Absolute Zero

PART ONE- DEFINITION OF COLD









There were four of them, counting the husky with one blue eye. The dog was an uncanny animal which slunk around like a cat, watched people constantly, and gave you the prickly feeling that it knew all of what was being said. It hadn’t been insulted for bad behavior since it was six months old.



When the men arrived at the Alaskan compound where they would work and live, operating the oil extraction work for the next two years, it was a very rare clear day. Through the blinding white glare of snow, the pine forest to the east could be faintly seen in a blackish green haze some two miles off. Everything else was white snow meet gray skies. Surrounded on three sides by the horizon. It was very cold, and the men did not bother watching the two black helicopters disappear into the horizon as though they’d been sucked in. Ronald, the head of the team, struggled with cold-stiffened fingers to unlock the ice caked padlock on the white metal door. There was no storm currently, but it was still freezing cold. The building was all metal; it looked old, some of the roof run-down and in need of repair.



As they tramped into the entrance room with clouded breath, they dropped their bundles of provisions and firewood for the first week onto the floor. More supplies would be delivered next week. The bags were filled with canned meat, dried fruits and vegetables, salt, coffee, and brandy. Samson carried the medical supplies, spare blankets and clothes. As they began to deposit their goods, the dog (whose name was Seike) trotted into the room and sniffed the various bags and, having thus decided that there was nothing of interest in them, meandered off to sit by the door into the main part of the building and wait for someone to open it.



Meanwhile, Samson said, “God, it’s freezing. Would someone get a fire going?” Joan grunted agreement as she pulled off her multi-layered head gear, releasing her fiery orange hair. She was the only woman in the group. She was also the only woman with a strong enough constitution to survive the sub-zero temperatures without having a fit. Her eyes were gray and her skin was the telltale, easily-burned white characteristic of redheads. This was the perfect job for her- she’d grown up in the colder northern parts of the U.S., and she loved storms. Even snowstorms. Now, as they headed through the door connecting to the rest of the house, her hand absentmindedly drifted down to stroke Seike’s furry gray head. He was her dog.



They were met with a startling gust of heat when the metal door creaked open with an earsplitting screech. The room beyond was filled with the red hue of a strong fire. They did not hesitate to enter the welcoming warm room, but they were wary of the heavily bearded figure smoking the pipe by the fire. He was sitting in a rough-wooded chair, which he got out of as they entered the room. He was somewhere in his fifties, with a bushy gray beard and vibrant, blue eyes. He was comfortably dressed in a button up blue shirt and blue jeans, with plain, heavy-duty brown boots on his feet.



“Hey, fellows,” he said. His voice was rich and cheerful. “Ladies,” he added, nodding towards Joan. “Nice to see y’all made it safely here. Lots of accidents lately. Almost a whole team killed.” His face was thoughtful. “Not quite sure why, but no worries, I’m sure you’re hungry, so let’s eat for now.” Ronald cleared his throat.



“Why are you here?” he asked bluntly. He didn’t waste time on tact. The man chuckled. “I’m here t’oversee the work. Been at it thirty years,” he added proudly. “My name’s Danny Fisher. Now, food…” Ronald still eyed him suspiciously, but Seike followed him promptly, and Joan, who trusted her dog’s judgment completely, did the same. Seike trusted a man whose automatic reaction to visitors was food… and he knew the ‘F’ word by heart. The two men were left no other choice but to follow the man, Danny Fisher.





* * *



Dinner was a casual affair of beef, vegetables and beer. The rooms were very warm, and soon the team was as plainly adorned as Danny, shirt, shoes, and pants, but nothing more. Their clothes were messily tossed to the floor at various places near their chairs at the hard wooded table, but Danny didn’t notice the seeming lack of cleanliness to their habits. Seike sat under the table, gnawing on a hunk of beef and listening to them with a cocked ear.



There wasn’t much talking at dinner; they were all too hungry and tired, and when they were finished, Danny said he was going to bed and advised them to do the same. They had to get up early tomorrow. As he left, they all were silent for a moment. “Well, I think he’s nice enough,” offered Samson. He was the youngest in the group. The only reason he’d been chosen for this long-term job was that there was no one else available. Ronald just snorted. He agreed, but he still didn’t like having been wrong about his suspicions. He hated being wrong about anything. Joan finally stood up.



