started my last journey.

  I walked slowly and steadily, following the stilled conveyor that marked the way to the mineshaft. I was protected from the winds here and I moved through silence. As I walked I thought again of the events that had led me to this. They brought me no joy. I felt like I was one of Max’s androids. All the wires were plugged in but there was no life, no light behind the eyes. A juddering pace was all I could manage, a mere si
mulacrum of a human being. I wanted out. And my exit would allow the others a little more food, a little more heat, a few more blankets. It was fitting that I should leave on my own. As I’d arrived, and as I’d always been.

  After a little while I reached the ruins of the comms building. I didn’t stop, just carried on upwards. I wasn’t sure why I was going to the minehead; it wasn’t as if it had any special place in my heart. It was just a destination, a place to go. Maybe I too was losing my mind. Maybe I’d lost it long ago, long before I’d come to this damn wasteland.

  It didn’t concern me that I would soon cease to be, but it did bother me that nobody would know why. That I would go to my grave – should I ever get one – with nothing explained, no one the wiser.

  Theo never got a grave. That thought was enough to banish my doubts. And my death should reassure the others that the killer was gone. Remembrance of me didn’t matter. Didn’t matter at all. I had no family to be heartbroken, no lost loves, no true friends. Mine really had been a wasted existence.

  As I reached the entrance to the mine complex, another memory from my training surfaced from my subconscious, bursting open like a bubble.

  Paradoxical undressing: the phenomenon where someone in the final stages of hypothermia will voluntarily remove all their clothes, as if they were burning up, before death. In the past such happenings have been wrongly taken as a sign that the victim was murdered.

  I should have taken off my warmsuit. All I was doing was wasting battery for those who might still need it. I really wasn’t thinking clearly.