“Goddammit.” She slammed the cup against the counter, cracking it, and turned to look around, as if there were a roomful of people to share her exasperation. Under normal circumstances, running out of coffee would have started a riot.
She grimaced. Riot. Nice word choice . While the fracas at the midwinter party hadn’t quite fit the definition, it had been close. And for better reasons than running out of coffee. But still, where the hell was everyone?
Anne called the names again, hoping that one of the kitchen grunts simply had their head in a bin and hadn’t heard her, then bellied herself across the countertop, trying to see into the prep area without actually crossing the line from the dining room into the kitchen—a big no-no that earned an ass-chewing from Deb for violating sanitation guidelines. But there was no one.
Looking around again, this time guiltily, Anne scooted her butt onto the counter— how’s that for a sanitation violation, Deb? —spun in place, and landed on the other side. No Pete. Maybe they’d run out for supplies?
In the meantime, there had to be coffee somewhere. Gingerly at first, then with more and more assertiveness, she proceeded to ransack the kitchen, tipping open boxes and peeking into cabinets, first in search of coffee and then, she had to admit to herself, simply because it was so much fun being nosy. A grin, unfamiliar but welcome, spread across her face. If she’d known it would be this much fun to snoop, she would’ve risked a demerit weeks ago.
Coffee was still her primary goal, however, and she continued the hunt into bins, boxes, and cupboards, but to no avail. She was about to open an upper cabinet when one of the freezers kicked on with a click and hum, scaring her half to death. One hand pressed to her chest, she leaned against a counter, trying to recover. Her heart hammered in her breast like a bird beating its wings against the bars of a cage. When the rhythm returned to normal, she moved on to opening boxes and plastic crates piled by the outer door, marveling at the amount of food needed to keep forty-four people alive.
Well, forty-three, now. Or is that forty-two? The thought came ugly, unbidden, and she recoiled, disgusted with herself, wondering where the hell it had come from. Childish laughter, light and cruel, lit along the edge of her mind and she slapped herself.
She stood there, panting, dissecting her thoughts and wondering if she were going insane. Her cheek burned where she’d struck it. She needed to move, needed to do something, or she was going to lose her mind.
Spastically, she began tearing open the lids of boxes, ripping open bags, knocking canisters, jars, and pots off of shelves. Tears trickled down her cheeks as jars tumbled to the ground and broke, scattering sugar and salt across the floor. The kitchen was filled with the reek of vinegar and cheese, the must of dried spices, the malted smells of rice and flour. Gasping, she hurled a box of dried milk across the room. It burst into a cloud of white powder and she gagged as a sickly sweet smell reminiscent of infant formula floated on the air.
“Jesus H. Christ on a stick.”
Anne froze at the voice, slowly turning to face the bulging eyes of Pete Ozment. He stood in the doorway to the hall, one foot holding the outer door open. Trailing behind him was a large cart with boxes stacked three deep.
“Anne? What in blazes are you doing?”
Her mouth opened, unable to articulate a sound at first. Granules of powdered milk floated downward in the space between them. Finally, when his eyebrows hit the top of his hairline, she said simply, “I was looking for coffee.”
“Coffee?” He pushed the cart into the kitchen. It made small grinding sounds as it crushed salt and sugar crystals beneath its wheels. “This whole damn thing is full of coffee. I just busted my ass to bring back a hundred pounds of it from the warehouse and you wrecked my kitchen while I was doing it.”
She stared, fish-mouthed, at the boxes, then up at Pete’s frowning face. She couldn’t help herself, and started to laugh. He looked as if he was going to explode, then threw his head back, put his hands on his hips, and started to laugh, too. More tears, from laughter this time, cascaded down her face. She choked out an apology in the middle of her cracking up.
“Coffee.” He shook his head as his laughter wound down. “The girl wanted coffee.”
They looked around at the mess she’d made and then they both got the giggles again. As Pete put his head back to guffaw once again, a large figure suddenly appeared in the hall behind him. Anne gasped.
