by Logan Keys
Chapter 6
New York City, New York
Offices of the New York Times - Cubicle #14
Michelle couldn’t keep up with the work anymore. Half the towns in the US, it seemed, were either under water, seeing unexpected freezing temperatures, or losing crops. People were stockpiling food, but there was word that the shipments were being rerouted, and some wouldn’t make it through. A few places were already out of water. She’d been typing since five a.m. when her boss Lisa said the blizzard took a break and that she should get herself to work or they’d hire from the growing list of applicants.
She’s bluffing, Michelle thought. Who else would take the abuse that she did? Or maybe Lisa could find another lackey, but with the given weather that might be hard. Regardless, Michelle had shown up although she was still half asleep. A huge pot of coffee was making its rounds.
Jeremy leaned over her cubical wall and said, “Fill ’er up?”
“Please,” she answered, lifting her cup.
“Whuch you working on?” he asked, making his way around her desk so she could show him.
“The Louisiana seaboard,” Michelle murmured. “Levees are starting to fail.”
“Wow. How many?”
She checked her email. “At least twenty, but it’s predicted by nightfall to be well over fifty.”
“New Orleans will be underwater by tomorrow,” Jeremy said with a sad glance.
“Scary, right?”
He nodded but then saw Lisa heading their way. He left Michelle’s cubicle and said, “Better go. The witch smells blood in the water.”
Her neighbor Sue wasn’t so concerned. “That’s nothing,” she said without looking away from her computer. “I’ve got two stories just in. The gulf’s seeing record waves. Eighty footers. Unheard of. Galveston has boats where there should be houses.”
Lisa moved between the two cubicles and crossed her arms. “Are you guys taking a break? Or was that earlier when I saw you both making the coffee?”
Jeremy rolled his eyes behind Lisa and wisely took off down the aisle. Michelle went back to work, but Lisa stopped her. “I need you in my office. Now.”
When Michelle got there, Lisa had gone somewhere else, so she waited in the visitor’s chair for her boss to return. Meanwhile, she thought about her house guest the night before. Bob had been the perfect gentleman and earlier that morning he’d vanished, prompting Michelle to guiltily check for all of her jewelry and electronics. But they’d all been there. It was just him that had gone.
“Do you have the notes on the energy rally?” Lisa said as she entered.
Michelle sat straighter. “I have those on my drive at home. You said it wasn’t needed for another week, right?”
“You bring work home?”
“We all do.”
Lisa frowned like it was something new when Michelle was very certain that it wasn’t. “Michelle, this is Mr. Seagerman.”
A gentleman with steely eyes entered as if he’d been sharking in the hallway, waiting for an entrance. He did have a pleasant smile at least. “Hello there,” he said, moving to sit next to Michelle in a movement that was more gliding than walking, and it furthered the shark image she’d had before.
“Hi,” Michelle said, unsure why she was being introduced to the unknown man.
“Mr. Seagerman is now head of security, and he’s asked for any information we might have that pertains to the energy rally. As you know, Cybercorp was planning to speak at the rally about the solar power we’ve been harvesting with their satellites, and how efficient the new energy will be for all of us. Cheap, clean energy…” Lisa’s face fell as if the fake smile she’d held was a step too far to ask of her. She was a lot of things, but she was not a liar.
Mr. Seagerman stepped in. “What Lisa is trying to say is, if you have anything, any information that paints this new energy project in a bad light, any at all, on your computer here or at home, even in a notebook, we are going to need you to turn it in immediately.”
“What?” Michelle asked glancing at Lisa in confusion. “You mean you’re confiscating our information? The leads? Like by force?”
“It’s nothing so demanding,” Mr. Seagerman said, his face going granite around the edges despite the kind smile that surfaced now, although she knew the shark-like one was not far below. “We just want to make sure we don’t misrepresent a company that’s doing so many good things for the community. You understand.”
