by JE Gurley
He grinned and brought his glass to his mouth. “I brought this from Bottineau seven months ago. I’ve been hoarding it for an emergency. I guess this qualifies.” He took a slow sip, letting the liquor roll around his tongue before swallowing.
“Bottineau? Where’s that?”
Removing a folding chair from its hook on the wall, he placed it where the dirty clothes had been and sat down. “North Dakota.”
She chucked. “Geez, couldn’t you get frostbite there?”
“You can’t see the Magellanic Clouds from there.” He glanced out the window as if searching for them. The gibbous moon bathed the stark landscape in a ghostly wan light.
“Why not study something you could see?”
“I’m studying dark matter and its relationship with quasars. The Magellanics are close enough for a good view. Besides, Bottineau’s a boring place.”
“And this isn’t?” She caught herself and added, “Usually.”
He glanced away and took a long sip of his drink. “I have a bad feeling about all this.”
She noticed the way in which he held his glass, tightly, as if the pressure of it in his hand reassured him. When he turned to face her, his face bore a serious expression.
“I was talking with Mark Walls. He’s in charge of telecommunications. He said the source of the problem wasn’t here or atmospherics. The signals just stopped. The satellite is still there. It’s just not relaying anything.”
Her heart tried to jump up her throat. “That’s … impossible.”
“Yeah, that’s what he said.” He leaned back in his seat, stretching his legs out in front of him. “I can’t help thinking that the loss of an outside signal and the appearance of the dead Russians are somehow connected.”
She didn’t see it. Puzzled by his conclusion, she asked, “How? It would take several days’ exposure to the cold to freeze them solid. They must have left Vostok days before that.”
He shook his head. “I don’t know. I just don’t believe in coincidences.”
“A coincidence is a small miracle in which God chooses to remain anonymous,” she replied, remembering a quote from somewhere in her past.
“Once is happenstance. Twice is coincidence. Three times is enemy action.”
“Who said that?” she asked.
He grinned. “Auric Goldfinger, an adversary of James Bond. I think this situation is closer to a James Bond film than an act of God.”
“Do you think the outbreak has anything to do with all this?” She didn’t know how much he knew about the epidemic at McMurdo, but she needed someone to confide in, perhaps to use as a sounding board for ideas.
“There could well be a medical emergency at McMurdo, perhaps one that struck the communications people first, but a worldwide epidemic? I find that difficult to believe, especially one striking so quickly that warnings can’t be broadcast.”
She recalled the rumors concerning FEMA she had heard whispered by colleagues at a seminar, claiming that political expediency would take precedence over medical effectiveness in an emergency. “Maybe the authorities are trying to keep it under wraps to prevent widespread panic?”
He chuckled nervously. “If so, it isn’t working. I’m scared.”
Talking to Brad alleviated some of her growing apprehension. He spoke of being afraid, but she doubted that he felt fear in the same way she did. To him, it was an inconvenience, something between him and his work. To her, it conjured images of death and destruction, like the three dead Russians in her examining room. She tipped back her glass and drained its contents.
“Another?” Brad asked.
She held the glass in both hands, rolling it back and forth in her palms; then shook her head. “No. This helped. I need to stay sharp. Besides, it’s just mid-afternoon, hardly cocktail hour.”
Brad emptied his glass and poured two fingers of scotch into it, but didn’t drink it immediately. “Close enough for me.”
A thought that had been troubling her worked its way to the forefront of her mind. “What if we lose all communication for good? What if we’re cut off from the rest of the world for months?”
Brad answered so quickly that she suspected he had thoughts along the same line. “We have enough supplies to last for three or four months. Someone will come as soon as planes can get here, or they’ll drive in. That’s two months at most.”
Brad’s words sounded reassuring, but the thought of total isolation, of not knowing what was happening, of being trapped at the South Pole frightened her. Two months could be a long time.
“What if they don’t come – ever?”
A look flashed in Brad’s eyes, one of haunting desperation. “Then we walk out,” he said. The thought of weeks out on the ice troubled her. She didn’t think she was hardy enough for such a journey. “Or we fuel the Russian Kharkovchanka and drive out,” he added.
