“Over there’s the quartermaster and mess hall. They’re linked to operations by a walkway, so you don’t have to go outside. Most of the labs are sub-surface, but there’s a storage area at the back for ice cores and stuff like that.
“The low building beyond that snowdrift on the far side is the motor pool. There’s only ever a couple of people in there. They maintain the tractors, run the generators, drive the snowplows, manage cabling, control the heating, stuff like that. Behind the motor pool, there’s a radio tower and comms shack.”
Dmitri nods, asking, “What are you thinking?”
“Where is everyone?”
“Could they be in the ops center?”
“Maybe. If something happened up top, they could have retreated beneath the ice. There’s plenty of room down there, but I’m not seeing anything out of the ordinary other than the absence of staff. I mean, they’ve got power up here. There’s no sign of storm damage, or structural failure, or a military attack. I’ve got two questions. Where did they go? And why?”
“So we go under the ice,” Dmitri says.
“I want to sweep these buildings first,” Jazz says. “It’s important to understand what the hell happened up here before walking in down there.”
“Agreed.”
Jazz turns and heads back to the door, leaving the light off.
They make their way further down the corridor, checking closets and bedrooms as they go, looking under bunks and inside large cupboards. As they’re both using infrared scopes, there’s no need for flashlights. Neither of them make a sound as they creep through the dormitory.
Bathrooms are a dead end, which seems to trouble Dmitri. Although he’s acting as backup for Jazz, bathrooms have him constantly looking around corners. Jazz edges open the empty stalls with her boot. No one’s home.
At each point, they pause before opening doors, even if they lead back the way they came. Each movement is double-checked. There’s near-constant chatter with Bear, although most of it is in a whisper.
Outside, the wind howls through the base, causing the windows to flex and creak. They return to the main corridor. Ahead of them, something falls. Whatever it is, it’s heavy, making a dull thud.
Jazz comes to a halt with a raised fist. She listens for a moment before walking on. The soft squelch of her boots on the carpet comes through over the microphone.
Dmitri walks up next to Jazz. Without making a sound, he reaches inside a cabinet mounted on the wall and removes a fire ax. Jazz nods her approval. She inches down the corridor.
They’re staring at a steel door leading to an external antechamber with a second door to trap heat. There are internal doors on either side. It’s impossible to know where the noise came from.
“On the left is the auditorium,” she whispers, more for Dmitri than Nick or Bear. “One entrance. The external fire exit is at the front, directly opposite the main door. Staggered seating. Four rows. Two aisles. Twenty seats per row.
“To the right is the ready room. It also doubles as storage.”
“Copy that,” Dmitri replies, keeping his bulky frame against the wall as they ease toward the end of the corridor.
Floorboards creak beneath their boots.
Jazz signals, pointing at one room and then the other, but Nick isn’t sure which is which or what she intends. Dmitri, though, understands. One of the doors is slightly open. Dmitri crouches, pushing his back against the wall beside the open door. Jazz creeps to the far side of the door.
Dmitri rests his ax against the door jamb. He reaches around the corner and turns on a flashlight, sweeping it through the ready room, casting it in a wide swath, but he’s not looking inside. Instead, he’s facing the auditorium door, ensuring nothing and no one is coming out of there as Jazz stands in the open doorway to the ready room. She stares through the night vision scope on her M4. Clever. They don’t need light to see. They’re looking for any reaction to the light.
Jazz whispers. “Ready room clear.”
They switch to the other side of the corridor. Dmitri pulls slowly on the handle. Jazz eases the door open with her boot. They repeat the process, with Dmitri down low, swinging the flashlight around while Jazz scans the room in infrared.
Immediately, there’s a reaction. Something scurries behind a row of desks. Dmitri may not have seen it, but he heard it. He grabs the ax. Jazz rushes into the room, keeping her M4 trained in front of her. She keeps the front wall behind her while Dmitri moves along the other wall, approaching the desks.
They talk to each other in muffled whispers, saying things Nick can’t make out.
Dmitri has his flashlight out again, but he’s a distraction. Bait. He’s allowing Jazz to move unnoticed behind the podium and flank whoever or whatever’s in there. Nick’s heart is about to burst through his chest it’s beating so hard.
