Hamlin finally faced the inevitable and crawled under the covers. He wished he had drunk more vodka. He lay quietly, conceding that the stressful thoughts would soon come and shake his emotions. While he waited, sleep overtook him.
Pechkin, we want to help you
That voice…
Pechkin, we want to help you
Those words…
Help you…
There stood the smoldering, soulless abomination that was once a quiet, unassuming drilling worker who wouldn’t hurt a fly. Its wild eyes locked on and gave a preview of the madness that went on behind them. Hamlin did the only thing he was capable of—he screamed. Or at least he tried to scream. All that came out was a strangled squeak. He tried again as Pechkin lunged.
He sat up abruptly in bed, the transition from sleep to consciousness transpiring in a blink. It took a moment for him to find understanding. It had been a dream.
“Shit.” He gasped air as his metabolism slowly recovered from the scare.
“Only a dream.” Hamlin lay back down and closed his eyes. What a relief. And yet, there was the smallest seed of doubt. He quieted his breathing and listened to the darkness. Outside, the omnipresent wind howled. A faint bar of light was visible under his door, and the soft clink he heard was no doubt another crew member getting a drink. It came as no surprise that he wasn’t the only one not sleeping through the night. There were no other sounds.
“Oh, great.”
Now all he had to do was get back to sleep.
“Like that’s going to happen.” His mouth and his mind seemed to be having a good conversation going on between them.
He closed his eyes and realized that he wasn’t entirely convinced that Pechkin hadn’t somehow broken in to the barracks, then snuck down the hall and hid in his room. Hamlin remembered that some of the crew had installed deadbolts on the outside door. Now if only they would put bars on the windows, he could feel somewhat secure.
The person in the kitchen must have done something to cause a slight bumping sound. Or was it Pechkin tapping on the floor or knocking on the wall? Although Hamlin was sure it wasn’t, he was also sure that he wouldn’t be getting back to sleep anytime soon. He had a brief, fleeting vision of what the camp in Africa might look like should he have chosen a different path. And then Deborah filled his consciousness. He missed her so badly that he actually felt a passing but sharp physical pain. Why couldn’t he think of anything positive?
He resigned himself to some tossing and turning.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
It might have been dark outside, but at least the common area was well lit when Hamlin dragged himself down the hallway for breakfast. He wasn’t as hungry as usual, but his mouth was dry. He settled for a bowl of oatmeal and several glasses of orange juice and ice. Halfway through his second glass, as he swirled the ice around to ensure even cooling of the drink, he started to develop some qualms about consuming the frozen water. In his mind, the research about the viruses in Lake Vostok took on new significance.
Konstantine sat down beside him while Hamlin had been daydreaming; he hadn’t even noticed. Not until he started talking, at least.
“Well, I bet you can hardly wait to get back to the lab, huh?”
How did he really feel about that? Hamlin decided he wasn’t sure. “Look, we have to keep busy,” he replied. “And what we’re doing is still just as important.”
Konstantine leaned in closer and lowered his voice.
“Do you think Pechkin is a zombie?”
“What? No!” He shook his head in disgust. “What would make you even say that?”
Too many heads were turning their way. Hamlin cursed himself for not keeping his voice down.
“I just wondered. I’ve seen some of the movies, you know. So don’t blame me…they are an American invention, right?”
Hamlin shook his head. “No. They originate from Haitian folklore; a side effect of voodoo magic. So get off your high horse, Konstantine.”
“Really? That’s interesting.” He began to eat.
Hamlin immediately started daydreaming again. He made no attempt to control where his mind went or to add any type of structure to his thoughts. He was too tired for the required effort. He meandered into the realm of firearms.
“You know, I used to have a gun once. I sure miss it now.”
Konstantine looked up from his sausage and eggs.
“Really? That’s awesome. What was it?”
“It was a beautiful thing. The company that made it was Beretta. It was a 9mm semi-automatic handgun. It was gorgeous and deadly. It felt like a real weapon in my hand. So hard and cold and heavy. Mine could hold fifteen rounds—enough to start a war with a third-world country. The Italians made it as sexy as an exotic sports car. I loved it.”
“So you got rid of it?”
“Yeah. I went through a real liberal-democrat phase. I decided it was too dangerous and represented an unacceptable way of dealing with issues, no matter how serious they might be.”
“And now?”
“I’d pay big money to have it back in my hands.”
“Even one thousand rubles?” It was nice to see Konstantine with a grin on his face.
“Okay, tell me smart guy—how much is one thousand rubles anyway? What could I buy in America, or Russia for that matter?”
“Roughly…it’s worth about thirty American dollars.”
Hamlin shook his head. Now he too had a smile on his face.
“I should have known. All that fuss you guys made, like I could afford a mansion and a private jet.”
“You could get a nice pair of boots.”
“You know, if I was a woman, that sort of thing would probably appeal to me.”
He immediately got swatted on the shoulder. Lena stood behind him.
“That is a particularly prejudiced thing to say. Should we talk about the stereotypical male and his various idiosyncrasies?”
She sat down beside him.
“No, not necessary,” Hamlin said. “We’re just making conversation. No harm intended.”
“No harm intended? I think I will propose that becomes the official credo of this place.” She suddenly looked like she realized that those words shouldn’t have been uttered. She changed the subject abruptly.
“So, did you get any sleep last night, Francis? You look a little tired around the eyes. Now Konstantine here, on the other hand, looks like he just finished drinking a chocolate milkshake and watching three hours of cartoons.”
Konstantine didn’t look up from his plate.
“Good morning, Lena,” he said.
She put her hand on Hamlin’s leg and started to rub it.
“Did I offend you last night?”
Hamlin played dumb. “What? Why?”
She smiled and slid her hand a little higher.
“I thought you looked a bit put out when I was being flirty. Maybe I was wrong.”
“Maybe you were.” It wasn’t much of a response. Her hand was getting dangerously high now.
“I think you were. I think I should find a way to make it up to you.”