“I don’t know about you,” she said, “But I’m going to take his advice and go to sleep. Long day tomorrow.” She walked out through the door Danny had taken, Seike faithfully- or perhaps watchfully- at her heels. She loved the dog; he made her feel guarded. And she was. He wasn’t any one trick pony that had only scared off a burglar or two; he’d gotten into some vicious fights for this woman, and vice versa. Of course, her fights involved keeping him from the animal control centers and overzealous neighbors who felt threatened by the one-eyed dog, but these fights still counted. Now, as she easily located her room according to Danny’s instructions, Seike sat beside her, calmly scanning the hallway and listening to the sound of the door screeching open. Everything here was metal. Some of the walls had brick over them, but underneath that was still more metal. It was cheaper and sturdier, erected at six inches thick for the Alaskan oil mining compounds. Bricks were something that didn’t show up a lot.



Her room was plain, just like all the others: medium sized, with nothing more than a basin, a cot, and a drawer for clothing. Into this she put her gear as neatly as possible. She turned to the bed. It was metal framed, with a white blanket and a pillow. Seike was comfortably sprawled out on it. She narrowed her eyes.



“Hey, you, get off of that-“ She lunged to scare the dog off. He did not budge. She glowered. “Seike dog, I’m warning you…” Seike lolled his tongue out at her, studying her skeptically with his one blue eye. Growling under her breath, Joan walked over and, with a sudden shove to the back, pushed the dog off her bed. Seike landed cat-like on his feet, and looked up at her reproachfully. She ignored him as she climbed into bed and turned off the lamp, but after a moment, she sighed and called the big husky up onto her bed. He happily leapt up and settled himself on her knees, giving her face a wet lick. “Ugh…” She wiped her face clean. Sigh. “Goodnight, Seike,” she said, and turned over.









* * *





The work went well with them. They adjusted to each other quickly, and even Samson, whose experience was limited, was at least a quick learner who showed a natural skill for operating the heavy machinery. At first Ronald was dubious, feeling sure that someone so young should not be operating the huge metal contraptions, but Joan and Danny both insisted that he had to learn somehow, and threw in a bit of flattery, saying that Ronald at least could handle himself if anything happened. He was experienced. Finally he gave in grudgingly and ignored everyone for two days. However, he did join in the toast to Samson at dinner for an impressive maneuver to get himself and the machine away from a thin layer of ice that cracked under his weight.



So, all went well. At the end of the week, the helicopters returned with more food. Seike followed the team around all the while, except for when they were working, operating the big, monstrous machines. Then he disappeared off to the pine forest, where he hunted snowshoe rabbits, scared around crows, and got into fights with lone wolves. He knew how to fight, but it was more than once that he came home dripping blood. He needed more medical care than the humans did.



Which, they supposed, could be seen as a good thing.





* * *



All was going well, at least, until one week, the helicopters were late in coming. Danny was grim, saying that they would have to ration their remaining supplies carefully. He said that this had happened more than once to other teams, leaving them to starve to death. “This is what I meant,” he said, “When I told you I was glad you made it here safely, with all the accidents.” He paused for a moment. “Maybe it would have been better if you hadn’t.” Danny was always optimistic. His sudden shift to this alien dark mood of his was almost more frightening than the prospect of starving to death. No one had much appetite for anything now.





* * *





Ronald cursed under his breath. It was cold. He could barely move in all these damned layers of clothing, and he was still freezing. It was one of the blizzards Alaska was notorious for, and he could hardly see for all the snow. This was supposed to be a light one, too. The sun was still peeking around at brief moments. He fumbled clumsily with the keys as he struggled to get them in the hole. Finally, he managed, and pulled open the ice encrusted, slightly rusty door to the ice box. The big shed gleamed in the intruding sunlight reflecting on the thick ice on the inside. There wasn’t much else in it. It had been two days since the helicopters were due to come with supplies, and now all that remained was a hunk of beef, two fish and a bundle of celery. It wasn’t a lot. Their canned foods were all gone, after two days of bizarrely assorted meals- mangoes and black beans, broccoli and bananas. They had now taken to melting and boiling snow for water.



He walked in to the very back of the ice box, but nothing was there. As he was trying to decide what he would take next, he heard something. A… scrabbling. He ignored it. There were plenty of little critters here that burrowed around in the ice. But as it continued, it occurred to him that it might get into the box and take what little food remained. With this thought, he turned around to go out and look for it. Just at that moment, the faint scratching stopped. He stood there confused. “What the hell…?”



