Robert Masello - Blood and Ice

He gave the window crank another turn.

But then he thought he heard the cry again, and this time he could have sworn it was a deep voice, wailing words that were indecipherable. But even after turning off the lamp, hooding his eyes and staring out again, he could see nothing.

Whoa, he thought, drawing the curtains firmly closed, that Scotch must be higher proof than I thought.

He plopped back into the chair, and after one more look at the photo of Eleanor, flicked open some shots he'd taken of the abandoned whaling station. The rusted hulk of the Albatros gaped on the beach, piles of bleached bones lay scattered among the rocks, gravestones leaned at crazy angles in the churchyard. The curtains stirred again, but he knew it wasn't because of the window. The door at the end of the hallway must have been opened, and that always sent a draft blowing straight down the hall, all the way to the communal bathroom and sauna. It was probably Darryl, and Michael was already preparing what he would say-or not say in respect to the discovery of Eleanor-as he listened to the sound of wet footsteps trudging down the hall. He closed the file on the computer just as they stopped outside. He waited to hear Darryl's key enter the lock-locked dorm rooms had become the rule, according to Murphy-but instead he simply saw the doorknob turn. Just a little bit, before the lock kicked in.

He could see a shadow under the door, and he could hear breathing outside-labored breathing. The hair on the back of his neck suddenly prickled, and he got up, slowly, and tiptoed barefoot to the door. He took hold of the door handle, just as it was jiggled again; he held it firm, and put his ear to the door. It was thin plywood, and never in his life did he wish harder for a slab of solid oak. A trickle of icy water ran under the door and touched his toes.

The handle was tried again, the other way, but it still didn't give. Michael tried not to breathe.

He heard a full exhalation, and the sound of rustling, frost-covered clothes. Michael pressed his ear tighter against the door and leaned his shoulder against it, too.

“Give…” the voice mumbled “… it… back.”

Michael's blood froze in his veins, and he waited, ready to do anything to blockade the door, when he heard some laughing at the other end of the module-the bathroom end-and the snapping of a towel.

“Grow up!” someone shouted.

The jiggling abruptly stopped, and the shadow under the door disappeared. There was a rapid, squelching sound-wet boots on dry carpet-and a few seconds after Michael heard the outer door slam at the far end of the module, the bedroom door started to open. He was still holding the knob, and he heard Darryl mutter, “Fuck this key…”

Michael let go, and the knob turned. Darryl came in, in his bathrobe and flip-flops, with a towel wrapped around his neck. He looked startled to see Michael standing there behind the door.

“What are you, the doorman now?”

Michael ducked around him and stuck his head into the hall. “Did you see anybody out here?”

“What?” Darryl said, vigorously toweling his head. “Oh, yeah, I think somebody was just going out.” He tossed his key onto the dresser. “Why?”

Michael closed the door and locked it. The icy trickle had already begun to dry on the carpet.

Noticing the open laptop, Darryl said, “You were working?”

“Yeah,” Michael said, turning it off now. “I was.”

“Turn up anything interesting at Stromviken?”

“No, nothing new,” Michael said, turning away to conceal any expression that might betray him.

Spotting the glass of Scotch, Darryl said, “I'll have a shot of that.”

While Michael poured some of the Scotch into a glass, Darryl tossed his towel toward their dresser. It fell off, carrying a hairbrush and some other stuff with it. “Sorry,” he said, “my three-point shot was always weak.” He bent down and picked a few things up off the carpet, but the last item he weighed thoughtfully in his hand.

When Michael handed him the glass, Darryl offered him the item he'd just retrieved-a walrus-tooth necklace that unspooled into Michael's palm like a snake.

“When you get back to the world,” Darryl said, “I guess you could always mail it back to his widow. She'd probably like to have it.”

December 16, 8:20 p.m.

Once Michael had left the infirmary-and Eleanor was sorry to see him go-the doctor ushered her into the bathroom, showed her how the hot shower worked, and left her everything else she'd need. There was a slender cylinder, for example, soft to the touch, that emitted a paste for scrubbing the teeth-the taste reminded her of lime-and a brush, too, with very fine, clear bristles. Eleanor wondered for a moment what animal the bristles could possibly have come from.

“You need anything else, I'm right next door,” the doctor said.

And then Eleanor was alone-alone in a lavatory that resembled nothing she'd ever seen, with fresh apparel to put on, for the first time in over 150 years, and with no idea what would happen to her next. Or to Sinclair, wherever he might be. Was he still reconnoitering? Or hunting? Had he been caught, too far from the church, in the midst of the storm, and was he stranded in the alien landscape?

Or had he come back, only to find the bolt on the door thrown back and the room empty? He would know that someone must have intruded on her. She felt a sharp pang, the pang she knew she'd have felt if their positions had been reversed… if she'd had reason to believe that Sinclair had been taken from her, God knew where. Ever since the day he had been brought back from the battlefield, and she had seen his name on the roster of the newly admitted, they had been united in a way that she could never have explained to anyone.

How could anyone else have ever understood?

She had found him in one of the larger fever wards. Stained muslin curtains hung from sagging rods, and since few of the doctors, or even the orderlies, cared to risk the chance of contagion, there was no one to ask about exactly where he had been billeted. Ignoring the piteous cries for water or help, from men dying of thirst or lost in some terrible fever dream, she had stumbled through the ward, looking everywhere… until she spied a fair-haired head lying on a straw bolster on the floor.

“Sinclair!” she'd exclaimed, running to his side.

He looked up at her, but said nothing-and then he had smiled. But it was a dreamy smile, a smile that told her he did not believe she was really there. It was the smile of a man consciously enjoying what he knew to be a reverie.

“Sinclair, it's me,” she said, falling to her knees beside his flimsy pallet and taking hold of his limp hand. “I'm here. Truly.”

The smile faltered, as if her touch was eroding, rather than reinforcing, his fragile dream.

She pressed her cheek to the back of his hand. “I'm here, and you're alive, and that's all that matters.”

He withdrew the hand-peeved-at this further intrusion.

Tears welled up in her eyes, but she searched the ward until she found a pitcher of stagnant water-the only water available at all- and returned to mop his brow and face. There were flakes of blood in his moustache, and she wiped those away, too.

The soldier lying on the floor behind her, a Highlander judging from what was left of his uniform, clutched at the hem of her skirt and begged for a drop of the water. She turned and poured some of the water over his cracked lips. He was an older man, somewhere past thirty, with broken teeth and skin the color of chalk. He would not, she knew, be long for this world.

“Thank'ee, Missus,” he murmured. “But mind you, steer clear of him.” He meant Sinclair. “He's a bad ‘un.” He turned his pallid face away, suddenly overcome by a barking cough.