Джон Кэмпбелл: Frozen Hell

So cold…

Those two civvies doing make-work on the walls had wanted to dig it out. They’d gotten real hard-ons when that big chunk of metal turned up, whooping and hollering about aliens and UFOs. Yeah, right. Fucking aliens. It had to be some kind of seal or walrus.

He yawned. Although two layers of thermal underwear normally kept him pretty comfortable down here, it seemed colder than usual today. He glanced up the tunnel, at the pools of light dotting the way toward the surface. Nothing moved.

So cold…

His gaze fell on the closest of the half dozen industrial heaters. Its heating elements glowed faintly reddish-orange. They needed a few more of those babies.

As Kirk Hammett riffed through “The Day That Never Comes,” Dobbs’s mind started to drift. Metallica faded. The tunnel blurred. He closed his eyes.

So cold…

He barely noticed as he pulled out the earbuds and dropped them on the seat, climbed down from his perch on the mini-bulldozer, and crossed to the closest of the gently whirring heating units. Without thought or hesitation, he grabbed the handles, tilted it back, and wheeled it toward the end of the tunnel. The heater’s bright yellow power cord unspooled behind him with a faint whir.

After dragging aside the tarp, he pointed the heater toward the Thing in the ice, twisted the knob to “High,” and then returned the mini-bulldozer. As he settled back into his seat, he closed his eyes and drifted back toward sleep, lulled by the sound of dripping water and the faint snap-crack-snap of warming ice.