He walked out of the box and looked around. He turned back to the box. Then it started again, much louder. He scowled and walked back into the box. As he poked around looking for the source, the scratching became hurried, erratic. He heard the faintest little hissing noise, and then a screeching sound, like scratching metal. There- in the corner. An abnormality in the shadows. He immediately turned and, slowly, began to creep towards it. The shadow shifted, and the scratching slowed, the hissing taking on a questioning, deliberating noise. He paused, and so did the thing in the shadows. He crept slowly, and it seemed to shiver. Suddenly, something jammed into his back, something sharp, as he rose to lunge at the thing. He felt something sharp digging into his flesh, and a hot, wet

trickling- blood. “Shit-“ He reached back and tried to knock the thing off of himself. There were more leaping onto him, clawing into him, the blood was flowing in a free, sticky flow of heat. The claws ripped, ripped, the clothing shredded, and his flesh tore and the sharp little daggers dragged along his skin. He screamed.



Abruptly, the little claws retracted and he felt a rushing, and somehow knew they were retreating. Whimpering, he looked around him. Blood was sinking into the snow on the floor, melting it. Something flickered in the shadows again, then was gone. His eyes widened, and as he screamed again, this time not stopping, they disappeared through a hole in the box. He scrambled to his feet, only to fall down again, blood pouring from his back and leg. He heard a barking, and shouts. As he finally passed out, the ice box’s doorways darkened, and he felt something warm and wet on his face- blood, or perhaps Seike’s tongue.





* * *



PART TWO- BETWEEN TRAINING AND INSTINCT







LOG ENTRY 24

2.23.11

JOAN HASHFIELD





THE FOOD’S RUNNING OUT. THE HELICOPTERS CAME LATE THIS TIME, AND WE’RE ALMOST OUT OF FOOD. SAMSON IS TERRIFIED- HE’S NEVER DEALT WITH THIS SITUATION BEFORE- AND DANNY IS GRIM. RONALD IS IN A WORSE MOOD THAN EVER, AND NEVER FAILS TO GET IN ARGUMENTS WITH DANNY ABOUT WORK EVERY NIGHT AND CRITICIZE SAMSON. HE DOESN’T SAY ANYTHING TO ME, BECAUSE I WON’T TAKE IT, BUT HE WON’T LISTEN WHEN I TELL HIM TO STOP OR LEAVE SAMSON ALONE. THE POOR KID… HE’S ALREADY SCARED ENOUGH AS IT IS.



DINNERS ARE SMALL, AND WE SKIP LUNCH NOW. WE MELT AND BOIL SNOW FOR WATER, BUT THIS TAKES FOREVER AND REQUIRES A LOT OF SNOW. WE TRY TO KEEP SEIKE FROM GOING TO THE FOREST, BECAUSE WE WANT TO SAVE THE MEDICAL SUPPLIES, BUT HE’S A NUISANCE WHEN CRAMPED. RONALD MADE A JOKE ABOUT EATING HIM IF WE GOT IN A TIGHT SPOT, BUT I DON’T LIKE IT. I THINK HE WAS SERIOUS. I WON’T LET HIM EAT MY DOG.



I HOPE THE HELICOPTERS COME SOON. WE WON’T LAST TOO LONG LIKE THIS- WE DIDN’T PREPARE ENOUGH FOR IT. WE SAVED BACK FOOD, BUT THAT’S SOMETHING YOU DO OVER TIME. THIS SORT OF THING USUALLY HAPPENS LATER. IF THEY DON’T COME, WE’RE TRAPPED. WE NEED THEM…





* * *







When they found Ronald, he was in the ice box screaming and lying in a puddle of blood. Joan ran as soon as she heard Seike’s barks and was the first to find him, shouting for the others as Seike licked the blood off of Ronald’s face and she tried to make him quiet down. Samson ran up to the door, but his steps slowed, and his own blood ran cold. As Danny shoved him out of the way, he stumbled blindly to the side of the building and vomited. He crouched there, finally crawling away from the mess after covering it with snow, and sought to control himself. His teeth chattered from both cold and nerves. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a movement, something furtive and surreptitious. He turned his head, his face still flushed, and froze. It was in the shadows behind the box, but he could see the glinting of sunlight on claws, on a bony body. The moment this caught this thoughts, he shouted- no, screamed- for Joan to come.



Joan raced around the box to him. “What?” she gasped, searching him with her eyes for a wound. “There- there!” stammered Samson. “Little glinty things, they got Ronald, I saw them, the claws, lots of them…” As Joan turned to look, the glinting shadow scuttled away, and Samson let out a faint, rough yell of despair. She would not believe him now.



