Cellular Activity- The Djinn

by Francesco Mazzotta

  CELLULAR ACTIVITY

  Francesco Mazzotta

  To my family

  and my friends.

  Prologue

  The heavy and wet air floats in the room like an old and bored ghost. The stench of fuel and engine oil joins that of sweat, a sick alchemy tasting like an old dusty workshop. Dirty and bony hands strongly grasp a big wrench, the knuckles whiten to further tighten a valve. A flickering fluorescent tube lights up the scene, drawing irregular sharp shadows.

  A rough voice, made by years of cheap cigarettes, comes up from beneath a huge machine. «Give it a try now, Jay!»

  On the other side of the plant, a stocky man, with his overalls smeared with dirt, stops working on a long welding and puts the electrode and his protective dark mask down on the counter. He pulls off his gloves and heads to a control panel. «Ready here! Tell me when I have to open it!»

  «Go ahead, but very slowly. Get ready to close everything.»

  The man presses a few buttons, then he opens a big red valve, keeping an eye on the needle of the pressure gauge that gradually starts raising. «More?»

  The answer comes after a few moments, interspersed with a bad coughing. «Just a little bit, take it to one point two... Carefully... Carefully I said! Wait! Damn, wait!»

  The sound of an air puff, followed by a series of expletives in a Texas accent, briefly covers the hum of the machinery.

  The small figure of Mark Miller comes out crawling from the intricacy of pipes that he is working on. His bony and pale face is mottled by a splash of dark grease. He quickly reaches the other side of the room, where Jay Young is putting his gloves on again to go on with his welding. «It was slightly below one», he exclaims, noticing the upset expression of the other.

  Miller wipes his face with a cloth, then he throws it on the table, remaining thoughtful and drumming his fingers for some moment. «The valve has been mounted incorrectly. Some idiot has forced it even though it was not properly aligned, ruining its thread. I'll try to put another seal but if it doesn't work I am afraid that we have to change the whole damn block.»

  «Jesus... I hope not, it would be a real pain in the ass. Okay let's hurry, Redmond will raise hell if we stay one more day without a backup generator. Just give me a minute to finish the welding on this panel and I'll give you a hand.»

  «Where are the one-inch O-rings?" Miller's voice sounds hoarse, while rummaging in some old and grease-stained cardboard boxes.

  «Mmm... I don't think you'll find any more left in there. Anyway, I'm sure there should be another entire pack in stock.»

  Miller starts up muttering. After walking about ten meters he is hit by the voice of his colleague: «Mark, since you're going up there, take a look at the main generator. I heard strange creaks last night.»

  The footsteps of the maintenance team technician echo through the silent corridors. A multitude of different diameter pipes runs along the ceiling. Fluorescent tubes regularly light up the space with their cold and impassible light.

  Young goes on with the welding. As his electrode touches the shiny surface, a cascade of sparks breaks out like fireworks, flashing with a vivid bluish light. A long glowing strip is slowly drawn on the metal sheet.

  The job takes about fifteen minutes of careful work, then the man puts his protective screen aside again, and presses a button with one foot in order to switch off the welding machine. He awaits for a while, then carefully checks the welding he just completed, finding just a slight imperfection. The man grabs a hammer and skillfully removes small smudges of charred rutile. «Hey Mark, what do you think about that mess up there?»

  No reply.

  Young moves to the other side of the generator, unwinding the wire of a grinder. The place where Miller was working is empty.

  Not back, yet...

  The man puts his eye protection mask on and connects the tool to a power outlet. A pressure on the safety switch activates the rotating disk, which produces a loud noise.

  He turns around, approaching the welding to be polished but at that moment the lights go out completely.

  «What the fuck...», bursts Young, snorting bothered in total darkness. He moves groping to put the grinder down on the slab, moving carefully to avoid tripping over the wires. The abrasive wheel is still rotating by inertia, and the man has to wait a few moments for it to stop altogether. After taking care of the grinder, Young gropes for a drawer, searching inside for a flashlight.

  Where the hell is it...

  A noise, a few meters behind him, similar to the cracking of the ankle of someone trying and walking stealthily, makes him jerk.

  «Mark, I'm here, careful not to step on me.»

  After a few moments of oppressive darkness, a slender cone of light emerges in the obscurity. A thick atmospheric dust swirls nervously. Young taps a few times his flashlight, hoping the dim light is due to a slight misalignment of the batteries inside, however, the brightness doesn't seem to improve. He turns annoyed, exploring the room and expecting to find his colleague somewhere around, but there is no one with him. Puzzled, he leaves the room by swinging the torch right and left.

  The place is empty.

  Annoyed by that almost surreal situation, he walks down the hall, going to the main generator.

  That silence, so muffled and sudden, in addition to the pitch-black darkness all around, makes the place even more gloomy and claustrophobic.

  «Miller, where are you?»

  As if in answer to his question, a heavy thud coming from the upper floors shakes the walls. The tremors last a long time and seem to cross his body, echoing in its inner cavities.

  What the hell are they doing up there?

  «Miller! Hey Miller!»

