Mattias Berg - The Carrier

Since we all needed to get some fresh air, we decided not to take the bus downtown. The snow creaked under our boots, the cold made the balaclavas from our combat packs stick to our mouths. The road was so narrow, without any sidewalk, that it required full concentration to keep out of the way of the traffic. When the biggest trucks drove by, we had to press ourselves against the snow walls.

“The mine,” Ingrid said, continuing enigmatically, “it giveth and it taketh away.”

Neither Jesús María nor I said anything in reply, we just walked on through the razor-sharp cold. It was almost a quarter of an hour before we approached something approximating a town center. I mouthed my way silently through the names on the direction signs, memorizing them for a possible exit route. Ingrid gestured toward the enormous square, containing more parked cars than people. The only movement came from the occasional solitary businessman on his way into or out of the Hotell Ferrum.

“O.K., co-ordinates… 125 miles north of the Arctic Circle. The world’s largest town measured by surface area, at least on the basis of the old municipal system. And beneath us is the abyss. We’re moving on the thinnest of ice—central Kiruna is cracking up, bit by bit, being swallowed whole by the mine. The treasure chest of iron ore which financed our great leap, from primitive farming economy to leading industrial and welfare nation. Most of the Swedish social and economic model.”

Ingrid pointed toward the mighty black silhouette, covering most of the horizon.

“I’ve called it Mount Doom ever since I first read Lord of the Rings .”

I squinted into the sun, tried to grasp the scale of the mine: the monster which Ingrid said was consuming itself. In the other direction lay the idyllic old parts of town, which were soon going to be torn down—like a movie set—when the town center would be forced to move a mile east. Demolished, I thought, like the fake towns which we had put up in inaccessible places. For the sole purpose of bombing the hell out of them during our nuclear weapons tests.

Ingrid turned toward me. You could see the breath from her mouth, even though it was covered by her balaclava, seeping out like gas.

“Do you recognize where you are, Erasmus?”

I shook my head.

“Look over toward the mountain, beyond the mine. You’ve been there a number of times. Been flown in at night to train, clearing up operations after a simulated drone attack at N.E.A.T., the ‘North European Aerospace Test Range’, by far the largest aboveground military training terrain in Europe. Nine thousand two hundred fifty square miles, as big as Belgium, just sixty-two miles straight out into the countryside from here. Belongs to Kiruna Municipality, technically speaking. But is nowadays managed by the Swedish Defense Materiel Administration and Swedish Space Corporation together.”

Suddenly I could see everything. The constant darkness, the same above ground as below, crawling and slithering through inhumanly narrow tunnels, occasional glowing points, winter warfare. How we had been kept in the dark about the co-ordinates, had no clue as to our whereabouts, training to operate in this ignorance. We called it “No-Man’s-Land”.

Now we left the square behind us, kept to the edge of the soon-to-be former town center, passed charming wooden houses from the early twentieth century, which according to Ingrid—doubling as guide—dated from when the town was founded. The engineer’s dream which led to the pioneer town being established so far from everything other than the raw material itself. Then we came into a residential area which seemed already to have been abandoned, with boards as makeshift cover for broken windows. Continued onward to the destination which was still a mystery to me. I had no idea what we were going to do here in Kiruna, had not asked: was trained not to do so.

So I kept on memorizing street names, Lars Janssonsgatan, Konduktörsgatan, Gruvvägen, noted every last detail. After some steep downhill stretches with snow packed hard underfoot, Ingrid pointed up to the left, in the direction of the hill: the area showed bare white among the low trees.

“Luossa Ski Hill. Created when the mine on this side of the mountain began to peter out, just a few years ago. So I’ve never actually skied there,” she said.

After a brief pause, while Ingrid gazed up at the pistes, mesmerized, we kept moving forward for several hundred feet until we stopped in front of the substantial wooden building on the final slope down toward the mine.

Even here the windows had been boarded up, the facade had peeled making the plain wood visible in places, icicles three feet in length hung from the roof like needle-sharp weapons. You could only just make out the text on the frosty signboard: HOTELL SNÖFLINGA.

“Hotel Snowflake. The perfect hiding place. Officially closed many years back, already sacrificed to the powers of the underworld,” Ingrid said—before the barred door suddenly opened.

“Inko, my dearest friend… you seem hardly a day older than when we finished secondary school, even with your new look. Come in so I can lock up behind you!”

Ingrid and the large woman, probably of the same age as her, but youthful and cool, with shocking pink hair and tattoos over her bare arms, gave each other a warm embrace. Then the woman solemnly turned her attention to the rest of us, switching into English, somewhere between Sixten’s and Aina’s.

“Erasmus… Jesús María… wonderful to meet you. But you’re several weeks earlier than I was expecting, Inko.”

“Yes, well, it was hard to be more precise.”

“And I guess you still don’t want to say what you’re up to here.”

“No, I’m sorry, Bettan. But as I told you, it’s an extremely good cause.”

“I like those, Inko. You know that.”

I looked around the eerie darkness inside: not one sliver of light found its way through the blocked-up windows. From the crystal chandelier in the lobby one could tell that this must once have been a fine hotel. With the help of the man-high, cracked rococo mirror I started to map out escape routes, hiding places, the likelihood of a surprise attack from various directions.

Bettan laid three heavy metal knobs on the counter. A big key for the room and two smaller ones for the padlocks on the front door.

“I should say that it’s pretty much safe for you to move around in this neighborhood, even in daylight. And nobody will recognize you anyway, Inko.”

Although the whole hotel seemed to have been abandoned, I noticed that there were no other sets of keys on the hooks.

“In here it’s probably mostly the ghosts you’ll notice. There’s sometimes a hell of a lot of squeaking at nights, as if furniture were being moved around up on the old conference floor, or somewhere in the middle of the sauna. Even though it’s nearly three years since we had our last group booking.”

“And the Girls?”

“Oh, they’re used to keeping out of the way. It’s doubtful you’ll see any sign of them.”

Then more quick embraces—before we started up the stairs, Ingrid first, Jesús María last, before Bettan warned us about one more thing.

“By the way, there’s blasting in the mine every night. At exactly 1.30 a.m.—to give time for the gas to disperse before the morning shift clocks on. It makes the beds shake, trust me. Pretty much all of the town trembles like my old grandmother’s aspic.”

It was hard to climb the creaking stairs without making a sound. Not even I—with all my practice, even as a child—managed it. Just above the staircase was a faded lounge. Worn-out Chester-field armchairs in oxblood leather, heavy red curtains in front of the high, boarded-up windows, a bulky old T.V. on a rickety stand by the southern wall. Above the seemingly preserved bar—which still had an impressive range of alcohol—hung a yellowing sign which I had no problem in understanding. “The Ice Queen. Always open, honor system in operation.”