Following her gaze over his shoulder, Pete started to turn, making it only partway before the figure raised an arm, then chopped down like a gate swinging shut. Something hit the cook on the top of the head with the sound of a wet hand-clap.
Pete made a burping sound, then took two tripping, tipping steps backward into the kitchen, sprawling across his cart and knocking boxes to the floor. Blood spilled from a rift in the crown of his head. His feet kicked once like a toy thrown to the ground.
Anne looked down in horror at the body, unable to comprehend what she’d just witnessed, then screamed as the bulky figure that had loomed in the doorway moved into the kitchen. A scream joined hers, playing counterpoint to the water-bright laughter in her head as the arm rose and fell.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Carla looked up from her microscope, annoyed. The noise that had broken her concentration, she realized, had crescendoed from a distant murmur into a collection of shouts and pounding feet that was impossible to ignore.
She frowned, only just remembering that Anne had gone in search of coffee for the two of them. She glanced at the clock . . . Jesus, she’d banished the poor woman almost an hour ago. Her mind, keen and pitilessly logical when it came to matters of biology, moved sluggishly in other circles and it took her a minute to connect the possibility that the fracas outside and the fact Anne hadn’t come back yet might be related. She hesitated, then hurried for the door.
A crowd had bunched at the far end of the hall. Voices, punctuated by the occasional gasp or moan, filled the air. A primal sense of shared fear and crisis emanated from the group, causing doors to open and heads to pop out into the corridor. Carla took small, hesitant steps, drawn magnetically to the gathering.
“On your left,” someone barked behind her, and she pressed herself against the wall. Dr. Ayres trotted past her with a trauma kit in one hand, his face a professionally blank mask that scared her more than any amount of screaming or yelling. She hurried after him. The knot of people parted to let Ayres through, then re-formed behind him. In that brief second, she got a glimpse of a body sprawled on the ground, legs askew, a scarlet pool welling underneath the boots.
Carla’s cool, scientific detachment vanished, like a hat knocked off her head. In an instant she knew that she hadn’t really managed the anxiety that had been building inside her, she’d only packed it away and smoothed it over with a veneer of professional detachment. At any moment, all that had been needed was the right set of circumstances to pry open that box and unleash every pent-up emotion she thought she’d jettisoned. This was that moment.
A scream rose inside her as she pelted down the hall toward the boots and the blood.
Hanratty paced his office floor, wiped his hands on his khakis, then frowned at the mannerism. It smacked of weakness, of sweaty palms and regret, and he clasped them together to keep it from happening again. He was in the soup, no doubt about it, but things were far from over.
The meeting in the gym had gone as well as could be expected. He knew from the start that he’d win some of the crew, he’d lose some of them, and some had long since left his sphere of influence. It was a lesson learned in Afghanistan, when his vision had blurred and he’d stopped seeing his men as individuals and instead seen groups of bodies, factions breaking along lines of personality and temperament.
There had been three simple divisions. The men in the center were the bravest. The ones along the sides, clumped together, had courage but questioned everything he said. And the ones haunting the back were the cowards.
He’d hated the last grou
p, despised them. Not because of any innate moral judgment. Not because society had told him to. Not even because, soldier-to-soldier, you feared and loathed the ones who wouldn’t be there for you when you needed them most. He hated them because he knew them as he knew himself.
He was a coward. Always had been. Always would be.
In twenty-three years of traveling the world to do America’s dirtiest jobs, he’d never had to prove his courage one way or the other. That was the modern army. You could fight for a lifetime and never see combat, even while your country was at war. Acting angry and barking orders didn’t take any special courage or talent. You just had to act the part and everything seemed to work out.