But Michelle didn’t understand, not at all. Freedom of the Press was everything to a journalist, and a good one would never knowingly hide or give up a story because some guy in a nice suit asked. However, she wasn’t stupid, and she was too afraid to be overly obvious about her inner struggle with bending to…the man.
“I do have a drive. At my home.”
She knew if she lied and said she had nothing, it would somehow be worse. Seeming compliant and honest was the only way.
Mr. Seagerman’s gaze pinned her to her chair. “Can you go get that drive and bring it to me?
“What? Now?”
“Yes,” Lisa answered. Her eyes didn’t meet Michelle’s and her gaze shuttered. “The weather’s not too bad, nothing us New Yorkers can’t handle. Better hurry and catch the train.”
Now Lisa seemed agitated, nervously sharing a strange look with the overly calm Mr. Seagerman.
When Michelle returned to her cubicle to gather her things, Jeremy gave her a “What can you do?” shrug, but he, too, seemed a tad nervous. The entire office was eerily quiet. What was Michelle missing? What had changed?
She got to the elevator in time to see several more men dressed like Mr. Seagerman exit. One of them seemed to recognize her, and he hung back. When she got on, however, he did not join her. Michelle got the uneasy feeling that she’d be seeing that man, the one watching her closely as the doors closed, again.
***
Michelle was surprised to find Bob on her steps when she arrived. “I thought you were going to the shelter?” she asked.
He stood and put his hands in his pockets. Bob’s cheeks turned pink slightly when he said, “I wanted to say thank you.”
Michelle smiled. “You’re welcome. You’ve been waiting here all this time? For me?”
Bob nodded.
“And are you going to a shelter now?” For some reason she knew the answer to that would be no. He avoided the question.
“I’m just running up to grab something.” Michelle unlocked her door then paused. “Come on up for coffee first at least.”
Bob smiled. “I don’t want to bother you, Michelle. I was just wanting to say thank you. It’s been a long time since someone did anything so nice for me.”
“It’s cold out here. Warm up, and then I gotta go back to the office anyway. Come on. I enjoy your company much better than my usual.”
He followed her inside, and Michelle grinned as Hatty seemed as happy to see Bob as he was to see the old cat. She started the coffee and went over to her laptop and flipped it open. Turning it on, she inserted the drive and waited. She wanted to see what was so important that they needed it right away. She got so busy in reading she didn’t hear the coffee pot go off, but Bob was on it. He made them two cups and came to hand her hers.
He stood behind her shoulder and asked, “What on earth have you gotten yourself tangled up in, girl?”
Bob’s voice sounded different, authoritative, and nothing like before. He also sounded slightly alarmed. Michelle turned and took her cup from him, but it was like he wasn’t seeing her anymore—his eyes were fixed to the screen. A picture of a scientist who had died was photographed shaking hands with Reese Leeward during his recruitment.
Michelle glanced between the computer and Bob. “This isn’t about some energy rally, is it?” She set her mug down and touched his arm. “Bob? What aren’t you telling me?”
He set down his coffee as well and faced her. “You need to get rid of this. Stay out of it. Do you know how much danger you’ve put yours
elf in?” Bob lunged forward, grabbed her arms, and started shaking her. “None of this will do anything but put you in a bad spot, you hear me? Tell them you never saw this, you lost it, or it’s missing. But if they know you read that document, they won’t leave it alone!”
“Bob,” Michelle whispered. “You’re scaring me.”
He let her go, but her heart was bumping against her ribcage so fast that she felt light headed. “My boss wants me to give it to her. I won’t be writing the story.”
“That’s not enough. Destroy the drive,” Bob said, pushing a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. I’d better go.”
With that, Bob grabbed his coat and slammed out of the apartment leaving Michelle to figure out what his cryptic warning meant. Michelle had known Bob was somehow connected to Cybercorp, but now she knew he wasn’t your average homeless man, either. No, he’d been involved with something to do with Cybercorp. With shaky hands, she pulled out the drive and walked over to the sink. She’d tell them there was nothing, that she’d been mistaken. She put it in the disposal, ready to grind it into smithereens, but she just stared at the switch. What if it was important? What if she needed the evidence?
