6 Months Ago
The Bell 212 flew along low to the ground. It was the fourth time this week that George Shipley had flown a group out to the Markham base, but the first time he'd flown a group out there that was this small. For the last few weeks he'd been carrying work crews out to the small abandoned compound so that they could dig out the buildings, refortify the building exteriors and create canvas entryways to the different structures so that the doors wouldn't get blocked in with snow again if a storm blew through. Save for a single utility shed whose door had fallen inwards with the weight of the snow up against it, nobody had seen inside any of the buildings in 103 years, despite the work crew's increasing curiosity about the nature of the work done at the base. That honour was being saved for Dr. Donaghue; Nobel prize winner, and the head of the research team at the Orwell Arctic station. Nobody knew what had happened to the team that had been established at Markham. The only historical record of the Markham base was a report of its establishment in 1910, that it was manned by a four-strong team of British scientists, and that the base had still been occupied in 1913.
Donaghue had come out to the base for the first day of the engineering work in a supervisory role, but hadn't returned since. He'd left management of the project to Ben VanderTuin, a foreman and engineer who'd been hired for this express purpose. VanderTuin was a nice enough guy, but George didn't like him anyway. He didn't like most people.
Today though, Donaghue was here. He sat apart from the rest of the small crew at the rear end of the helicopter, looking over his notebook, and occasionally scribbling something within its pages. VanderTuin was also on board, sitting opposite two members of Donaghue's research team: Maggie Holness, and Finbar Douglas. VanderTuin had earphones plugged in to his head and was staring at the ground. The man didn't enjoy helicopter rides, which entertained Shipley to no end. Holness and Douglas were signing to one another. They had become fast friends, having started together about eight months previously. Maggie was deaf, and by all accounts one of the most promising scientists and comedians on the base. Several others on the base had learned sign as a way of communicating with her, but George didn't see the point.
Douglas suddenly burst out laughing. The sound came through George's headphones in a piercing burst.
"Fucking hell," George yelled. "Turn off your microphone if you're going to cackle like a fucking queer." George knew that only Douglas would hear the comment. VanderTuin was likely listening to some smooth jazz bullshit, and Donaghue always turned his headphones mute.
"Ah, sorry mate," replied Douglas in a thick Scottish accent. He undid his belt and slid sideways in to the seat behind Shipley, before buckling himself back in. "We far out now?"
"Couple more minutes. Can't you tell from all the landmarks?" George motioned out of the front canopy at the empty white wasteland.
"You know what, I really can't. I should probably pay better attention."
"You said it," replied George. Douglas was one of the few people on the base that George sort of liked. He wouldn't go so far as to call the man a friend, but he could keep up with George's drinking, and he didn't do too much that actively pissed him off. Douglas went quiet, and George realized he was signing over at Maggie again. He wondered if there was something going on between them. The base was so small, it was unlikely they would be able to keep it quiet if there was, but nobody really spoke much to George anyway, so it was possible there was and he'd been too oblivious to notice.
A minute or so later, the Markham base materialized in front of them, and George Shipley lowered the old helicopter and touched down in the centre of the base, whipping up snow and pushing it in waves against the sides of the abandoned buildings. George was pleased to see that the work of the last few weeks had hardly been affected by the ongoing poor weather.
VanderTuin unbuckled his belt as the twin blades atop the 212 slowed to a halt, and pulled the door open in its frame. Cold air rushed in to the cabin and the man jumped out. Donaghue went next, climbing out a little too nimbly for a man who was, as Shipley understood it, in his mid to late seventies, followed by Maggie Holness. George's only job was to bring the team in, and fly them back out once their business at the base was complete. Until then, he was under express orders to stay inside the 212 and be prepared to take off at a moment's notice. Douglas pulled off his headphones, unbuckled his belt and punched George in the back of the shoulder.
"Ah! What the fuck are you waiting for?" George asked. "Get going. Sooner you get in there, sooner I can get the fuck back to my nice warm bed."
"Ha! I just wanted to get a good look at your face while your still alive. I think we're gonna be in there a while. You might freeze to death sitting in here on your big fat arse."
"Ah, well, that's where you're mistaken." George reached under his seat and pulled out a clear glass bottle full of a warm looking brown liquid. "I have an old friend to keep me warm." Fin's eyes widened at the sight of Shipley's home brew.
"Cunt! You kept that a secret, didn't you? You best save me a bottle for the trip back."
"Sorry Finbar. Last bottle. All mine. You can keep drinking that piss water you call beer. Shipley's Own is for real men."