Until that day when he’d seen his men broken up into those groups, knew which one he should’ve slunk over to and joined . . . but couldn’t. Because he had to lead them, lead them all. Right up that valley, where the kill rate was fifty percent and every inch of the floor had been marked off and measured by their snipers. Then all of you began to jog and your kit was flapping against your back and hitting your legs and your lid was slipping down over your eyes and you were waiting for the slug to hit you like a truck and oh, Christ, two of your men had had their heads taken off and now the rest were scrambling for cover and shouting to you, screaming, wanting to know what you were going to do to save them. Help me, Captain! Captain, please! He’d crouched behind a rock, bleeding tears, watching his men die. Jesus Christ, he would’ve given anything at that moment, done anything, to know why he was frozen in place, his mind an uncomprehending mass of fear, to know how he could’ve been built differently to help his men, to help himself . . .
“Jack!”
Hanratty spun in place, staring at Taylor as though he’d been dropped from the sky. His chief of security must’ve come through the office door, but if he had, Hanratty hadn’t heard him. He looked down at his palms. Not sweating now, but bleeding from where his nails had pierced the skin. He put on his best CO scowl. “What is it?”
Taylor’s face, normally impassive, was apprehensive. “We’ve got a problem. Dave Boychuck has some of the techs wound up. Sounds like they might try storming the castle like those two idiots.”
“They’re coming here?”
“Not yet. They saw what I did to their buddies. I think they’ll try something at night, try to catch us napping, literally.”
“How in the world do you know that?”
“I’ve got a source.”
“Who is it?” Hanratty asked, annoyed. He’d had his own tattletales in the crew, but he could’ve used a little edge before things had gone down the shitter.
Taylor opened his mouth to reply when the door to the outer office banged open. Taylor moved aside as Deb appeared in the doorway, breathless and trembling.
Hanratty’s stomach dropped. “What’s wrong now?”
Her face twisted like a wrung dish rag. “Jack. Oh, God.”
“Tell me.”
“Beth just found Anne and Pete in the kitchen. They’ve . . . someone beat them, badly.”
“Beat them? Beat them how?”
“I don’t know.” She looked sick. “With a pipe or a hammer, maybe?”
“Jesus H.,” he said, coming around the desk and brushing past her to head for the outer door. “Has Ayres seen them? Did you get them down to trauma?”
“Jack,” she said, and he stopped. She hadn’t followed him. “They’re not hurt. They’re dead.”
In all the time he’d spent in recovery centers observing patients who’d given up their lives to controlled substances, over the course of the many years spent in psychiatric wards charting the symptoms of PTSD, grief, and mental illness, Keene had never heard a scream like the one that rang down the hall from the galley.
The scream had straightened him up in his seat and he’d snatched open the door before he was even aware that he was standing. Paralyzed, he stood in the doorway, aware of a commotion down the hall to his left, but unable to command his body to move. A moment later, Hanratty, Deb, and Taylor were running down the hall to his left. Their backs were stiff, body language alarming. He called for them to stop or explain, but they ignored him.
As he watched the trio disappear, a feeling of finality came over him, the sensation that something he’d been waiting for had finally shown its face. A flush of blood curled from his scalp to his scrotum. He savored the feeling, analyzing it. Is this what terror feels like?
He debated with himself. Follow and identify the danger? Ignore it at his own peril? Follow . . . better to know than not. He turned to close his door—what a curiously civilized, meaningless gesture —and found that his hand was shaking. He hurried down the hall.
The group was gathered outside the door to the galley’s kitchen. Hanratty and Taylor were both shouting, trying to restore some kind of order, but managing only to increase the tension. A second scream rang out, then, a true banshee’s wail, starting low and rising almost out of hearing. The flush he’d felt moments before came back, but it seemed to well out of his heart and rush upwards to the tips of his ears. He realized he’d bared his teeth and his hands were balled into fists. Keene slowed as he approached the group, unable to tear his eyes away from the scene.
A pool of blood had run out into the hall from the kitchen doorway, filling in the gap between a pair of legs resting akimbo. Several people had gotten too close; the pool now had footprints along its edge, the tread marks making the scene somehow more horrific. A handful pointed beyond the body, hands to mouths. Intrigued despite himself, he moved so that he could see what had captured their attention. Taller than most, he could look over the crowd directly into the galley kitchen.
The room was a tableau of hell.