Plumes of heat coming from the ground interfere with their infrared vision. The internal heat must be on full. White air tumbles from vents on the ceiling. At the end of each row, a white mist rises from beneath the false floor.
Dmitri mumbles, “Lots of places to hide.”
He flashes the light down the first row and then the second. As he’s got his night-vision goggles partially raised, Nick and Bear only get a jerky vision of the roof from him. Without intending to, he’s blinded them, leaving them only with the feed from Jazz and her M4. It’s frustrating, but Bear remains silent.
Jazz covers Dmitri, scanning each of the rows with her infrared scope, looking for movement. A chair back rattles as someone or something scurries along the back row.
“Whoever this is,” Jazz whispers. “I want them alive.”
Dmitri doesn’t reply. Even from where Jazz is, it’s apparent he’s shaking. He’s got the light in his left hand and the ax in the other. Nick would have the gun out. He wants to scream at Dmitri. The gun! Get your gun out. Use your gun.
Dmitri holds the ax by its wooden neck. His gloved hand is up next to the heavy, steel head. He crouches, trying to make his big frame a smaller target. From what Nick can tell, Jazz is using him to flush out the game. She’s scanning the far side of the room. She’s expecting movement there, not near him.
“Hey,” Dmitri says, quite loudly, looking down one of the rows. “It’s okay. Don’t be afraid. We’re here to help.”
He walks between the seats. His flashlight and his eyes are focused on someone crouching near the end of the third row. Their heat signature is apparent as they move, staying low between the folded seats.
“No one’s going to hurt you.”
Dmitri crouches, laying down his ax. He may not be going to hurt whoever this is, but Jazz has made no such promise. She keeps her M4 trained on them.
In a flash, someone leaps at Dmitri, knocking him backward as they scamper higher, rushing into the back row. Shots ring out. Over the feed, they come across as loud pops. A split second later, out in front of Lucille, those shots break like thunder from within the living quarters.
“Hold your fire,” Dmitri yells.
“Fuck,” Bear yells from within the cab of the snowcat. “Fuck. Fuck! FUCK!”
Nick says, “Well, if they didn’t know we were here, they do now.”
“What happened?” Jazz asks. From the way she speaks, Nick gets the impression her shots were accidental, probably the result of nerves and thick gloves getting the better of her. She rushes forward, but she’s got her gun lowered, ruining their view of the auditorium. All Nick can see is the steps rushing past as she runs up the other side of the hall.
“She’s over there,” Dmitri yells.
“Where?”
A hazy blur lunges at Jazz. The M4 is knocked to the ground. It clatters on the stairs, coming to rest on its side. The view on the screen is disorienting, with the floor appearing like a wall. Boots rush into view, kicking the gun so it falls down another tier. Clomping boots now appear on the ceiling from the perspective of Nick and Bear outside in the snowcat.
As Jazz is hauled to her feet, she says, “T
hat bitch scratched me.”
Dmitri picks up the M4. Jazz snatches it from his hand.
“Where did she go?” he asks, but the camera mounted beneath the scope on the M4 is still facing the back wall.
“I’m bleeding,” Jazz says.
“She’s gone,” Dmitri says. “Here, sit down. Let me take a look at you.”
Jazz sits on one of the seats. She rests the M4 over the seat-back in front of her, leveling it at the door, giving Nick and Bear a clear view of the front of the room. If anyone comes in, all she has to do is squeeze the trigger.
“It’s not deep,” Dmitri says, examining her with the flashlight. “But as it’s on your neck, there’s a fair bit of bleeding.”
“Fucking hell,” Jazz replies. Her blood-soaked gloves are visible on the edge of the frame. In infrared, blood appears pitch black, staining her gloves. “What is wrong with these people?”
“Ah,” Bear says from within the cabin of the snowcat. “Have we considered the possibility we might have walked into a biohazard?”
Jazz sounds annoyed. “I’m not turning into a fucking zombie, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“I’m just saying—”
“You watch too much shitty TV,” Jazz says, cutting him off. She growls, “Stay off comms.”