Michelle reached her hand down into the disposal and retrieved the drive. Placing it on top of her fridge behind the cereal boxes, she decided what she would do.
***
The man was still waiting in Lisa’s office when she arrived. She handed them a drive that she had quickly put together about the interviewees and information for the energy rally.
“This is everything,” she said.
He smiled that nice smile that hid the other one she knew lurked inside. “Are you certain? Did you download or save any of this onto your computer?”
“Why would I? It’s just basic information anyone can look up.” She was surprised at how good she was at lying.
Lisa and Mr. Seagerman shared a look, and he said strangely, “Good, that’s very good, Michelle.”
When she returned to her cubicle, she felt like she was being watched, and later, when she left for home, she saw the same man from before on the elevator not far behind her on the sidewalk.
She was disappointed not to find Bob on her porch, but she figured he’d found a shelter for the night. Although exhausted from the day’s events, Michelle still opened the documents from the drive she had hidden to have a second look. Brian Walker, a scientist for Cybercorp, had been found dead inside of his home by his wife. Suicide. There was a note saying he had lost his job and was afraid to say so after moving across the ocean to the United States. He said he was sorry.
Troubled, Michelle went to bed after re-hiding the drive, thinking about Cybercorp, Mr. Seagerman, the man at the elevator, and Bob’s anger. These thoughts swirled into nightmares, until she awoke, sweating in her bed.
Someone was breaking into her apartment.
Chapter 7
Somewhere in Antarctica
It was just a little two-seater plane Luckman and another Russian scientist were forced to board, despite him wanting to let someone else take his place. The doctor had said he wasn’t going to let an American die at Vostok. “Think about the papers!” he’d shouted, pushing Luckman onto the stairs, and Luckman’s foggy brain had only one answer, which he’d kept to himself: Nobody reads actual paper anymore, man.
The Russian scientist had said no to his comrades and begged to let someone else take his spot, because surely there were other people who needed to be evacuated, but he’d been argued with and shoved into the seat next to Luckman anyway. Then the Russian pilot, who seemed a little drunk at three in the morning, had started taking off even before the door was closed—before the seatbelts were even on—and Luckman had to hold on for dear life so that he wouldn’t fall out of the plane.
They slid across the ice, at times sideways, through heavy falling snow, weaving this way and that in the wind. The scientist reached across Luckman and got ahold of the door. Together, they pulled it closed, and then they strapped in.
The two men spoke rapidly together in Russian. Luckman turned to watch Vostok Station shrink behind him knowing why they’d been rushed out, and why they were in such a hurry now. He also expected that it would be the last time anyone at that station would ever be seen alive. Doctor Leskov, Polina, and at least thirty people who manned Vostok during the winter months would all be dead if they weren’t immediately evacuated, too, because the temperatures were dropping like they’d done on the lake, and it was moving just as fast as before.
Luckman was chilled to the bone but sweating from a fever that had started during the last hour, and he found himself wheezing with a chest full of fluid. His nose dripped, and he hacked and coughed. The scientist looked him over with a piercing, raptor-like gaze. “The lungs? Yeah? Here,” he said slapping an inhaler into Luckman’s gloved palm. “Steroids. Make you strong.”
Luckman gladly took it, feeling like he was drowning from the inside out. When he took several puffs, he felt instant relief. He tried to hand it back.
“No,” said the man. “Keep it. I’ve got more. I was out on the ice, like you, yeah? The cold came…took everyone. I’ve been mending a lot longer, though, and my lungs are fine now. I’ve kept these, just in case.” He hit his pack then pointed at his temple. “Knew it wouldn’t be long before the cold was back.”
His accent was strong, but like the doctor, his English was perfect.
He held out a hand to Luckman. “I’m Kusmich, but everyone calls me German.”
“German?” Luckman repeated, shaking his hand.