Blood bathed the sinks and counters and appliances; it had clumped with flour or salt to form obscene cakes on the floor. The source was the back of what was left of a man’s pulped skull, unidentifiable due to the damage and the small mercy that he was lying facedown. Boxes and bins of food were scattered everywhere, their contents littering the floor and tabletops, thrown into corners and draped over chairs. Farther inside the kitchen sprawled another body, a woman possibly, although it was hard to tell. Ron Ayres and Beth Muñez were working frantically on the inert form.
The scream rang out a third time, jerking his attention back to the group. The source of the scream was a woman bundled in the center of the crowd, with an almost unobstructed view into the kitchen. Keene realized with a start that it was Carla Bjorkholm; her face, twisted with horror, had been unrecognizable at first.
The sound seemed to galvanize the knot of people. Heads turned to confront Hanratty and Taylor. Faces were contorted, pale and red and purple, squinting with anger. Voices, low and ugly, sheared off into the hysterical, screaming for answers. Taylor, with his limited, one-gear mentality, was barking at people, assuming he could clear them out and restore order through sheer force of will. Keene almost felt sorry for the man, who didn’t understand that bullying only worked on a population receptive to it. A crowd of people driven by anger or fear to ignore authoritarian hierarchies was not just immune to being shouted at, it was inflamed by it.
Keene watched as Taylor, frustrated by the lack of response, shoved Dave back from the pool of blood. Dave cursed and grabbed the security chief’s wrist. Taylor, moving fast, reached out and twisted the fuelie’s entire hand upside down. Something in the wrist seemed to give, Dave’s face went white, then the big man bellowed in pain.
That was all Keene needed to see. He turned and retraced his steps back to his office. It didn’t take a psychic to sense the group was a hair away from exploding. If Hanratty had been possessed of real guts and a defter touch, he might’ve talked them down. But he didn’t and he couldn’t and Taylor was precisely the wrong catalyst, a rock-head with too much authority and the problem-solving sensitivity of an ape. The man was so ill-suited to the task of calming a distressed group of people that Keene wondered idly if the Observer’s reach was so great that he’d somehow
arranged for Taylor to be present at precisely the wrong place at the right time.
He picked up his pace as the shouts took on a different tone. Anger, of course. Outrage. And the most frightening of all, release.
He had tried to warn both Hanratty and Taylor that the crew—ostensibly selected for their self-sufficient, take-charge attitude—couldn’t be put off forever, that they wouldn’t be satisfied with half-truths and orders to obey some arbitrary chain of command. They were used to thinking and acting independently. It was obvious that, between the scripted accidents and whatever insanity the Observer had planned, everyone on base was being primed to reach a breaking point. How and when they handled it could spell the difference between a group that worked together to get out of a jam or an all-out riot spiraling down into anarchy and violence. Keene knew which way the group was tipping.
He reached his office nauseated and shivering, perhaps a delayed reaction to the scene in the kitchen or maybe anger at the inevitability of it all. He’d told Hanratty to do some major damage control sooner, long before midwinter and the communications debacle. Then Jennings had stormed in, dropped her fucking bombshell, and suddenly it looked like all of them were in a conspiracy. The moment had been lost and now this was the result.
Keene had started making plans of his own as soon as he saw Hanratty and Taylor marching down the garden path. With the fitness level one might expect from a fifty-one-year-old psychologist, there was no way he was going to risk an overland trek to the Russian base, but neither was he going to hole up in his office with the desk blocking the door. At some point, someone was going to decide that the base psychologist had to have been behind the experiment and he wasn’t going to wait to see what kind of mob showed up looking for answers.
A few days after the power had gone out, sensing a seismic shift in how Shackleton’s psychic environment had changed, he’d started making nightly treks down the Beer Can and into the ice tunnels, moving his most important files, batteries, food, and other supplies into a hidey-hole just off the main artery. He had no illusions about surviving the four months until help arrived in November; he just had to hunker down, stay safe, and wait until the fire had burnt itself out. Then, maybe, he could resurface, perhaps reestablish communications and leave this nightmare.
The Winter Over Page 24
