Джон Кэмпбелл - Frozen Hell

“You’ve got to be kidding,” Jason said.

Army Corps of Engineers

Special Operations Base, Antarctica

General Wu pulled off his ski mask as he entered the mouth of the ice tunnel. It lay inside the third of the three prefab Army buildings. His breath plumed in the air as he looked around. Heaters kept the tunnel—and the building behind him—at a steady twenty-eight degrees. The third building existed solely to provide sheltered access for workers entering and leaving the tunnel. An cargo-container-sized airlock on the building’s outer-facing wall also provided access to the ice-field a hundred yards from camp, where mini-bulldozers dumped debris from the tunnel excavation.

Corporal Menendez had been waiting for him beside one of their golf carts. She straightened and saluted as she noticed him..

He returned the salute. “Status?”

“Sir. We recovered three more pieces of metal—I had them moved to the lab—and two more are accessible and can be dug out. One of the recovered pieces shows signs of machine-work. It may be part of an airlock. And…” She hesitated.

He settled into the passenger seat. The cart rocked once, then steadied.

“Spit it out,” Wu said. “What couldn’t you tell me over the radio?”

“We found something else.”

“Damn it, found what ? I don’t have time for nonsense, Corporal!”

“Some… thing . A…a creature , I guess you’d say, frozen in the ice. It’s…it’s…” She shuddered, looked away. “You can’t see it too clearly, but what you can see—I’m sorry, sir. It’s like something out of a nightmare.”

Wu felt a stab of panic as he remembered the report he’d read at the Pentagon. Remembered how the 1938 researchers found an alien creature frozen in ice and thawed it out, only to have it come to life. Nineteen million years frozen, and it came to life!

He had never dreamed they would find one of those alien things here. He felt his jaw tighten. It had to be contained. And then it would have to be destroyed. No chances.

He said, “You didn’t dig this creature out, did you?” Somehow, he kept his voice steady.

“No, sir.”

“Good.” He gestured down the tunnel. “Drive. I want to see it.”

Menendez accelerated, and as the golf cart hummed down the incline and into the tunnel, ice closed in on every side. It glistening faintly. Ahead, puddles of illumination from arc lights broke the darkness every thirty yards.

“It it blocking the tunnel path?” he asked.

“Partly, sir. But we can go around it. And—if you don’t mind—maybe I can cover it with a tarp.” Quickly she added, “Most of the men find it unnerving.”

“I’ll take it under advisement.” He chewed his lip. Probably a good idea. The fewer people who saw the thing, the better. Less to deny later, if necessary.

When they turned at the first switchback, Wu realized he hadn’t seen any workers yet. Nor could he see any in the stretch of tunnel ahead. Just more arc lights and orange-glowing electric heaters.

“Where is everyone?” he asked.

“At the discovery site, sir. They all wanted to see it.”

He nodded. Understandable. The team had been working for two months with no real discoveries beyond a few small lumps of alien metal to break the monotony. Of course they’d all want to check out a frozen alien monster. In their place, he would have done the same thing.

Corporal Menendez turned at the second switchback, and Wu spotted fifteen or so people at the end of the tunnel. All work had ceased, but the gathering didn’t have a festive atmosphere. If anything, it struck him as overly hushed, subdued…almost funereal. Anything but happy.

The engineers called to each other and snapped to attention as Menendez pulled the golf cart to a stop. Wu climbed out, and the crowd parted silently, clearing a path to the rough-hewn, vertical wall of ice at the end of the tunnel. There, a section roughly a yard square had an inch-deep channel etched around it. For a second, it reminded him of a picture frame. And it framed…what? He squinted. All the arc lights had been angled away; he couldn’t see much, beyond a dim, shadowy hulk buried perhaps eight or ten inches within.

Frowning, he swept his gaze over the whole team. No one met his gaze. Didn’t they want to see their discovery? Even those two civilian geologists looked pale and unsettled.

“Flashlight,” he said, sticking out his hand. Was it really that bad?

When someone handed him a heavy steel flashlight, he flicked it on and pressed the lens against the milky ice, angling the beam first up, then down, then across. Definitely something. Could that be…a head? He squinted, shifting the beam up a few inches. Possibly a head, but something like a mass of worms covered it. Then his light caught a gleam of red, and he focused on what might have been an eye. It seemed to be staring straight at him.

His stomach churned, and he almost dropped the flashlight. He took a step back, looked around at his men. Now he understood. They felt it, too. An overpowering, visceral urge to destroy the thing. To smash it, burn it, grind it to dust. It was a primitive, from-the-gut reaction, an absolute need to see it dead and gone.

Skin crawling, he snapped off the flashlight and forced himself to walk back to the golf cart at an unhurried pace. No doubt about it. This had to be a Thing like the one from the 1938 report.

And it had to be destroyed.

“I want it left strictly alone,” he told Menendez, but he made sure his voice carried to every man and woman present. “We’ll swing the tunnel to the left and go around it. No one is to touch this wall or dig an inch closer. I want a guard posted day and night to make sure. This—this sea lion or whatever it is—must remain in place until further notice.”

“General?” said the blond geologist. What was his name? Garvin? “We were talking about cutting it out. That isn’t a sea lion. With a find like this, shouldn’t we—”

“No!” That sounded too sharp, too panicked. He cleared his throat, then added in a normal tone, “It’s several million years old. It may be carrying bacteria or viruses that could prove dangerous to modern life. I’ll bring in a hazmat team to deal with it.” With flame throwers, if necessary. “No point taking chances.”

He glanced around at the Menendez and the men. “I think we’ve all had enough for today. Let’s knock off early and head back up to base. I’m declaring a holiday. I think we still have a keg of beer in storage. Let’s have some fun.”

As expected, the workers cheered. Even so, they seemed strangely subdued.

He hopped into the golf cart. Menendez called orders, picked an unfortunate soldier for guard duty, assigned another to cover the thing with a tarp, and then climbed back into the cart. In silence, she drove for the surface.

PFC Hector Dobbs scuffed at the ice floor with the toe of his right boot as everyone else started the long trek up to home base. Just like that bitch Menendez to pick him for guard duty. He’d miss most of the fun. At least she’d only given him a four-hour shift.

He pulled a battered old .mp3 player from his breast pocket, thumbed earbuds into his ears, and pressed the play button. It might not be as fancy as an iPod or iPhone, but it played nearly two days of audio without recharging, and that’s what counted out here.

As Metallica blasted his eardrums, he gave Menendez the finger—though she’d probably already reached the surface—played air guitar for a few seconds, then climbed onto the mini-bulldozer and shifted until he found a comfortable position on the worn plastic seat. Better than standing or sitting on the ice. Like that Thing would be going anywhere…or like anyone would want to dig it out.