Operation Antarctica

by William Meikle

  He couldn’t afford to stop his own shouting, but he saw the look that McCally gave him after throwing three more short-cut logs in the stove. The area under the stove itself was now almost empty.

  We’re running out of fuel.

  There was no point in worrying about it. All they were able to do was keep up the shouting, clapping, and stamping and hope it was enough to keep the encroaching cold at bay. And if it wasn’t, well, there was always Wiggins’ option of opening the door and going at it all guns blazing. That was going to be Banks’ last resort, but he was coming to think it might also be his last available option.

  It wasn’t long before McCally reached under the stove for more fuel and came up empty-handed. Banks didn’t stop stamping or shouting, but stopped clapping long enough to motion at the table and chairs. Thankfully, the corporal got the message, and quickly kicked and stomped the chairs and table into timber small enough to be fed into the stove. But the new fuel wasn’t as dense as the old logs, and burned faster. It was only ten minutes later that yet more fuel was needed. The frost grew another six inches across the floor as McCally and Parker tore planks and facing from the twin bunk beds and fed it into the flames.

  *

  Beds, bedclothes, shoring planks and all went to feed the ravenous stove, and all were too little to hold back the frost from creeping ever closer to their toes. The five men took turns, circling while stamping so that one of them was always closer to the stove and got a modicum of heat, for a time. But the spells between their turn at the warmth got colder, bitterly so, and despite their best efforts, they were all tiring now, their clapping and stomping and shouting not loud enough to drown the chanting.

  As if sensing their weakened state, the thumping at the door started up again, and the frost crept faster across the floor, and also upward and outward, spreading along the walls in a spider-web crawl across the interior timbers.

  Finally, McCally fed the last of their available fuel into the stove. Short of burning their own clothing and gear, there was no more they could do – all they had was the shouting, clapping, stamping, and what diminishing heat they could draw from the stove.

  They kept circling.

  *

  Banks felt the cold with each breath when he wasn’t the man nearest the stove, felt ice crackle at his lips. His feet were like lumps of cold stone and he couldn’t feel his fingers when he clapped his hands. The monkish chanting was louder still and the tug of the darkness and the stars called hard now. Their shouting and clapping fell into the rhythm of a parade ground drill, and Banks put everything he had into it, one last effort. The others heard, and replied with a renewed burst of energy from all of them, but all they managed was to stop the ice coming any closer for a matter of minutes, and all too soon it had started to creep again.

  All Banks knew was the stamping and circling, the clapping and the shouting.

  “Dhumna Ort!” he uttered, barely able to manage much above a coarse rasp.

  It wasn’t enough. Slowly, remorselessly the cold crept in, reaching their toes, their heels and their ankles. They kept circling for a time, or at least it felt like they did, but gray crept into Banks’ sight with the cold, gray that became black, a deep well that was filled with stars. He tried to remember what it was he should be doing, words he should be saying, but another rhythm had him now, a cold throbbing in the dark. He tasted salt water at his lips, saw the void spread out like a blanket in front of him.

  He fell into it, lost in the dance.

  - 13 -

  Banks came out of it slowly, not where he might have expected to inside the saucer, but standing, still out in the open, in front of the locked door of the disguised hut, the metal door that led into the base. Thin watery light washed the sky, and as purple gave way to azure, so too the distant chanting faded, and so too did the compulsion to dance in the darkness.

  The coming of day had saved them. Part of Banks, a large part if he was truthful to himself, was saddened to feel the dance leave him.

  The five men were all groggy and looked at each other in bemusement. Banks felt the cold bite hard at his feet and ankles. It might be morning, but it was a bitter one. A snell wind cut through his clothing and blew ice and snow around the doorway. Wiggins and Parker had gloved hands on the wheel of the lock mechanism, as if they’d been in the process of opening the door just before waking. They had to prise their hands from the metal where the material of their gloves had frozen to the wheel.

  “What the fuck, Cap,” Wiggins said. “How the bloody hell did we get out here? It happened again, didn’t it?”

  “Aye,” Banks replied. “But we fought it off. So don’t go worrying about it. Back to the hut. We’ve got some thinking to do, but we need to get out of this weather; it looks like a storm coming in.”

  They turned away from the door and with Hynd and Banks in the lead made their way quickly back down the slope. Banks turned the corner to the doorway of the hut, and stopped so quickly that Parker walked into his back and nearly tumbled them both to the ground.

  The hut door was wide open, but there was no space for the squad inside; that was taken up by the dead, both the Germans, half a dozen of them…and three new recruits to their ranks in Wilkes, Patel, and Hughes. Wilkes showed no sign of the bloody wounds he’d taken in getting slammed into the hut wall. Like the other two, he now wore an immaculately clean uniform, as pristine as that worn by the German officer. The only difference now was that each of them sported the familiar Swastika armband on their left upper arm. The three dead men stood just behind the tall German oberst, and all four of them raised their arm in unison, and pointed. Banks didn’t have to check the direction; he knew exactly where they wanted him to go.