“Samson, there’s nothing there,” she said gently. Samson shook his head violently. “No, there was I swear, there was, I saw it…” But it was a lost cause. He saw it the moment Joan’s eyes took on a pitying expression. Then it hit him. “The snow!” he shouted. “Look at the snow, there’s prints on it, from their claws- look!”

Joan sighed. “Samson, I don’t think-“



“Just look!” He was hysterical. Joan sighed, but moved over to the place Samson pointed at. The moment her gaze turned to it, her breath stopped. There were prints, little claw marks on the snow. “Go get Danny,” she whispered. Samson was still whimpering. “Samson,” she hissed, “Go get Danny!” Samson ran off to the compound, where Danny had carried Ronald. She moved for a closer look. Yes, there it was, little spots… but they seemed to have a shape. Like clawed feet. Her brow furrowed. Crouching down slowly, she looked at the building. There were scratch marks all over the back of the building, and a jagged, ice encrusted hole. “How the hell?” She muttered. Just then, Danny arrived. Samson was not with him.



“What’s wrong?” asked Danny. In answer, Joan pointed. Danny squinted. “Scratches…?” He turned a questioning gaze to Joan. Joan grimaced. “Samson says that it must’ve been the thing Ronald heard. Look, there’s even a little hole right there, in the corner.” When Danny didn’t answer, she turned to see him scrutinizing her. “What?” she asked. He pursed his lips. “Ronald said something similar,” he said slowly, “But I’m skeptical as to how much truth is in it. I mean, he could’ve imagined it…” Joan raised an eyebrow. “I know where you’re coming from, but you of all people remember training- don’t give anything a chance to get through you. Suspect everything. What did Ronald say?” But Danny was walking over and looking at the wall. “A hole, you said? Show me,” he commanded. Joan pointed, biting back a scream of frustration. Danny crouched. “Look, there are distress marks on the metal where it’s not pulled open. You’re right- and there’s the hole. You know, it’s strange,” he said wonderingly, “But Ronald said that the sound was coming from this direction.” He stood up and turned around. His eyes were anxious. “Come on, we should get inside to discuss this.” And, before Joan could argue, he was walking off to the compound, his hood back up. Joan sighed and followed.









* * *







Samson sat on his cot, the blanket up to his chin child-like. His heart had slowed, his pulse was normal, and he had stopped whimpering, but he was scared.



God, why did I ever come here!



He had never wanted to work in Alaska. It was just what his father and grandfather did. A family tradition, like being a police man or miner or lawyer. He never could understand the importance of family traditions in profession, much less a profession like extracting oil in Alaska. He had always vaguely dreamed of a career flying planes. He wanted to be a pilot. But he remembered all too distinctly his father’s reaction to that idea.



-



“It’s what I did and what your grandfather did before you,” shouted Dad. “Tradition is something to be proud of. It’s something to keep a family together!”



“By sending its men to Alaska?” demanded Samson. “I want to be a pilot. A PILOT. Not some oil miner on Pluto!” His father’s eyes darkened. “There’s nothing wrong with extracting oil,” his father said in a quiet, dangerous voice. “It’s a business with integrity, one that only real men can do. It’s one of the few jobs out there now that actually involves work. It involves risks, quick thinking, and luck, and you better hope that the good Father isn’t mad at you and say your prayers every night for your sins, because a lapse in thought and action could have you six feet under the ice.”



-



A good speech. The only problem was that his father died two years later- now one year ago. It had been too late to quit after his death, and now, some strange sense of respect kept him at it. He couldn’t imagine why. Of course, his father was a good man when in good spirits. He did have integrity. Just a lousy sense of ambition. He could hear Joan and Danny’s voices murmuring in the dining room, and he huddled further under the blankets, miserably hoping he wasn’t going to have a similar fate to his father’s.







* * *









Danny was on watch. He sat in the living room by the fire, struggling for consciousness. He’d gone past the point of smoking a pipe, and now he focused his energies obsessively on stoking the fire and listening for scratches.



Ludicrous, the whole thing, but he’d been at it thirty years for a reason. He took everything seriously- there was a time for optimism and a time to get your hands dirty.



But it was still ludicrous.



He had never known true fear. So there was no way for him to understand why Ronald was so terrified. Good God, nothing had happened. But he had nearly screamed himself hoarse. Fear must be the strongest force known to man, thought Danny. Ridiculous, but he had promised Ronald that he would watch and make sure “the beasts” didn’t get inside. He would keep his honor, and not sleep no matter what. No matter what…



No… matter…



He woke up twenty minutes later. Scratch scratch… He looked around wildly. “Shit,” he hissed, and grabbed his rifle. He looked out the window, but he couldn’t see through the snow outside, racing down in the wind. Scratch. Scratch. Should he call the others? They had somehow forgotten to discuss what happened next. No one wanted to think what would happen if the beasts actually came.



