Tales of Tinfoil: Stories of Paranoia and Conspiracy

by David Gatewood (ed)

  We walk for what feels like hours. The damn wind is a constant, piercing howl that disorients as much as it deafens. It buffets us as we walk, making each step a trial. My lips are dry and numb; the skin on my exposed cheeks no longer feels any pain, and I know this is worse than feeling it. My eyes are narrowed so the swirling storm of snow can’t sting them.

  There are no trees here, and it is rare that even a shrub breaks through the carapace of the frozen snow. The landscape’s only features are the vague contours of the mountains that make this a valley. Every so often we stop, and the Eskimo makes me drink from a sealskin flask he retrieves from inside his furs. The first time we do this, he hands me something and indicates that I wrap it around my head. It is almost like a scarf, and it fits beneath the hood of my immersion suit. He adjusts it so the fur frames my face and catches the worst of the snow. I nod my thanks, but he returns my gratitude with silence and an expressionless face.

  It is during one of these breaks that the bear bursts out of the fog of snow and winds. There is no warning. I snap toward it, this nightmarish vision of yellowed fur and silent fury. It moves so quickly, the sound of its charge melting into the howl of the wind, that I can do nothing but stare. It doesn’t go for me, or for the Eskimo, but for Mike. The easy kill.

  I didn’t realize it, but the Eskimo has already dropped Mike and is levering the rifle from his shoulder. He kneels and fires once. I have no idea if he hits, but the bear doesn’t stop. I am blinded by its speed and power. It launches itself, almost gracefully, front legs out, snout gaping.

  Its jaw opens wider than I think possible, long teeth dripping with saliva. The black inside that fearsome maw engulfs me as if I am dragged into it. Only then does it bellow at us. A paw comes round in a swift, precise arc, slamming into me and knocking me back. I drop Mike, and the bear pounces on him. It tears through his immersion suit, deep crimson gashes opening up in that half-second. There is a second shot, and a howl from the bear.

  It claws Mike again, then bounds away into the grey. The Eskimo fires for a third time, but I hear nothing after that.

  I sink to my knees, staring open-mouthed at the wounds on Mike’s chest. Blood seeps through the torn fabric, and I know he’s in trouble. In my grab bag is a basic first aid kit, but I know there are few bandages in there that can deal with these wounds. I fumble for it anyway, but the Eskimo shouts something to me. He is kneeling beside us, rifle out, searching the snowstorm. I don’t know what he’s saying, and soon, frustrated, he realizes this. He waves his hand, indicating, I think, for me to put the first aid kit away.

  “We’ve got to do something,” I shout, jabbing my hands at Mike.

  The Eskimo shakes his head again and points into the fog.

  “Fucking shoot it, then,” I shout, waving in the direction the bear went. He must detect the desperation in my voice, because his eyes narrow. He jabs his hand at the kit and points again into the fog. Then he shoulders the rifle and stands, seizing Mike’s arms.

  I don’t know what to do. I stare dumbly at the wounds, still weeping blood, and then at him. Can we carry Mike somewhere and dress these wounds? Somehow stop the bleeding? I have no idea. I am lost. On a boat, I’d take him inside and get him seen to. We’d radio for help and make our way back.

  Radio. I search my grab bag for the cell inside. Maybe there’ll be a signal, but of course there isn’t. Way out here, in a storm. Whatever was screwing around with the radio back on the boat is making damn sure there’s no signal out here either.

  Even in gloves, my hands are shaking and numb. Fear, cold, all of it. Even if I tried putting on bandages out here, I’d be fumbling all over the fucking place. I stagger to my feet, my legs weary with fear and exhaustion, and pick Mike up. I try not to look at the mess of his chest; instead I focus on moving through the snow one step at a time.

  I glance at the white and grey around me, those veiled shadows of the mountains, and my head spins with how I got here.

  Whether I am going to die here.

