The numbers of the clock changed. He turned his head back and forth, looking for something to fix his gaze on, but everything had become blurry. He closed them, and pretended that Holly was still tied to the bed. Still with him. He didn't feel so alone then.
That voice, so perfect and calm, said beside him. “You did the right thing, Clay.”
He sighed and whispered, “Go fuck yourself.”
* * *
It was nearly Summer in the remote Arctic town of Resolute Bay, at least as much as summer ever came this far north. Greg Nassun pulled back the fur-lined hood of his parka and was instantly reminded that the season meant something entirely different here. It was still early in the morning, but the temperature would soon climb to plus ten Celsius. If it stayed this way for a couple more weeks, the thinning ice of the bay would break up enough to free the icebergs, allow an occasional cruise ship to pay the island a visit. The two weren’t normally associated with each other, but up here you took advantage of open water whenever it presented itself. Not that it mattered. Greg didn’t plan to be here much longer.
Though the cold seeped down his neck, the few minutes of un-obscured vision was worth leaving the hood down. His growing frustration would keep him warm enough for the moment. He knew why Francois wanted these readings done, especially today. He’d brought out a small card table from the hotel room and set it up on the hill, a short way past the distance marker and its Montreal 2082 miles teaser. Down the slope in front of him, the frozen bay groaned and cracked as it slowly, very slowly, thawed. The sound was momentarily overpowered by a flock of skimobiles racing across the ice. Two miles beyond them, a mountain of ice caught in last year’s freeze waited patiently for its chance to escape.
Greg checked the compass duct-taped to the top of the table. Nothing. One-point-nine percent declination over the average reading two years ago. These past four mind-numbing weeks Francois insisted on daily readings. The man was seriously nuts. If Greg had had any doubts, they were eliminated by last night’s phone call. Readings every hour today. Greg argued that magnetic North hadn’t shifted once in four weeks. Why would it do anything today?
Francois wasn’t listening. Greg’s boss was convinced something was going to happen this morning. He didn’t say this outright. But Francois Gourmond believed. Greg wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d been secretly building an ark of his own, on those rare occasions he was actually out of the office.
Fine. That was fine. He agreed to this charade only as long as Gourmond let him go home tomorrow. Four weeks without a sunset was long enough, thank you. He wanted to be back in Quebec, under artificial lights and real starlight. Vacation in the States, perhaps, pay a visit to Mickey Mouse or lay on a beach. Go someplace warm, where Greg could relax, become the happy, mellow guy he used to be.
The crowd behind him wouldn’t shut up. Do you think anything’s going to happen? How can anything happen? It hasn’t rained! But they’re all so sure. Everyone’s climbing aboard their boats right now!
Shut up, you idiots, he thought. Shut up shut up!
Even Dora, who’d come by with a complimentary cup of coffee twenty minutes ago, bubbled with excitement. Everyone was either terrified or relieved that it would all be over in a few minutes, waiting impatiently for the allotted time to pass and praying nothing happened. Nothing at all.
On the table in front of him, the long, plastic compass remained stable, the needle’s position unchanged from yesterday, and the day before. He would do these final measurements today, log them, email them to Francois, pack and go home. The flight was booked –
The compass needle shifted. Damn, he thought. Don’t screw up on me now you piece of...
The needle stopped. Greg leaned over the table. He was fairly certain the letter N still faced geographical north. But the needle pointed almost due West. “That’s just wrong,” he sighed.
Someone in the crowd turned towards him. Greg swore under his breath. The last thing he needed was to become a spectacle for anyone so bored even this work seemed interesting.
He ignored the sudden, interested stares and took out another, palm-sized compass from the inside pocket of his parka. He needed to compare measurements, see how off the table reading was. The man who’d overheard him was speaking to Dora. The large waitress walked nervously to where Greg still hunkered over the table.
Both compasses, the one on the table and the one in his palm, pointed due west. “Something wrong with your compass, Hon?”
Yes, there’s something wrong. What he needed was... the needle on the large compass slowly righted itself. Greg’s heart had been beating so fast the back of his neck was cool with perspiration. Damn you, Francois. You’re making me as crazy as you.
The needle stopped. He did a quick calculation in his head, one done so often he rarely needed the calculator tucked in his other pocket. Roughly an eighteen percent declination. That was impossible!
“Your needle keeps moving,” Dora whispered. People began to crowd around the table.
“Please,” he said, trying not to sound irritated, “let me alone for a minute. I need to fix this.”
“Look!” Someone pointed. “It’s moving again!”
Mutters in English and French. Someone began praying in Inuit, at least Greg assumed it was a prayer since the old woman had fallen to her knees.
“It’s not moving,” he shouted. “Back away, please!” But it was moving. Westward. When it again hit due West, the needle stopped. Not possible. Not possible. The needle spun around in a full circle, two complete revolutions before coming to a stop East-North-East. Behind him someone screamed, loud voices adding to the sudden explosion of sound.
Dora grabbed his arm. “Greg, what is it doing?”
He opened his clenched palm. The glass face of the smaller compass was wet with perspiration, but he could see where it pointed. Same as the table. Then it moved again, pointing to perfect, true North. So did the table version.
“Greg?” Dora’s voice was high.
“It’s not happening. Dora, this is nothing. It’s normal. It’s normal. It’s normal....” He kept repeating these two words aloud, fueling, rather than subduing, the panic around him. He stared at each compass, watched the needles drop, slowly, inexorably, to the West again, then beyond.
The ice in Resolute Bay began to crack with sudden, desperate reports. No one heard them over their own shouts and footsteps, running home, running away from whatever was about to happen. Greg only stared at the table, at his palm. The needle continued to move, stop, spin, then move again. He looked up, focused his gaze on the iceberg waiting patiently across the frozen bay.
* * *
The firehouse's living area was deserted save for the lone figure standing in front of the picture window. Most everyone else had gone downstairs to the garage bays, opening the doors for a better view of the events on the square. Technically, the crew was on standby, in case things got out of hand across the street. More so was their insatiable curiosity, or fear about what might happen in fifteen minutes.
As the morning progressed, some would come upstairs to stand beside Marty Santos, stare with him out the window to watch Margaret's crew ascend the ramp one by one then disappear below deck. The chief's silence was contagious, for no visitor tried to start a conversation. They would stand for a while, seeing what he saw, then wander downstairs to join the others in the garage.