“Ya. My mother, she was German, and I look it to the Russians. Strong jaw and forehead.” He grinned. “So they thought it was a good name for me, since I look so different.”
Luckman thought he looked like every Russian he’d ever met, but he supposed the man did have a big square jaw and broad enough forehead to notice. “Charles Luckman,” he said shouting over the sound of the plane. “But friends call me Lucky.”
German grinned. “I like it! We need luck. Ha!”
Luckman grinned back; he liked German’s exuberance.
“You saw it then?” Luckman asked. “The cold? Is that what they’re calling it? Back there, near the lake?”
“Ya. I call it that. It’s my own name for it. It was creeping along like fog while we were all sleeping. I woke up and my partner was frozen solid already. They rescued me halfway to the station, naked, singing about my mother’s grave and drinking a bottle of the best vodka you’ll ever find. I’d saved it to celebrate one hundred expeditions. I must have been out of my mind. I would not have drank it on only my seventy fifth.”
Luckman was impressed. He’d also pulled off his jacket during the painful cold that struck his own temporary living space, but he’d been inside. “How’d you survive without your clothes?”
“I must have just ripped them off as they found my jacket not too far away. I’m lucky they found me when they did.” He nudged Luckman. “Ha! Lucky. Like you!”
Luckman nodded and they gazed out of their windows as if somewhere below the cold was creeping onward to take more lives. From here, they could not be touched by it; they could only survey the carnage.
Luckman soon found his eyelids were growing heavy. The exhaustion was too much, and he was warm and finally breathing well. With the loud buzzing of the prop engine lulling him, he fell asleep with his chin pillowed on the soft front of his jacket.
Later when he woke, it felt like hours had passed, but he wasn’t sure. Disorientation took him by surprise, and he jerked straight, struggling against his seatbelt as if it was a snake coiled around him instead of a safety harness. Someone was arguing harshly in Russian, and the heated discussion only furthered his angst. In the darkness, a man close to him was leaning forward and yelling at the pilot and that is when it all came rushing back to him—where he was, and what he was doing.
He was on a plane, evacuating to the US station Amundsen-Scott, heading to safety.
He was high above the cold that had killed his team, along with a man who called himself German, whose team had suffered the same fate. And the pilot still didn’t seem sober from Luckman’s observation.
German was a big man and so when he sat back hard, Luckman half expected the plane to sort of sink with his weight. German seemed to be cursing in every language that he knew, which Luckman found to be many.
“Is that Mandarin?” he asked.
German shook his head while pinching the bridge of his nose. He strapped his seatbelt extra tight. “I hope your name is a sign or something, Lucky. This man is about to get us killed.”
“What? Why? Is it the cold?”
“Temperatures have dropped, but no. The idiot let us get low on gas.”
“But we aren’t out?”
German laughed. “No, but with these numbers,” he pointed at the gauge, “the gas will freeze if it’s low enough.”
German reached forward and slapped the pilots shoulder. The man just waved him off saying more in Russian and then flipped off German’s reply with his middle finger.
“How do we know—” and that’s when Luckman heard it. Just slightly, every few seconds maybe, a hitch in the engine noise.
“Hell,” German said looking out the window. “Survived what I did to die on this toy airplane.”
“Can we land now?” Luckman asked, trying not to panic.
“He’s going to have to.”
The pilot waved his hand at German again as he argued some more.
“See,” German said. “He won’t listen to me. Says it’s fine. He’s drunk as a…what do you Americans call it? Little furry animal with a stripe?”
Luckman shook his head in confusion until he made sense of the question. “Uhhh, skunk?”
Was he asleep? Was this a nightmare?
The engine on the left cut out and Luckman pressed his face to the window in disbelief. He watched in further amazement as the pilot fiddled with a switch, flipping it up and down, up and down, and flicked the gauge for the temperature. His liquor-addled brain couldn’t grasp the swiftly dropping temperatures and just thought it was the gauge that was faulty. Same thought Luckman had when his team had been drilling.