  We push on until I’m almost too exhausted to continue. I stumble, realize I’m too tired to redress my balance, and fall. The next thing I see is the Eskimo standing over me, the rifle off his shoulder. Has he had enough? I wonder. Is he going to cut his losses now and leave me here? I’m a liability, I know that. So is Mike. I don’t panic at the thought of this; instead I welcome it. I want to sleep now. I’m so tired, I just want to lie here and let sleep take me. Let the storm blow itself out, and I’ll wake up in the morning to bright blue skies. Maybe I’ll wake up at home, in my own bed, and this will all have been a nightmare that I’ll shrug off with a shiver. Does it matter now? All I want to do is sleep.

  Something shakes me, and my eyes snap open. The Eskimo has grabbed my suit and is hauling me upward. I shake my head, but he shouts at me. He jabs a finger into the fog and puts his hands together at the thumbs, making a shape that I realize is a house or a tent. His camp!

  I nod and try to get up. He loops an arm under mine and I stagger to my feet. We pick Mike up again, and I shudder at the sight of his pale blue face.

  Umqy

  I whisper a prayer of thanks when I see the yaranga again. I will light a fire inside and we can warm ourselves. Eat some of the food I have buried. Rest a little, then head for the village. We are both exhausted, and it is still a long way. Even reindeer will find it difficult in this weather. The American has lost hope and has no energy left. All he sees now is the never-ending storm, and he is slowly submitting to it. Does he realize his friend is dead? Inside the yaranga, he will see. I do not know how he will react—if it will snap his already thin resolve.

  I untie a flap and we struggle inside. We lay his friend down gently, and I watch for a second as the American struggles with bandages.

  I set about lighting the fire. The American says something to me. When I do not stop, he makes furious hand signals. He wants to leave on the sled now. I shake my head.

  “We must get warm,” I say. “We must eat and then go. You have no energy, even for the sled.”

  He shakes his head, frustrated because he does not understand. He makes the same movement again with his arms, then indicates his friend.

  “We cannot take him with us,” I say, shaking my head. I point to the dead man, then to the ground. “We will come back for him.”

  The American’s eyes widen. The moment I knew would inevitably come. More furious shaking of his head. He gets up to go outside, and I reach for him. He slaps my arm away and disappears outside, allowing a flurry of snow inside and what little heat we had gathered to escape. The anger rises inside me. You have caused this, I think. It was your foolishness. I have failed because of you. But still you will not listen to me, the man who knows this land better than you.

  I feel the sled pull away from the wall of the yaranga, and my anger boils over. I stand up, seize my rifle, and head outside.

  “No,” I bellow to him. “You will not take my sled or my animals. Your friend is dead. I will not allow your stupidity to kill me too!” I make hand movements that will leave him in no doubt as to my meaning. I point back to his friend.

  He shakes his head in desperation and shouts back at me.

  I level the rifle at him. This is not our way, and I feel wretched doing it, but he will kill us both if we do not get inside and get warm, then eat something and rest. He eyes the rifle and I indicate for him to go back inside. Slowly, anger written all over his face, he complies.

  Eventually the fire is going, but the American ignores it. He stares at his friend, hands resting on the man’s chest, shoulders shuddering. His head is bowed, and I know the pain he is feeling. There is nothing I can do to assuage his guilt. It is the same guilt I felt when my wife passed away.

  When at last he looks up, and stares at me with eyes rimmed in red, I offer him some warm food. I hope that he can see my own sadness; that he can understand that I want nothing more than to help him. I watch him turn away from his friend—a deliberate, but uncertain mo
vement. He swallows hard, takes the food, and eats.

  Scott

  I close Mike’s eyes. There’s no luster to them. They are dull and I cannot bring myself to look at them. Somehow his face seems more peaceful when I can’t see his eyes. I don’t know what to do now; I’m lost. I’m only vaguely aware of the tent I’m kneeling in, of the warmth of the fire beside me. For a moment, until the Eskimo hands me a metal bowl with something like stew in it, I believe completely that I am alone.

