Hive (10 page)

“He's gotta be somewhere,” Sharkey said.

But Cutchen didn't comment on that. They followed him back down the corridor to the community room where maybe a dozen others were gathered in small groups, speculating on Meiner's fate.

“Anyone look down in the shafts?” Hayes said, referring to the maintenance shafts that ran beneath the station where all the lines and pipes were run from the power station and pumping shacks.

“Rutkowski and some of the contractors are down there now.”

Hayes looked over at Sharkey and she was spearing him with those blue eyes of hers and they seemed to be saying to him,
this is probably unrelated.
But already Hayes was thinking otherwise.

He walked over to one of the east windows, peering out into the claustrophobic darkness of an Antarctica winter's day. Sheets of snow lifted, blowing through the compound in whirlwinds and torrents, engulfing the buildings and then retreating, backlit by pole lights and security lights whose illumination trembled and shook, casting wild shadows over the white. As the latest deluge played out, Hayes could see Hut #6 out there all by its lonesome, a tomb shrouded in ice.

“Anybody check the hut?” he said to Cutchen. “Gates' hut?” Cutchen shook his head. “Why the hell would he be out there?” But Hayes didn't say.

All he knew for sure was that he had left the door wide open when he left last night and now it looked to be closed.

A
nybody could have closed it, Hayes was telling himself as they followed the guylines and drifted walkway out to Hut #6. Somebody could have passed, maybe one of the maintenance guys or somebody doing a little plowing early this morning.

Could have happened.

Yet, he didn't believe it for a minute. The weather was bad . . . it hadn't stopped snowing and gusting for three days now and the temperature was hanging low at a near-constant seventy below with wind chills pushing it down near a 100 below. In that kind of weather, you didn't go out of your way looking for extra outside work. And just about everyone was steering clear of Hut #6 and what it contained now. Maybe if it was summer and there was light, but in this perpetual screaming blackness . . . no way. Even if someone saw the door swinging wide they would not have gone over there anymore than you would go into a graveyard at midnight because a vault door was left open and creaking.

Superstitious or not, there were limits to what you'd do.

Hayes was leading the charge, battened down in ECW's, eyes wide behind his plastic goggles. Cutchen and Sharkey were behind him. All of them were gripping the guylines, feeling that wind trying to knock them down and sometimes lift them up, up, and away into the frozen night.

Hayes paused outside the door to the hut.

Yes, it was closed, all right. And he had a pretty good idea that the wind had had nothing to do with it. There was no point in looking in the snow for tracks because the wind erased them every ten minutes. Right now, there was a three-foot drift pushed up against the door and Hayes had to kick it away with his boots so they could get it open.

Then he undid the latch, grinned secretly at the length of chain and Masterlock dangling from it, and pulled it open, feeling that warmth coming out at them.

You step in there and they'll eat your mind down to the bone.

But Hayes stepped in and clicked on the lights and the others came in with him, Cutchen shutting the door behind them. They pulled off their mittens and goggles, smelling that room right away. After the ultra-fresh air on the walk over, the stench in the hut was offensive and roiling. It was a thick and vaporous green odor of rotting marshes and sun-bloated fish.

“God . . . what a smell,” Cutchen said. “Why in the hell would Gates let these things decay like this? They're priceless.”

“Look,” Sharkey said.

Neither Hayes nor Cutchen had seen it, the angle of the wall blocking most of the lab except for that decaying, meaty mass on the table. But now they got a look.

“Meiner,” Cutchen said.

Yeah, it was Meiner, all right, missing no more. They would never know exactly what got into his head or what he'd been thinking and that was probably a good thing. For Meiner had decided to pull himself up a chair about four feet away from the thawed—and decaying—specimen and stare at it in the dark. Hayes had some ideas as to why, but he did not voice them. He just looked down at Meiner as the wind blew and the shack trembled and an uneasy silence hung thickly in the air.

“What . . . Jesus, what in the hell happened to him?” Cutchen wondered out loud, the color drained from his face.

Sharkey didn't need to get very close to make her diagnosis. “Dead,” she said. “Probably four or five hours, I'd guess.”