"Shitpea's Own?" he replied. "Sounds delicious. See you in a bit." With that he got up, and jumped out of the helicopter, and jogged off after the others. He left the side door wide open.
"Prick," said George to himself. He unbuckled himself from his seat and clambered in to the back of the helicopter, pulling the side door shut. He stood up as straight as he could manage. His back had been crooked for years, and his right leg was mostly lame from an injury he'd sustained in a fight with an enemy combatant after crashing in hostile territory when he was in the military. He bent the leg at the knee backwards and forwards a few times to try and loosen up the tight joint. It was a persistent pain he felt, and it was worse in the cold. He frequently questioned his own judgement for taking a job flying in the Arctic where it was cold, but what other work was there for a man like him? He didn't see himself giving exciting helicopter tours in the Caribbean; he had all the charisma of a dead fish.
He looked out of the window, and watched as Douglas pulled a crowbar from his pack, and the four members of the research team went under the canvas tunnel that led to the door of the largest building, and disappeared from sight. He sat down in the passenger area of the Bell 212 and banged off the bottle cap of his beer on the edge of one of the seats, settling in for a long wait.
George's eyes fluttered open. He looked out of the window and the sun had moved across the sky noticeably. He looked at his watch. Four hours. He'd fallen asleep, and it had been four hours. The team hadn't returned in four hours. He supposed this wasn't really much cause for concern. He knew they were out here for the long haul today, but nobody had checked in. This was a science team though; they didn't exactly go much for military procedure. It was likely they were just wrapped up with whatever it was they had found inside the base.
George looked out towards the canvas tunnel where the team had entered the largest building a few hours before. The wind was picking up. The fabric flapped heavily in the breeze, and snow gusted across the ground in thick waves of powder. Something blue poked out of the ground near the entrance to the canvas tunnel.
A glove.
George wrapped his scarf around his face and pulled his hat over his head, before pulling the side door open and dropping out gingerly into the snow that had built up around the landing skids. He limped over quickly to the canvas tunnel, cursing his stupid leg, and reached down to the glove, taking hold of the hand inside it and pulling.
He dragged VanderTuin out from inside the tunnel. He was dead, his face twisted in horror. There were no wounds that George could see.
"What?" George whispered to himself. He stepped over the man, and entered the canvas tunnel, walking cautiously down the fifteen foot corridor, and pulling the combat knife he'd taken from the man who'd crippled his leg after he'd crushed the life from him with his bare hands from its sheath at his thigh. He reached the wooden door and pushed it open slowly, peeking his head inside. The room was empty but for a table and some chairs, the walls padded with an old wool-like material that had yellowed with age. Across the room was another door, this one open.
He entered, and hobbled as quietly as he could over to the second door. He look inside, but it was too dark to see anything. He pulled his torch from his belt, and held it in the same hand as his knife. Switching it on, he saw more nothing. No supplies or food; not even furniture. The room was barren. There were no other doors in here.
It didn't make sense. This building was much larger than the two rooms that he had seen. Where was the rest of the research team? Who or what had killed VanderTuin?
Cautiously he made his way back to the entrance of the building, and back down the canvas corridor in to the snow. VanderTuin still lay dead and the opening. George grabbed his wrists and painstakingly dragged him back over to the helicopter. Pulling open the side door, he picked the man up and loaded him in to the passenger area. He scanned the entirety of the compound that he could see. There were three other buildings, each smaller than the main one. He couldn't see any other entrances to the main building. He climbed in to the back and closed the side door, checking VanderTuin more thoroughly for signs of a wound. He found it on his back; a thin jagged slice cut deep into his flesh that had turned an angry purple. Veins stood out around the wound, looking black and swollen.
Something banged on the side of the helicopter. He span around, and fell on to his rear, expecting to see some large animal, but instead see Maggie Holness dragging Dr. Donaghue, who was looking much more his age. He jumped up and pulled open the door, grabbing the elderly man by the wrist and dragging him inside. He reached down for Maggie next, but she shook her head and ran back towards the large building again.
"What the hell? Where is she going?" said George.
"Back for her boyfriend I imagine," replied Donaghue. "Pointless. He's dead."
"What? What the fuck happened out there?"
"There's no time for that Mr. Shipley. If you could please start the engines, it is about time we left."
"But what about Maggie?"
"We won't be seeing her again Mr. Shipley. Start the engines. We need to go, before they finish with her and come for us."
"Who?"
Donaghue reached in to his coat pocket and pulled out a pistol, pointing it at George's face.
"The engines, Mr. Shipley, now."
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