No. He wouldn’t call them. He would spare them…



Scratch. Screech. His eyes widened. Then training and instinct took over, and he backed up to the wall farthest from the sound.



Hiss. Scratch. Tear, screech.



Why weren’t the others awake? It was amazing that they didn’t hear. The sounds were quickening, just as Ronald had said, and he felt sweat begin to creep and itch at the nape of his neck. He didn’t dare to take his hand off of the rifle, didn’t dare to allow himself even a moment’s lapse in attention as he practically stared a hole into the wall where the sound was coming from. The sounds reached a bizarrely coherent symphonic climax, and the whole building seemed to shudder and groan loud and long like it would collapse- and then they stopped.



Just stopped.



His breathing froze. He listened closely, so closely he was almost desperate to hear the sound of a screech, and evil little hiss. But the silence stretched on and on, his shuddering breaths seeming to fill the room, thin and shallow, as though the effort of so insignificant a sound filling a room where other natural noises should collaborate to fill it was to much. Like butter spread too thin. The room seemed to darken and close in on him…



He then realized that the sudden silence and dark had come because the fire had died. He scrambled frantically to stoke it again, but it had gone down completely. As trembling fingers struggled to strike the match, relight the fire, the noise came again, coupled with an incoherent whispering just beyond hearing. A silhouette of sound. His breath became more and more ragged, his heart beat wildly. Scratch. Scratch. Gasp. Gasp.



The sounds took on a frightening pattern…



Scratch.



Scratch.



Hiss.



The match lit. Suddenly, the sound quieted, and the pounding in his ears died slower than the rest, revealing only the whispering. The shadows flickered. His eyes practically popped as he whirled around, holding the match aloft. The shadows flickered everywhere, the match flickering precariously. Suddenly, the door was flung open, and the air from the room beyond rushed in, blowing out the match. As he screamed, his voice was eaten but the raging scratching, the hissing, the screeching, and he could swear he felt the air shift as they rushed towards him…



The rifle had fallen. His chest was tightening, tightening, and he couldn’t breathe. That was when he blacked out, and the last thing he knew was the caterwauling wails and the violent, biting cold.







* * *









LOG ENTRY 27

3.3.11

RONALD LEAN







JOAN SAYS I SHOULD WRITE. I DON’T WANT TO WRITE. SHE SAYS IT’LL KEEP ME CALM. THE THINGS GOT DANNY.



JOAN FOUND HIM ON THE FLOOR. IN THE LIVING ROOM. THE DOOR WAS OPEN… THERE WAS FROST ALL OVER… IT WAS SO COLD. THE FIRE WAS BLACK AND EMPTY. SHE SAID IT WAS A HEART ATTACK. THERE WAS BLOOD ON HIS HEAD, THOUGH, AND HIS ARM WAS BROKEN. I’M SCARED. THEY’RE COMING.



DANNY WAS THE BEST OF US. SO IF HE IS DEAD, WE’VE GOT NO HOPE. I KNOW IT. I WONDER WHO’S NEXT? I’M GOING TO SLEEP NOW. IF THEY GET ME, I WON’T BE THERE TO SEE IT…







* * *





Thud, Thud. Crunch.



Joan patted the snow with the heavy shovel to flatten it. A mile away from the compound, she was burying Danny. She had gone alone save her dog, in spite of what they’d said about staying together. She didn’t give a damn. And she had her dog.



It was another clear day- but regardless of the fact that it was spring, and the snow had melted in most places, their high altitude kept them snugly bundled whenever they wanted to go out. Now, it felt as though her fingers would freeze to the shovel’s steel handle.



She was done. She stood for a few more moments, just watching Danny’s grave. There was no gravestone- they didn’t have any. Who knew when the helicopters would come. Of course, that meant they probably were going to die; but she didn’t think of that. That would be surrendering.



She picked up the shovel and hefted it over one shoulder and whistled at Seike. He trotted over to her obediently, his one blue eye briefly sweeping over the field of snow around them and ascertaining that there was no threatening break in the whiteness. They trudged back to the compound slowly, the sound of Joan’s boots crunching mingling with Seike’s quick, swishing trot.