“Dead,” Cutchen said as if it were some surprise. “Oh, Christ, he's dead.”

And he was.

Just sitting there in that chair, reclined back in his parka, mittens still on. His big white boots were crossed over each other and his mittened hands laid primly in his lap. He looked rather peaceful until you saw his face, saw the way his mouth was contorted in a silent scream, dried blood running from his lips and nostrils like old wine stains. And his eyes . . . just hollow purple cavities with clots of trailing gelatinous pulp splashed down his cheeks like slimy egg whites.

“Holy fuck,” Cutchen said as if he was just now getting it. “That snot . . . those are his
eyes.”

He turned away and Hayes followed suit.

Sharkey didn't care much for what she was seeing either, but medical curiosity and the upcoming post she would have to perform made it mandatory that she belly up to the bar and drink her fill.

Cutchen looked like he was going to be sick, but had changed his mind. He was looking at the mummy on the table, scowling, not liking it very much. Those glaring red eyes at the ends of the fleshy yellow stalks were still extended and wide open.

“I wouldn't stare at it too long,” Hayes warned him. “Give you bad dreams.”

Cutchen barked a short laugh and looked away. “Crazy goddamn thing. Looks like it was thrown together by some Hollywood special effects people, you know? Reminds me of those bug-eyed monsters Gary Larson draws.”

Hayes was thinking more along the lines of Bernie Wrightson, but he kept that to himself. He was getting good at keeping things to himself. While Sharkey gave Meiner the once over, he stood there trying to fill his head with nonsense so the thing would not try and get at his mind again. Finally, he gave up, opened himself up, but there was nothing. The thing was dead and he had to wonder if he wasn't going insane. There was nothing in his head but the neutral humming of his neurons at low ebb. Nothing else, praise God.

The door opened and LaHune came in with St. Ours and a couple of contractors. He looked from the mummy to Hayes, wrinkled his nose at the stink and stripped his goggles off. As yet, he hadn't seen the body.

He shook a finger at Hayes, casting him a feral look. “What in God's name do you think you're doing out here? This hut was locked and chained, it's off-limits to anyone but myself and Dr. Gates' team. You don't have the authorization to be out here.”

St. Ours flashed Hayes a little smile as if saying, yeah, good old La-Hune, ain't he just the King Shit himself?

Sharkey looked like she was about to say something, but Hayes stepped forward, something in him beginning to boil, to seethe. “I made my own fucking authorization, LaHune. They're called boltcutters. But I'm glad you showed up, because I want your high and mighty white ass to see something.”

“Jimmy . . . “ Sharkey began.

But Hayes wasn't listening. His eyes were locked with those of La-Hune and neither man was breaking the staring contest. They faced off like a couple male rattlesnakes ready to go at it over a juicy female.

“I want you out of here,” LaHune said. “Now.”

“Kiss my ass, chief,” Hayes told him and before anyone could stop him or really even think of doing so, Hayes took two quick steps and grabbed LaHune by the arm. And hard enough to almost yank that arm right off. He took hold of him and yanked him further into the hut until he could see Meiner plain as day.

LaHune shook himself free . . . or tried to. “Meiner . . . good God.”

Hayes let out a tortured laugh, pulling LaHune over closer to the corpse and its empty eye sockets. “No, God don't have shit to do with this party, LaHune. See, this is what Gates' pets have done. This is what happens when they get inside your head and overload you. You like it?
You like how that looks?”
he said, shaking the man. “Maybe what we need to do is lock you in here in the dark for a few hours, see if you suffer any ill fucking effects from close proximity to the remains. You want that, LaHune? That what you want? Feel that fucking monster getting inside your mind and bleeding you dry, your fucking brains running out your ears?”

LaHune did get away now. “I want everyone out of here and right goddamn now.”

But St. Ours and the other boys were too busy looking from the putrefying husk on the table to Meiner, a guy they'd lived with and drank with, played cards with and laughed with. This was one of their own and when the shock started fading, they put their eyes on LaHune.