  “We can take them here and now, Cap,” Hynd said at his shoulder. “Just give the word.”

  “No. We can’t,” Banks said. “That bastard has already proved that to us. What do they say – insanity is keeping doing the same thing and expecting different results? I’m done with that. And I’m not about to fire on my own men, dead or not. It’s time for a new tack. And we might as well be warm while we think on it. Back to the hangar base, lads. And down to the living quarters.”

  Wiggins was the one to speak, but Banks knew most of them were thinking it.

  “Bugger that for a game of soldiers, Cap. I’m pished off playing the hokey-cokey with these wee shitebags.”

  Banks pointed into the hut.

  “I’ve lost three of you already. I’ll be fucked if I’m losing anymore. Now get back to the hatch doorway. And in case you’ve forgotten your place, that’s a fucking order, Private.”

  When Hynd called for them to move out, they all moved out. Banks was last to turn away. He had a final look at the three men – his men, his failure showing all too clear in the milk-white eyes. The sight of the Swastika band on their arms sickened him, as he knew it would have sickened them; now, it was just another taunt, another all too clear sign of how he had let them down. Their gaze bored into the back of his head as he walked away to join the remains of his squad.

  *

  At least he’d been right about one thing; it was considerably warmer inside the base, noticeably so even as they stepped inside the heavy metal door and closed it behind them. Wiggins moved to lock it internally, but Banks stopped him.

  “Leave it, lad. Yon frozen buggers don’t seem to be any respecters of locks, and our relief might need to come in fast, so let’s not make it hard for them, eh?”

  Wiggins looked like he wanted to say something, but Banks’ rebuke several minutes earlier appeared to make him more circumspect this time, which suited Banks just fine. He didn’t have time to be dealing with insubordination; he was too busy dealing with his own doubts.

  They all moved down to the first landing. Banks unzipped his outer jacket and winced as his hands tingled with returning heat. He turned to Hynd.

  “We’re only going as far in as we need to go in order to get some heat and some rest. I don’t wa
nt anyone going near that fucking saucer. We’ll make for the living quarters then pick a nice wee warm room, and we stay there until the relief arrives. We’ve got some rations, some reading material, heat, and light. Everything a growing lad needs.”

  “Except the sarge’s wife,” Wiggins replied, but this time the humor fell flat. The squad had just seen their dead friends stand with the German officer, and it had affected them all. Banks pushed the image away as soon as he thought it. He realized he was locking an awful lot of stuff away in there, stuff that he knew would be back to bite him on the arse on long dark nights once they got home.

  Aye, well, it can get in line with all the other crap.

  *

  He led the squad away, heading down into the bowels of the base.

  “In out, in out, shake it all about,” Wiggins muttered, but nobody felt like singing along.

  It felt warmer still in the main living chamber at the foot of the stairwell. The overhead lights glowed, not white as might be expected, but the same warm golden glow they’d encountered in the hangar around the saucer. Banks glanced at the double doorway that led to the hangar, and felt the pull and tug, the urge to join the dance.

  “Dhumna Ort!” he muttered. He remembered how putting in his earplugs had muted the effect, and motioned to the others to follow his lead in pushing the plugs in deep.

  “We’re going to be shouting at each other with these things in, so keep chat to a minimum,” he said. “Hand signals only, and speaking only if you really need to. Got it?”

  Hynd pushed his plugs in and gave Banks the thumbs up. The other three followed suit. Banks was relieved to note that the urge to run through the double door and head for the hangar had now gone. He motioned to the team to get on the move.

  They did a quick survey of the rooms, relieved to find they were all empty of cold corpses, and chose one with four bunks and a table and chairs. Banks got them inside, closed the door behind them, and motioned that the team should each take a bunk.

  He sat down, suddenly dog-tired, at the table. The weight of the events of the day before, and the night they’d spent in the hut felt like a heavy stone pressing down on his shoulders. He put his head in his hands and was asleep before he could give any thought to setting a guard.

  *

  He dreamed, of starry vistas and swirling shadows, of nebulous gas clouds the size of galaxies, of the nurseries and graveyards of the stars themselves, and of dancing, lost and joyous in the rhythm of the black.

  This time, he came out of it standing at the door of the room, his hand on the door handle – it had been the feel of cold metal in his palm that had brought him just far enough out of dream sleep to realize what was happening. Somewhere, far distant, a choir chanted in the wind, but now that he was awake, he found he could fight against it.

  “Dhumna Ort!” he whispered, and all compulsion fell away from him, dispelled as quickly as the vanishing of the far-off chanting.

  He looked around. The other four men were all asleep, Wiggins snoring loudly, Parker muttering and moaning, McCally lying half-in, half out of a cot as if he’d tried to get out of it then lost all energy, and Hynd, face down, breathing heavily. They all seemed to be genuinely asleep, but Banks couldn’t help wondering if they too were somewhere off in the black, lost to the dance.