“I saw a med-kit in the kitchen,” Dmitri says as they walk to the front of the room. “I suspect our friend is long gone by now. Let’s get you down there and patched up.”
They make their way back to the kitchen, checking each turn before moving forward. Nick can hear Dmitri rustling around, searching for bandages, but the view they have is either of the ceiling as seen from his goggles or the kitchen door as Jazz makes damn sure she’s not going to be taken by surprise again.
Outside, the wind has taken on a distinctly eerie tone like that of moaning. With the lights off, Nick can barely see the outline of the hut in front of them. Lucille rumbles at a low idle. Bear dons the night vision goggles and looks around, peering out into the darkness. Snow swirls around the cat.
“Ah, I don’t mean to be an alarmist,” he says over the radio. “But you guys might want to come back to Lucille—like now!”
“What’s going on?” Jazz asks.
“How many rounds does your M4 hold?”
“Thirty. Why?”
“You’re gonna need them.”
Neither Jazz nor Dmitri replies. They both scramble for the exit and out into the corridor, running for the emergency door at the rear of the dormitory.
“What’s going on?” Nick asks, but he’s not sure he actually wants an answer.
Bear doesn’t say anything. He simply reaches up and flicks the toggle switch above the windshield, turning on the spotlights. It takes a moment for the sudden onset of brilliant white light reflecting off the snow and ice to subside. Shapes come into focus. Heads turn to face them. There are easily a dozen people standing in the snow. From what Nick can tell, they were originally facing the building. Now, they crowd around on all sides of the snowcat, bathing in its light. Like the corpse out on the plateau, they’ve got their arms outstretched, reaching for the spotlights, but they don’t advance. There’s movement in the shadows as more people join them, standing off at a distance.
Quietly, Nick says, “Oh, man. We are so fucked.”
Sandra
Jazz and Dmitri burst onto the landing outside the living quarters. They come to a halt at the top of the stairs, being caught in the glare of the spotlights. Easily ten to fifteen people stand between them and Lucille. There are more in the shadows.
“Talk to me,” Jazz says, scanning the crowd with her infrared scope. Although the base staff are stationary, they light up as white shapes facing the cab of the snowcat. Warmth radiates within their upper torsos at least. Their legs are buried by the driving snow.
Jazz asks Bear, “What are they doing?”
“I don’t know,” Bear replies over the radio. “They’re just standing there. Best I understand it, they came out after the gunshots.”
“Why are they facing you?”
“I’m not sure,” he replies. “They look like bugs drawn to an Alabama porch light.”
Slowly, Jazz descends the stairs. Snow and ice crunch beneath her boots. She and Dmitri keep their weapons trained on the people standing in the snow. They switch from one person to another as they get close, trying to assess the threat, looking for any movement. The zombie-like base staff continue facing Nick and Bear in Lucille.
To get to the snowcat, Jazz and Dmitri have to pass within a few feet of these ghostly figures. They step slowly, carefully around them.
Bear has his gun out, but he remains within the cab of the snowcat. Nick’s unsure whether he’s going to fire through the windshield or if he’ll open the door and shoot, but he’s not climbing down from Lucille.
“Easy,” Jazz whispers. “No sudden movements.”
Dmitri follows close behind her, stepping in her boot prints. With each step, they sink into the deep snow. Jazz has the muzzle of her M4 barely an inch from the back of the head of one of the men standing directly in front of the lights. She circles around him, keeping her gun on him, but he doesn’t so much as blink.
Jazz backs up, with the lights on the snowcat blazing behind her. She reaches out with a gloved hand for the treads, keeping her eyes on the closest person. She scoots inside the vehicle. Dmitri follows, closing his door quietly.
“Well, that was as creepy as hell,” she says.
“Look at those fucking psychos,” Bear says, leaning forward on the steering wheel to take a good look. He revs the engine, looking for a response. Lucille roars, but no one moves.
Nick mumbles, barely aware he’s articulating his thoughts.
“We’re afraid.”
“Of course we fucking are,” Bear snaps.