“Fuck you gonna do about this, boss?” St. Ours said. “Or should I fucking well guess?”

“Nothing,” another said. “He won't do a goddamn thing.”

St. Ours was big and he could've smeared a guy like LaHune all over the walls, used what was left to wipe his ass with. “Tell you what, boss. I'll give you a day or two to take care of this business here. You don't get rid of these butt-ugly motherfuckers, we'll dump about two-hundred gallons of hi-test in here and have ourselves a fucking wienie roast.”

He meant it and there was no doubt about it.

Hayes and Cutchen followed St. Ours and the others out, leaving Sharkey looking helpess and LaHune trying to find his balls, trying to figure out how he was going to crunch this one on his laptop.

I
t was the dinner hour and the scientists and contractors began to arrive at the community room in twos and threes, bringing with them the smell of machine oil and sweat and exhaustion. A smell that mixed in with the stink of old beer and older cooking odors, smoke and garbage and musty tarps drying along the wall. It was a hermetic, contained sort of stink that was purely Antarctica.

The room wasn't too big to begin with and it quickly filled, people grumbling and complaining, joking and laughing, dragging in snow and ice that melted into dirty pools on the floor.

“You got any good ideas, Doc, on what can boil a man's eyes right out of his head?” Cutchen was saying, watching the room fill.

Sharkey shrugged. She'd completed the post on Meiner and had listed his death, far as she could tell, due to a massive cerebral hemorrhage. What that had to do with the man's eyes going to jelly and exploding out of their sockets was anyone's guess.

Hayes was watching St. Ours, Rutkowski, and the boys at their usual table near the north wall. They were a grim lot with set faces and weary eyes, in mourning of a sort for Meiner. Other contractors threaded past them, said a word or two and kept right on going.

They looked, Hayes decided, like a bunch of roughnecks looking for a fight.

You could almost smell it building over there, that raw stink of hatred and fear that was smoldering and consuming. It was a big odor that rose above everything else, feeding upon itself and growing geometrically out of control. And if something didn't give at the station pretty goddamn soon, it was going to vent itself and Hayes didn't think he wanted to see that.

But it had to happen, sooner or later.

It had been a bullshit winter so far and it showed no signs of getting any better. The entire place had lost its sense of camaraderie and brotherhood that you usually got from living practically on top of each other, depending on each other and knowing there was no one to turn to but the guy or girl sitting next to you. That was all fading fast and in another week or two, you could probably bury it proper and throw dirt in its face. The entire station was starting to feel like some sort of immense dry cell battery storing up fear and negativity, all that potential energy just looking for a catalyst to set it free. And when that happened, when it finally arced out of control, it was going to have claws and teeth and dark intent.

“It's going to be trouble, Doc,” Hayes said, “when that happens.”

“When what happens?”

Hayes looked at her and Cutchen. “When these people feel like their necks have been strung as tight as they can go and they decide they've had enough. Because you know it's going to happen, you can
feel
it in the air.”

“They're afraid,” Sharkey said.

“I am, too. But I'm thinking at least so far, I can see reason . . . but some of them? I don't know. You keep an eye on St. Ours. He's dangerous. There's murder in his eyes and if I was LaHune I'd be sleeping real lightly.”

“You think it'll go that far?” Cutchen said.

“Yeah, I do. Look at them over there. They're all having crazy fucking nightmares and they're scared and they're not thinking right. It's coming off of them like poison.”

And maybe it was.

Because already it seemed like the crew was forming along class lines . . . the scientists were keeping to themselves, the contractors staying with their own. There was no mixing up like you generally saw most winters. Maybe it was a temporary thing, but maybe it hinted at worse things waiting. Waiting to spring.

“LaHune could stop it or slow it down at least,” Hayes said. “Give these people their Internet, radio, and satellite back, let them reach outside of this place to the real world. It would work wonders.”

“I don't see that happening anytime soon,” Sharkey said.

“No, neither do I. And that's what's so fucked up about all of this. Morale has gone right into the pisser and LaHune doesn't seem to give a shit. He's clamping down, playing it close to the vest and spooky and that isn't helping a thing.”