“Miller, if this is some kind of a joke, be warned: I’m not enjoying it at all!”
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?”