  He let them sleep. He rummaged in his backpack and took out the old leather journal, needing something to focus on to stop sleep, and the dance, from leading him astray. He’d already read all of the account of the nature of the thing in the submarine, but perhaps there was something else in the writings that could help him understand – and maybe even overcome – what they were dealing with here. One word, ‘demon’ caught his attention as he scanned the pages, and he backed up a few pages, and started reading at that point.

  *

  As I descended the steps, I got a clue as to what Churchill had meant. There had been a fire in the area under the bar at some point in the past, not recently, but one that had been bad enough to leave a thick layer of ash and soot covering everything. Light came in through a small window high up that was itself smeared with a greasy film of thin soot. The window overlooked the river, and despite the soot was letting in enough light for me to see that I wasn’t in a beer cellar after all.

  The fire that had left the soot and ash behind had also left remnants of furniture: three long sofas, all halfway burned through, and a squat square table that had been overturned and leaned against the wall.

  A roughly circular piece of the floorboards, a yard or so at the widest point had been cleared of ash, and I got my first inkling of why Churchill had asked for my help. I could not see all of it, but there was definitely a magic circle and an interior pentagram drawn there.

  But this wasn’t one of my protections, far from it. I had seen the like of this before, in books in my library, old books, that dealt with calling up all manner of things to do your bidding. This was a summoning circle, and from the quick look I’d had at it, I had a sinking feeling it wasn’t mere necromancy that had been attempted in this room.

  Whoever had been at work here was after something rather more sensational. It was clear to me now that they had been involved in a medieval ritual of some infamy; this room had seen an attempt at summoning, and controlling, a demon.

  Of course, I know there are no such things as demons, there are merely mischief making manifestations from the Outer Darkness. But people who dabble in the esoteric disciplines without any training are wont to see what they expect, especially those of a religious bent to start with. I had no doubt that this small room here under the bar had seen some excitable people get excited, perhaps even over excited while under the influence of drugs and liquor and the promise of power from the great beyond.

  While I’d been examining the circle and arriving at some conclusions as to its nature, Churchill had been watching me.

  “First impressions, old boy?” he asked.

  “Stuff and nonsense,” I replied. “People with more money and liquor than sense looking for an easy thrill, and receiving precisely what they were looking for. It’s all parlor games and cheap tricks to rook the gullible. You’re a man of the world, Churchill; you know that for yourself.”

  Churchill nodded.

  “I have usually been of the same mind,” he replied, “despite having come across several things on my travels over the years that have as yet defied explanation. And, like you, I would put this down to too much liquor, money, and high spirits. But there is more to it than that; otherwise, I would not have bothered you with it in the first place.”

  “More?” I said, looking around at the burned remains of the room and the marks on the floor. “What more could there possibly be?”

  “Just wait,” Churchill replied. He hadn’t put out his cigar, and he chewed on it as he spoke. I sensed tension in him, a rare thing to see in a man who was normally so self-assured, and I wondered what might be the cause. Then a cloud went over the sun outside the only window, and I saw exactly what had brought on his uncharacteristic nervousness.

  A dark, shadowy figure stood inside the circle on the floor, insubstantial, like something produced by smoke and mirrors. It wasn’t quite as tall as a man, more child-like in stature and stance, and one that appeared to be bent and twisted, as if all the bones in its body had been broken, then imperfectly set.

  It took several seconds before my eyes adjusted to the growing gloom, and it was only then that I got my first clear look, and saw that it was not human, not even remotely. It was reddish in color, appearing almost as burned as the room in which we stood, and it maintained its balance in the circle with the aid of a pair of large, leathery, wings that stretched out from its shoulders and fanned the stale air around. It stared at me from dark, almost black, eyes and I felt an involuntary shiver run through me.

  For all intents and purposes, I was looking into the eyes of a demon.

  It did not speak, for which I was grateful, but it stared at me most balef
ully. It opened and closed small fists, gripping with long, slender fingers, as if it wished it had them affixed around my neck. A tongue flicked from the thin black lips; I did not have time to check if it was forked at the end, for at that moment the cloud moved on outside, the sun reappeared, and the figure in the circle became thin and unsubstantial once again, before fading away completely.

  “I do not believe in demons,” I said, mostly to reassure myself that I had not, in fact, witnessed what I had seen.

  Churchill laughed.

  “I don’t think he cares, old man.”

  *

  Demons again, and Churchill again, but nothing that could help Banks in his quest for clarity here.

  “I don’t believe in demons,” he muttered, repeating the words he’d just read, but he couldn’t make himself believe it after all that he’d seen since their arrival at the base. He started to close the journal, but knew that would only leave him alone with his thoughts, and vulnerable to the call from the darkness. Reading had been helping to keep it at bay, so he skipped forward a few pages until he encountered the word again, and read on from there.

  *

  It did not take long for the demon, if that was indeed what it was, to show itself again. It started to come into view almost as soon as I switched off the lamp and the wash of colors from my valves only emboldened it and brought it ever more into solid reality.

  I sat on the step and watched it closely, trying to ascertain if it had any sense of purpose or intent, but it was more in the nature of a moving image, albeit a solid one, rather than anything with any degree of intelligence of its own.