  Still no reply. Young tries to eavesdrop on signals, but all he can hear is his own breathing. The man walks on along the path leading to the generator room when, somewhere far behind him, he perceives the sound of something metallic falling to the ground.

  He instinctively turns, pointing his flashlight.

  There is nothing. The corridor is completely empty and fades into darkness after a few meters ahead.

  Don't get yourself scared by this shit, man...

  Taking a quicker step Young reaches the main generator room, pausing at the open door. He is about to cross the threshold when a rustle to his left catches his attention. The man turns around, raising the torch. The ray barely lights up a figure.

  What the hell...

  «Hey you!»

  Young takes a step forward, pointing the light to a man dressed in a bio-hazard protective suit. It's dirty with grime and his face is hidden by a black gas mask.

  «I'm talking to you! You can't stay here!»

  In response, the stranger slowly backs away a few steps, then turns away, swallowed up by the darkness.

  Jesus...

  «Hey, where are you going? Did you hear me?»

  Young walks a few more meters, but there is no trace of the mysterious appearance. Not a word, not a noise. The technician hesitates for a moment, undecided what to do. Then, somewhere between puzzled and frightened, he steps back to the door of the generator room and enters it. He heads immediately for the control console, his movements fastened by his concerns. The beam of his flashlight illuminates something that leaves him speechless. The main panel appears twisted and deformed, almost melted by the effect of a powerful corrosive. The half-destroyed panel is half covered with a yellowish stuff that drips on the sides in long filaments.

  What the hell is this shit?

  A few moments go by, while Young checks the damage and the machine's functionality.

  «Miller, if this is some kind of a joke, be warned: I'm not enjoying it at al
l!»

  No one answers to Young's words. The man stoops beneath the now useless console and starts tinkering with a number of other buttons and switches, still intact.

  I should bypass it all from here, and restart the system manually...

  Jesus... Redmond will skin us alive...

  The generator comes back to life, humming as usual, after a few minutes of unsuccessful attempts. As the power gets restored to all areas, the fluorescent tubes start to flash, until they light up completely.

  Young breathes a sigh of relief and looks around, happy to see again without having to use the sick light of that half-dead torch. The rest of the room seems intact. The clumsy attempt to knock out the plant has focused on the control console. The man is about to leave when he catches a glimpse of something on the floor, slightly protruding from behind one section of the large generator. He approaches cautiously, looking at what at a first glance appears like a motor oil stain, black and dense. Getting closer to the corner, he comes in front of something that shrinks his stomach and forces him to repress a retching. It's not oil nor grease. The stain on the floor fades to reddish strokes and, to clear any possible doubt, the sweet metallic smell in the air makes him sure that what he is seeing is something other than engine oil. It's a blood puddle mixed with whitish mucus, the same as that on the vandalized control panel. A little further, a splash drew long and dark stripes on the wall. On the ground, about one meter away, there are the remains of a work overalls, worn and ripped to shreds.

  Young moves forward, careful not to step in the little pool of blood, and pulls the garment with one foot. After looking at it, he feels a chill slipping down his back, because he realizes that it's the suit worn by Miller just a few minutes ago.

  The man steps back. His clothes seem suddenly icy and too tight. It's hard to breathe and he's unable to look away from that stuff on the ground.

  Focused on the troubling vision, and with his mind on thousand questions about what's going on, he is not aware of the articulated figure that slowly falls behind him without making any noise...

  Antarctica, 1983

  A light and invisible wind, yet cold and sharp as a razor, glides on the soft soil covered in white by the recent snowfalls. Tiny ice particles accumulate on the face, fill the corners of the eyes and grow in crystals that sizzle in the beard. The sky is a deep blue, clear, limpid and crisp as a diamond, laying on a boundless landscape.

  The horizon is framed with a rim of jagged cliffs. Black peaks emerge from the dazzling white ice, reaching to the sky. It's something that not everyone is aware of, and may be hard to believe for those who have not experienced it in person, but the most dangerous desert in the world actually never heats up. The haggard animal species that inhabit it stay confined on the coast, well aware that the polar sea, even if icy, can however offer food, shelter from winds that can reach speeds of hundreds of miles per hour, and ultimately a hope of survival, compared to a merciless death and oblivion that lurks for those who dare to venture into the inner part of the continent. The endless magic of a timeless forgotten land, with its silent story, sleeping and buried under kilometers of perennial ice. A beautiful but dangerous world, that doesn't leave the slightest margin to error and uncertainty.

  A wheezing rumble goes along the sound of heavy footsteps sinking into the snow. Every breath injects liquid nitrogen straight into the lungs.

  A deep voice, hoarse from the cold, speaks in Russian. «For God's sake, we should have approached a bit further with the vehicle!»

  Two men, dressed in heavy parkas to withstand the polar frost, proceed awkwardly, climbing a low ridge.

  «Niet, don't even mention it, Sergej», snorts the other. «They'd have seen us from afar, and you never know what's in those Americans' mind. It's just a reconnaissance. Let's take a quick glimpse and leave. Come on, in a couple of hours we'll be already back and warm, to enjoy a glass of my special reserve.»

  The other lets out an inarticulate sound, halfway between a growl and a curse, when one of his legs sinks in the fresh snow up to mid-thigh.