Fight or flight—that’s all Nick has ever known. Any time he’s been afraid, his response has been to lash out or run like hell. This, though, is different. For once, he has time to think. Fear makes people do dumb things. Nick is tired of doing dumb things. For once, he wants to do the right thing rather than being predictable. He wants to see beyond his own fears. He doesn’t know what the hell is going on, but he knows their reaction isn’t helping.
“W—Why are we afraid?” Nick stutters. “I think Jazz is right.”
Jazz twists in her seat to look at Nick. She doesn’t say what she’s thinking, so he elaborates. “Too much shitty TV, right? Look at them. I think we have this all wrong.”
“I am looking at them!” Bear cries aloud, frustrated by Nick’s comments. He gestures to the windshield with both hands. Snow sweeps across dozens of faces illuminated by the spotlights. Hair blows sideways in the wind.
“I am too,” Nick says. “And I don’t think they mean us any harm.”
Dmitri has his gun up. He rests his hands on the back of the seat behind Jazz. The barrel of his Glock points at the metal roof. He says, “The woman in the lecture hall. She wasn’t trying to attack us. She was trying to get away.”
“She wasn’t trying to attack you,” Jazz says, feeling at the bandage on her neck.
Nick is lost. He’s sleepwalking through the logic in front of him.
“They need our help.”
“No, no, no,” Bear says, taking his eyes off the figures standing in the snow and turning toward Nick. He throws his arm over the back seat. “Are you fucking mad?”
“They’re going to die, right?” Nick asks Jazz.
“Out there in the cold?” she replies. “Yes.”
Bear is adamant. “I say, we let them die. There’s something wrong with them. Whatever it is, we don’t want it.”
“We don’t have it,” Dmitri says. “We’re fine.”
Bear glances across at Jazz and the large white bandage taped to the side of her neck. She’s not impressed by the implication of his raised eyebrows. “I don’t have it—whatever the fuck it is.”
“What happened to them?” Dmit
ri asks.
“I don’t know,” Nick says. “But if we want to learn anything about what happened here, we have to help them.”
“Fuck,” Jazz says, leaning forward and hitting the dash with the heel of her palm. “Fuck this!”
“Why should we?” Bear asks.
“Because that could be us,” Nick says.
Bear responds with, “This is some nasty shit!”
“This isn’t supernatural,” Dmitri says.
“Why not?” Bear asks, pointing at the bodies standing in the snow, illuminated by the spotlights. “Doesn't look natural to me.”
“Because there’s no such thing as the supernatural,” Dmitri says. “There has to be some other explanation. Nick’s right. The only way we’re going to get any answers is by going back out there.”
Bear says, “If we go back out there, that really could be us. Something caused this. How do you know that whatever caused this won’t affect us as well?”
“It hasn’t,” Dmitri says.
“Shut the hell up,” Bear snaps.
“Bear’s right,” Jazz says. “We could become caught up in this.”
“We’re already caught up in this,” Nick says. “We’re just not doing anything about it.”
Dmitri agrees. “We’re here, and we’re fine. I’m with Nick on this. They’re going to die out there. Just like Lee Lao Chan.”
“We don’t have much time,” Nick says, swallowing the lump rising in his throat.
Nick’s no hero, but he knows someone that is. Sandra is an ICU nurse. She’s worked in ER and COVID wards. For a while, she even worked as a surgical nurse in a cardiac unit. As much as he wants to cut and run, she’s his conscience. If she were here, she’d be appealing for reason over fear. This is exactly what she’d be saying. The funny thing is, if she were here, he’d be siding with Bear and arguing the reverse position. Without her, he feels compelled to take her point of view. Deep down, he knows he’ll never see Sandra again. Is he compensating for losing her? Is this his guilt playing out? Hell yeah.
Bear says, “This is a freak show. I say we get the hell out of here.”
Nick doesn’t respond. Deep down, Nick’s a coward. He’s not brave. The real Nick wants to run and hide. But the real Nick is someone that makes this Nick sick to his stomach. The real Nick is a loser. Case in point, Sandra. The only way he is ever going to change is if, at some point, he stops and makes a change. Nick knows he needs to stop retreating from what’s right. As hard as it is, perhaps this is how he begins.
Jury Duty (First Contact) Page 15