* * *



Quivering fingers made clumsy by nerves struggled with the pen held in its hand. The scrawl in the log book was difficult to discern, to say the least, and made up of jumbled sentences that were childishly constructed in their simplicity: I’m scared. Ronald stopped for a moment to rest his hand against his aching bandaged back with a moan. There was a tap on the door, and his eyes darted up wildly. The moment he heard someone’s voice, he scurried to his metal cot in the corner of the room and perched there, his eyes intent on the door.



“Ronald? Are you in there?” It was Joan. There was a pause. “Can I come in?” He made a noncommittal noise, but said nothing. “I’m coming in, Ron,” she said, and opened the door. Ronald’s lips immediately drew up in a snarl.



“Go away! You’ll be the death of me, the lot of you, they want food, they want you. You’re weak, Danny was weak, no one here can survive…”



“Ronald, stop that now,” ordered Joan sharply. Ronald glowered at her. She sighed and moved over to the bed and sat down, next to Ronald. He immediately moved away from her, but she ignored his rudeness. Only a slight twitch in her lip betrayed her annoyance at this. She didn’t speak for a moment. When she did, her voice was gentle and unobtrusive.



“I buried Danny.”



Ronald gave a low moan. Joan’s lips pursed.



“Ron, you’ve got to face it. You’ll never survive like this-“



“No, I don’t have to face anything,” he snarled. “It’s ridiculous, they’re- they’re tiny! But…” His eyes became smoldering. “They killed Danny!” he shouted, and leapt to his feat, his eyes hard and glaring down at her calm gray ones.



“Yes, they killed Danny,” she said gently. “But he was old. You’re fit, you’re experienced, you can survive them. There’s no reason you can’t.”



He was pacing the room wildly, occasionally glancing at her. “Yes, but they’ll get us. They’ll get us. We have no food. They have us. They’ll get us. They’ll be waiting, when we go out, when we work, when we sleep, when we’re alone, they’ll always know and they’ll always come and they’ll always win!” Suddenly he threw back his head until the tendons showed and gave a yell of frustration. Joan was tense and looked startled.



“Ron, calm down now,” she commanded, but her voice wavered. Ronald froze, and turned to her.



“You know, don’t you?” he whispered. “You know there’s no hope. You know we’ll never make it. You know.” His voice was rising. “You know, and yet you’re pretending, you’re lying to me and Samson and brainwashing us-“ He was walking towards her- “And you’re fucking lying to me!” Then many things happened at once.



His fist came whizzing down at the same time she rose to move away from him. The moment it connected off-center to her jaw, the door burst open and Samson- alarmed but suddenly grimly determined- came in after a shocked moment’s hesitation at the scene before him. He ran forward and pulled Ronald’s hand back. Blood filled Joan’s mouth, and she struggled to spit it out and keep her airway clear as the scene before her swam in and out of focus. It was like being underwater, like watching out of sequence pieces of a movie, impossible to understand and full of jumbled imagery. As her thoughts cleared, the frenzied movement of flesh-colored blurs slowed, and one of them came towards her. She narrowed her eyes. “Ronald…?”



WHAM.



He hit her, once, twice, three times, but after the second time she didn’t feel it. After the third time, he pulled her up by the collar. “Listen to me,” he hissed. His breath was acrid and foul. She tried to cry out as her head bobbed painfully, jogging a head-splitting migraine, but no sound came out. Blood bubbled over her lips.



“They’re coming for us,” he said, “And I want to be ready. I’m going to fucking survive, and I don’t give a damn if you do or not. If you do, then it’ll be because you’re gonna listen to me and you’re not gonna pull me down with you if you don’t. The moment you do something against me and my rules, you’re out. Game over. Do you understand me??” He shook her slightly at the last line. “Yes,” she said, but it came out a gasp. She tried again. “Yes,” she said in a slurred, cracked voice.



“Good,” said Ronald, and suddenly he lifted her. Her eyesight whirled and she whimpered, burying her burning eyes in his sleeve. It smeared with blood, but he didn’t notice. After a few moments, she was deposited on her bed. “Sleep,” he said. “We’ll talk about my rules in the morning.” He narrowed his eyes. “And don’t try anything. I’m staying up on watch tonight with the rifle, and if you do, I won’t- won’t hesitate for- a moment,” he said. His voice was suddenly uncertain and quavering. “Good night, Joan,” he whispered. His voice sounded almost scared, but the words were lost on her. She had finally passed out.





* * *









      SEE PART THREE IN MY PORTFOLIO TO FINISH THE STORY; OTHERWISE; IT WAS TOO BIG.