  I stare at him, this old man, a stranger to me in every way. But I take the bowl. I can’t believe I’m eating while my dead friend lies cold next to me. But I’m so hungry, so exhausted, I know I am in desperate need of the calories. The Eskimo was right: we both needed to rest and take shelter from the snowstorm. We both needed to eat. And deep down I knew, but couldn’t admit, that Mike was never going to make it. He hadn’t even woken up since being hit in the boat, and the pressure on his brain slowly killed him. I hang my head, the guilt bleeding into my heart.

  The Eskimo doesn’t look at me much. He just eats and busies himself getting warm. The rifle is close by—he doesn’t trust me now. I’m a liability out here, emotional and unable to think clearly. I panic suddenly, convinced he might leave me here and take the sled. No, I tell myself. Why would he feed you then leave you behind?

  We stay like that, getting warm and eating everything the hunter has. It takes maybe an hour, but the storm shows no sign of abating. When my energy returns, I get up and pull on my gloves. They’ve been next to the fire and are warm but not completely dry. The hunter looks up. I glance outside and he understands. He nods.

  I reach for Mike, but he says something. I look up to see him shaking his head. He wants me to leave Mike here. I shake my head in return.

  “We have to take him with us,” I say. “We can’t leave him here.”

  The Eskimo understands this. Not the language, of course, but context lends him all the understanding he needs. He says something to me, and there is sadness in his eyes.

  “Look, I know it’s stupid,” I say. I reach over to him, hoping that physical contact will make him see the emotion in my words, how much I need this. He flinches and glances down at the rifle. I hold up my hands instead to show him I mean him no harm. “I need to take him with me.”

  There is silence between us, and I turn away from him and pick Mike up by the arms. It’s ungainly, undignified, but the only way I can do it. I’ll fucking walk if I have to. I just can’t leave him.

  The Eskimo stares at me, and I know he thinks I’m crazy. It’s dangerous out here to be carrying dead weight. I am appalled at the way I phrase that thought in my head.

  The old man begins to cough. I’ve seen him do it already, but this time it’s bad. There is blood on his gloves and sleeve. He can hardly control it, bent over with a hand on the pole of the tent, and he almost chokes. When he’s finished, he stares at me, anger in his eyes. I ask him if he’s okay, but of course he doesn’t understand. Or he doesn’t want my sympathy. Instead he leans down and picks Mike up with me.

  We take Mike outside and lay him gently on the sled. The Eskimo busies himself tying Mike to it so he won’t fall off. He does it carefully, reverently. He reaches inside his furs and retrieves what looks to be a pouch of tobacco. He unzips Mike’s immersion suit, places it inside, and zips it back up. Then he takes what looks to be a spear, an old thing with a rusted blade lashed to it with thick lengths of twine, and lays it on Mike’s chest. He wraps Mike’s arms around it and ties them together. Finally, he places his own hands together and begins to murmur. I wonder if he’s saying a prayer, and I feel a hard lump in my throat.

  The Eskimo tethers the reindeer to the sled and sits on top of Mike’s feet. He indicates for me to sit too. He glances back at his tent, nods gently, then shouts to the reindeer, flicking the rod in his hand.

  We begin to move.

  Umqy

  The sled is difficult to control with the weight of three men. The reindeer struggle to pull it, and we make very slow progress. Eventually, mercifully, we see the lights of the village and begin the slow descent into the valley. We both laugh and clasp each other’s arms. The divide of language suddenly means nothing. We both understand.

  But the umqy has been waiting for us. He is cleverer than either of us. This is his land and he has ruled it for longer than man can remember. He knows where the Chukchi have their villages; where I am heading home to. Patiently, by the breathing hole of a seal, he lies in wait for us. Buried by the snow, invisible. He waits downwind, so his smell does not carry to me. He lies perfectly still so I do not see his movement.

  We are less than a sled’s length away when he bursts from his hiding place and attacks. A storm of snow and the thunder of his growl stun us both. The lights of the village have made us weak, complacent. We were almost home, and safe. I should have known that was when he would come—when we were at our most vulnerable. But I have grown old and slow; tiredness has sapped my reason. Perhaps there is a reason the younger hunters are favored now.