“We won’t all fit in it,” she reminded him.
Brad shifted uncomfortably in his chair, crossing and uncrossing his legs. “Well, someone can go and bring back help.”
From where, she thought but didn’t say it aloud. Instead, she said, “I guess so.”
“Everything will be okay. The Russians got lost and ran out of fuel, tragic but not ominous. There’s some kind of inverse magnetic field caused by sunspots interfering with communications. Walls will figure it out.”
“And this from a man who doesn’t believe in coincidence.”
He frowned. “I very badly want to believe in coincidence. It’s just …”
When his pause continued longer than she hoped, she said, “Just what?”
His eyes sought hers, compelling her to stare into them. In their brown depths, she saw something she hadn’t anticipated seeing – fear. He spoke as if reluctant to reveal his past.
“My father was a half-blood Chippewa. That didn’t make me very popular in school. Kids called me ‘Breed’ until I learned to kick ass to shut them up. Somewhere along the line, I guess I got a few medicine man genes or something. Sometimes I can sense when something is about to happen, usually something bad. It’s kept me out of trouble a few times, you know – don’t go out drinking with some friends, and then they have an auto accident. Stay away from a drag race, and a car goes out of control and kills someone. Don’t rise to take a shot at an elk I’ve been stalking, and a bullet hits the tree beside me just where I would have been standing. I have that feeling now.”
She wasn’t sure if she believed him, but his voice and manner proved that he believed in what he was saying. “What do your senses tell you?”
His eyes went dark. He threw back his head and downed the remainder of his drink. “Run.”
5
August 23, Amundsen-Scott Base, Antarctica
Trevin Sage leafed through a National Geographic wishing it had photos of naked, big-breasted Polynesian women, or a topless Riviera Beach, anything more interesting than the life of a Bengal tiger. He checked his watch – one in the morning. Everyone was asleep except for the telecommunications crew trying to sort out the problem. He didn’t concern himself with that. Hell, they were in Antarctica. They were supposed to be isolated. Anyway, babysitting three Russian popsicles was better than sweeping and mopping. Even so, he couldn’t help but glance into the examination room occasionally to make sure they were still there. The sheets covering them were soaked as they thawed. One’s hand draped over the bed, a slow trickle of water pooling on the floor beneath it.
“I ain’t mopping up that shit,” he muttered aloud.
He rose from his chair and walked to one of the tables. He drew aside the wet sheet to stare at the pale face of the young boy, admiring the boy’s penis. “They grow ‘em big in Russia,” he said. Earlier, the boy had looked so lifelike, as if he would rise from the table and walk away. Now, the black patch on his chest had spread to his face. His open eyes were changing to an angry red. Sage wiped his hand on his shirt. Pirelli had warned him to wear a mask, but it had been too uncomfortable.
“I hope it ain’t catching,” he said; then he chuckled under his breath. “Pirelli will give me hell if it is.”
As he returned to his chair, he glanced into Doctor Strong’s office. He wished she were still around. At least she was a looker. He wondered what she would look like undressed. She acted so prim and proper, but he bet she would be a wildcat in bed, maybe wearing black lacey knickers and a garter belt. He sat back and closed his eyes to hold the image he had conjured. A wet, splashing sound dissolved the picture in his mind.
“Damn Russkies,” he groaned.
He got up to close the door to the examination room, but stopped with a start when he saw that one of the tables was empty, the sheet lying in a pile on the floor. “What the hell?” he muttered. Wet, naked footprints led away from the table. He followed them with his eyes. One of the Russians, the older man with a beard, stood across the room staring into a mirror, his hand extended as if wanting to touch it. His entire arm and face were a web work of black lines. He turned quickly and saw Sage. His expression turned into one of animal rage. Sage’s feet refused to budge as the Russian lumbered toward him.