  «That's what happens after an idle winter... Come on, a little gym will be good for you, your butt has overcome your suit by two sizes at least.»

  The reply of the other fades into a sort of heavy grunt, as he pulls on one knee trying not to sink further.

  * * *

  The two men have reached the top of a small hill, and they huddle for shelter near a boulder half-buried by the snow. Their heavy breathing condenses into tiny clouds of steam. They watch with binoculars the environment in the small valley that lies before them. At first glance, the dark elements in the landscape may be mistaken for the black rocks that emerge irregularly from the snow.

  Both men look carefully at the details of the scene, adjusting the focus. As the view becomes sharp, the truth reveals to their eyes.

  «Mmm... almost nothing left here... The outpost of the Americans was right there, in that area, I'm sure.»

  «They could have dismantled it, perhaps they moved to another place.»

  «No... I don't think so... I have the feeling that... Well, it's not the kind of operations done during the cold season, especially with a winter like the last one.»

  «I don't like this, Andre, there is something strange in the air.»

  «Stop it, there's only ice and cold in the air. Don't start up with your Baba-Yaga stories. Anyway tell me, do you think that this mess may be connected to that woman's story?»

  The other doesn't answer immediately, slowly lowering the binoculars. Reddish blond eyebrows, with thin ice needles sprouting, cover his light brown eyes, which show a worried expression. «I really hope not. Let's go back and report it to Ivanov.»

  * * *

  Although the cabin is sealed in order to protect the passengers from the killing cold, the noise of the engine of the large Mil MI-8 is deafening, and it is necessary to use of the headphones intercom to communicate. A big red star flanked by Cyrillic fonts adorns the sides of the aircraft, in whose belly, in addition to the two pilots, there are six armed soldiers and a number of large containers of various equipment. Three other passengers sit almost apart, wearing large white protective suits.

  Two of them are talking, while the third, a man who has not yet turned forty with angular face and watchful eyes, focuses on reading a document. His eyes glance quickly on what seems a copy of a snow cat's service manual, whose margins are thick with notes by an almost unintelligible handwriting.

  The two figures who sit in front of him, a man and a woman, are a few years younger. She appears in her early twenties. Her chubby face is surrounded by the hood of the suit, from which a tuft of black hair bursts out. She seems serene and relaxed. The woman is talking to a man slightly older than her, a blond and fair-skinned big boy. Fractals of capillaries, broken by the contact with the cold air, stand out on his face.

  The girl smiles at a joke and gives a half-push to the man beside her with a gloved hand. «Come on, I can't believe it. This is just one of your fantasies... Look, as soon as I get back I'm going to ask Ludmila... Let's hear her side of the story...»

  «Good idea, but if she confirms everything then you'll have to pay a cooool pledge...»

  «Oh, really? Mmm... well well well... Pledge you say? Here, look at me. Noo noo, no, this way. Seriously, look at my eyes... Yuriii... A-ha, I knew, you are bluffing. All right, deal! I accept the challenge, but if I am right then it's you that will pay a pledge, and you won't like it...», she laughs. «You won't like it at all, my dear... What do you think about it? Deal?»

  He feigns a worried look. «Wo... wait, wait a moment... Come on, these aren't things to be decided like that, on one's feet... By the way, where are we going now?»

  They both laugh.

  The girl moves her eyes to the figure sitting in front of her, noticing his focused expression. She leans forward, touching his knee to get his attention and raising her voice in order to be heard. «Are you reading again the notes of that woman?» />
  The man looks up, as if only now noticing the people and the environment around. He brings two fingers at the root of his nose and takes a deep breath, as if to collect his thoughts. Then he puts on the headphones of the internal communication system. His voice sounds in the ears of the other two, with a slight metallic hue. «Here I am. Yes, this is a copy. Just trying to grasp a sense of her writing. There are several blind spots in the transcription, and I can't fully understand some passages. I want to make sure to minimize all errors.»

  Eva Arsentiev nods, while looking down to the papers in his hands. «We all did our best, Alexander. You can see it yourself... handwriting, made in a hurry, by someone who was slowly freezing, shrunk in the margins of the pages of a Swedish snow cat's service manual...»

  «Norwegian», he corrects. «Anyway yes, you're right, I'm sorry», he vaguely waves his hand. «I didn't mean that. Your team did a great job. It's just that this story is... fascinating. Although perhaps this isn't the most appropriate adjective. See, freezing leads to hallucinations before death, but I don't think that anyone has ever had the mental clearness and time to write and describe them.»

  The younger man, Yuri Dmitriev, intervenes in the discourse. «That's true, Ivanov, however, it's also true that something has happened to the site of the Norwegians. It must have been a devastating something to reduce it to the state in which we found it.»

  «And the air recognition has not detected any trace of the site where the hypothetical wreck described by the woman should be», adds the girl.

  «It's been a whole polar winter, Eva. It has probably been covered by the snow. Without better information I fear that it will be almost impossible to find it... Assuming that there is really something to find», is Ivanov's reply.

  A few moments of silence, then it's Dmitriev who keeps talking. «Why this inspection to the American outpost?»