  Before I can get the rifle off my shoulder, he is on me, swatting me with his great paws, clawing my face. I am too weak, too old to fight him off. This is what I wanted, I think. What in truth I came out here for. To die with honor, hunting this ancient king of the tundra. So why, now, am I fighting so hard to save my own life? What do I have left to live for?

  My answer is a howl of fury and a blur of bright yellow behind the umqy. The American. The fool jumps on the animal’s back and begins pounding with his fists. He is like a man possessed, howling with rage. His face is a rictus every bit as savage as the animal he fights. The umqy turns from me and bucks and kicks until the American falls away into the snow.

  It looms over him and pounces. The American screams in pain and fear, feverishly pushing the great, snarling jaws away. Claws tear his suit; blood seeps into the snow. He screams again as he fights.

  But the American has achieved what he set out to do. His distraction is complete. He is cleverer than the umqy, this young foolish man. He has risked his own life to save both of us. I shoot until the rifle is empty. I know every bullet finds its mark. The yellowish fur is matted with blood that looks purple in the half-light.

  The American is half-crazed with fear when I reach him; he tries to push me away. He is in great pain, but it is all I can do to lift him onto my sled.

  The younger hunters from the village run out to meet us when finally I arrive, and they must see the two Americans, their bright yellow suits standing stark against the snow. They look at me as they help the men from the sled, their eyes wide. One of them nods to me.

  * * *

  My daughter and grandchildren bustle around me at the table, insisting I eat. The shaman is seeing to the American. His clothes have been removed and he is wrapped in warm, dry western clothes and lies on a bed. He is too exhausted to eat, and I think he has collapsed.

  I break into a fit of coughing, and my daughter is yelling at me and crying all at once. But she sees someone different now. My family, and the other villagers, know now that there is life left in me, and I can die with pride. There is the respect there that was lacking before. The respect I have craved since my wife died, but which now seems so churlish to me. I did not bring home the umqy I went searching for, as if that would have been proof of anything. Instead, the umqy taught me the last lesson I will learn in this life. That when we grow old, we must step aside and allow others to make their way. We have had our time, lived our lives, and made our mistakes. Others must take their turn.

  Only one of the Americans will go home to his family, whatever loved ones he has, and he will be able to take his turn because of me. I should be proud of that, but instead all I can think of is his friend, who will never again see those he loves. Nature is capricious; the spirits take those they wish for themselves. I know the sadness of that understanding will never leave me.

  Scott

  I hardly hear the helicopter, or the people who come into th
e small room where I am lying on a bed, in ill-fitting clothes that are not mine. Military men take hold of me, not roughly but still firmly, and lead me out of the room into the storm again. I see flashes of red on their uniforms, the red star that I have only seen in Cold War spy films. The helicopter has a light blue belly, dappled camouflage on the rest of the fuselage, and the same red star. Two sets of rotor blades are churning the air above it. I shield my eyes as they lead me to it. I see Mike inside, laid out on a yellow stretcher. More men and women in uniform flutter around him like insects. One holds a bag of a clear liquid attached to a line that disappears beside him.

  He’s dead, I want to tell them, but I can’t. Instead I begin to sob. The men have to support me as they half-carry, half-drag me to the helicopter. They buckle me in, but all I can do is stare open-mouthed at the man I used to sail and surf with; the man I would knock back beers with. The sad, empty body that is no longer the friend I knew.

  As we lift off, I stare down at the Eskimo. He coughs hard again into a glove, and I wonder what will become of him, this quiet man who risked his life to save mine, a stranger from another world. We both know he does not have long, and it echoes hollow inside me that a man so rich in honor should die out here in a place which, to me, seems so lonely.

  I wave to him, my hand still shaking.

  He nods back, then turns away, huddled against the wind.

  * * *

  CLASSIFIED

  INQUIRY INTO THE RESPONSIBILITY OF THE

  HIGH FREQUENCY ACTIVE AURORAL RESEARCH PROGRAM (HAARP)

  FOR THE DEATH OF US CITIZEN MICHAEL PETROVSKY

  REPORT

  OF THE

  US COMMITTEE ON ARMED SERVICES

  UNITED STATES SENATE