“Don’t,” he pleaded as he threw his arm over his face. Teeth sank into his flesh. Pain erupted like fire. He dropped his arm and the Russian’s head lunged for his throat. A fetid odor, like death, rose from the Russian’s mouth. He tried to scream but no words escaped. More pain, much more intense this time, exploded in his neck. He grabbed the Russian’s head and pushed him away, panicking when he saw a chunk of his bloody flesh dangling from the Russian’s mouth. He felt blood, warm and wet, running down his chest. Now his fear unfroze his feet. He backpedaled across the room toward the door. From the corner of his eye, he saw the young boy rising from the table, glaring at him hungrily. “Oh, Lord,” he cried and began to run.
The corridor was empty and dark. He stumbled against the wall and knocked a photo to the floor. It broke with a loud crash, but no one came to investigate. He held onto the wall to keep from falling. His hands were growing numb and his vision swam. Blurrily, he saw a fire alarm a few paces away. He knew he should summon help. He released his hold on the wall and stumbled forward, but fell on his face. Then they were on him, all three of the Russians. Their mouths tore greedily into his flesh. He struggled to his knees, shoving his fist into one of the Russian’s throats to push him away. They’re dead, he thought. They have to be dead. He reached out and grabbed the alarm handle before the weight of the Russians brought him to the floor.
Distantly, he heard the alarm sounding. Help would come but too late for him. The pain was overwhelming, but he no longer had the strength to resist. He remembered the National Geographic and the photo of the goat staked out to entice the tiger. Now, I know how the goat feels was his last coherent thought.
* * * *
The alarm tore Brad away from an uneasy sleep. His dreams had been full of sinister, shadowy things in dark places, darker than the twenty-four-hour gloom outside his window. He came awake drenched in sweat, his heart pounding. Instinctively, he knew the alarm didn’t mean fire. Another danger lurked outside his door. He switched on his lamp and slipped on his pants and boots, and then, after a second’s mental debate, pulled his army surplus K-Bar survival knife from the drawer in his desk. Its seven-inch blade gleamed reassuringly. He thrust it through his belt.
Outside in the corridor, others were stirring.
“What’s up?” someone called.
“That was the fire alarm,” another said, “but I don’t smell smoke.”
“I don’t think it’s a fire,” Brad said as he walked grimly toward the stairs. His emergency fire equipment was in a locker in Pod B. He didn’t think he would need it, but decided to err on the side of caution.
Liz appeared beside him wearing only panties and a t-shirt. He tried not to stare at her breasts. If her flimsy attire embarrassed her, she didn’t show it.
“What’s wrong?” she asked. “Fire drill?” She frowned at a fierce glance from Brad. “What then?” she demanded.
He shook his head. “I don’t know. Go get dressed.” She hesitated. “Now,” he urged.
She stared at him a moment longer, but returned to her room. He continued to the stairs, taking them slowly, unsure of what he might find waiting at the top. A scream stopped him. Still no odor of smoke tainted the air. He did smell something foul. He tried to recall where he had smelled it before. He pulled his knife from his belt as he remembered. It was the stench of death, an odor familiar to a hunter. He held the knife in front of him as he ascended the stairs. He spotted a body, or what was left of a body, lying in a pool of blood. He couldn’t identify who it was. The face and throat were missing. Splotches of blood that might have been bare footprints led toward the galley.
By now, several others had joined him. Charles Lester moaned when he saw the corpse.
“What the hell happened?” he asked. “It looks like a wild animal got inside and tore him apart.”
“There are no wild animals here,” Brad reminded him. He pointed to the footprints. “Those are human.”
“Maybe someone got cabin fever.”
Brad nodded, but he doubted a case of cabin fever could drive even an insane person to eat someone. Pirelli hurried down the corridor but stopped when he saw the mess. He had a .9 mm pistol in his hand. As supervisor, he was one of the few personnel allowed access to firearms, a precaution in case of cabin fever or an argument.
“It’s Trevor Sage,” he said. “I left him to guard the Russian bodies. He’s gone and they’re gone. I checked.”
At first, Pirelli’s statement made no sense. Who would steal bodies? Who would kill in such a grisly manner to steal them? Then he remembered the bare footprints.
“My God. Do you mean they’re alive? They were frozen solid. How?”
Pirelli shook his head as if trying to clear it. “I don’t know, but they’re gone.”
Brad followed the footprints down the corridor where they disappeared through a door. “I think they’re in the galley,” he told Pirelli.
Pirelli led the way. He pushed open the door and switched on the lights. An older, naked man with a beard stood in the middle of the room. His face, chest and arms bore a network of tiny black lines. An old tattoo of a Russian naval ship was just barely visible beneath the tracery of black on his arm. The man’s eyes were red. Blood dripped from his mouth and hands. Sage’s blood, Brad realized.
“The old Russian,” Pirelli gasped.
As if his voice was a cue, the bearded Russian snarled and attacked Pirelli. Pirelli, to his credit, didn’t hesitate. He raised the pistol and fired three quick rounds into the man’s chest from just a few feet away. Holes punched through the Russian’s flesh, one directly above the heart, but no blood flowed from them, nor did he slow down. He was on top of Pirelli quickly, his heavier weight overpowering the one-hundred-forty-pound, five-feet-eight-inch Pirelli. Pirelli staggered backwards, one hand pushing at his attacker’s chest to ward off the man’s gnashing teeth, the other beating at his head with the butt of the pistol.
Seeing how ineffective the pistol had been, Brad acted quickly. He ran up and plunged his knife hilt-deep in the man’s neck. The tip of the seven-inch blade protruded from the far side of his throat, but the Russian continued his attack on Pirelli, clawing at Pirelli’s arms and face with his fingers. Brad grabbed the knife with both hands, placed his foot against the man’s side for leverage, and withdrew the blade. This time he brought it down on top of the Russian’s skull using both hands. The sharp blade pierced flesh, muscle, and bone. He placed all of his weight behind it and forced the knife deeper into the man’s brain. The Russian froze, and then collapsed onto the floor amid a gush of thick, black blood that spewed from his mouth, ripping the knife from Brad’s hands. Released from the Russian’s grip, Pirelli staggered backwards and fell on his butt, staring uncomprehending at the dead man sprawled on the floor inches away.
“Is he dead?” he asked.
Brad examined
the corpse. The flesh beneath the black lines was decaying rapidly. At least one of the bullets had pierced the heart. “He’s been dead.”
Pirelli broke his stare at the Russian and looked at Brad. “What do you mean?”
Brad placed his foot on the corpse’s chest and tugged on the knife handle. After extracting it from the Russian’s skull, he wiped it on his pants’ leg and replaced it in his belt. “How many people do you know who can freeze solid, thaw out, attack someone, and take a bullet through the heart without blinking an eye?”
“But what …?” Pirelli began.
“He’s a zombie.”
Both Pirelli and Brad looked at the speaker, Guy Hughes, one of the Ice Cube technicians well known for his practical jokes. This time, however, his face betrayed no hint of humor. “He’s one of the walking dead,” Hughes continued, “a zombie. How else do you explain the fact that a bullet to the heart didn’t faze him?”
“Maybe he was in some sort of catatonic trance,” Pirelli suggested.
“He wasn’t catatonic,” Liz said. She stood in the doorway, her eyes focused on the corpse in disbelief. They mirrored the horror on her face. “He was moving with a purpose. He’s not bleeding from any of the wounds. He was dead. I examined him.” Her voice broke as she added, “There was no life in him.”
“Are you crazy?” Pirelli snapped. “What about all that blood?” He jabbed a finger at the black, viscous blood pooled on the floor.
“It’s not his blood. It’s Sage’s blood, partially digested.”
“Well, he’s dead now,” someone said.
“Yes, but there were three Russians,” Liz reminded them. Her face searched Brad’s and Pirelli’s. “Where are the other two?”
Brad helped Pirelli to his feet. Pirelli scratched at the deep lacerations in his arm inflicted by the Russian and winced.
“Maybe you better have Liz check that arm,” he suggested to Pirelli.
Pirelli waved him off. “Later. I’ll unlock the arms locker,” he said. “We’ll split into teams and search the station.”