The Dome of Doom

The Dome of Doom.
Prologue

    Lots of people see lots of the world.  Less then a couple of hundred, tops, have seen inside the radar installation that was called Pin 4. You see Pin 4 site was part of the early warning radar defense stations protecting the West from sneaky Russian bombers post WWII.  It's gone now as is most of the installations that made up the DEW line.  Built during a frenzy of anticommunist propaganda and fear driven patriotism these Defensive Early Warning (DEW )sites would come to dot the American and Canadian far north in less then 3 years.  All were completed by the late 50's.  Such expense, such effort.  Such close minded bullshit, some would say that it seems fitting that the DEW line was obsolete almost before it was finished.  Most of the stations were abandoned in the 80's and torn down recently over the last couple of years.  This is the story of Pin - 4 and those that survived.  Too much isolation, too much arrogance and way too much chemicals and Northern JuJu.  Life is nomadic in the North for a reason maybe.  Strap in folks.  Where exactly do you run when a plane recently dropped you off on a dirt runaway above the arctic circle?  And the plane is gone now?  Where?

Foggy as hell this morning eh?

    What a place, Mike thinks to himself as he looks out the window of the small prop plane he's been in for the last three hours as it circles his new workplace.  His home away from home for the next two weeks.  Mike has been in a lot of planes recently.  From PEI west to Alberta and then north to this isolated dirt runway a little north of the Arctic Circle via Yellowknife and Cambridge Bay.  Planes getting progressively smaller.  Back and ass getting progressively more sore.    But this will be an adventure, he thinks.  And look at this place.  Like nothing Mike has ever seen before.  Well above the tree line sprouting out of the tundra is Pin - 4.  A sprawling compound comprising a runway, hanger, many km's of roads, some heavy equipment, a ramshackle camp with the requisite pickups nuzzling and an actual DEW line site radar installation.  That's why he's here.  The DEW lines has got to go.  These things were seen as engineering marvels and evidence of western man's ability to tame and control the most untameable parts of the world.  Meant to protect us from Russian bombers bent on mushrooming us all into acceptance of comrade Stalin's particular form of Marxism, they now had to go.  Missiles are not respecters of radar installations and indeginous people, recent winners of lands claim cases, are not respecters of contaminated and abandoned reminders that white folks are dumb, industrious sure, but dumb.  So now they're getting torn down and the tundra restored.  Mike is the medic that hopes that it goes very well.  Already at this early moment his medic brain is performing a macabre calculus, calculating flying time to a good trauma surgeon and setting this against a number of variables only a good camp medic understands, what gear, what drugs, what help.  Even though these camp gigs are mostly about coughs, colds and sore holes, already his brain is going to the worse case.  It is the medic blessing and course.  Assume the worst and love every good minute a little bit more them most.
         As they circle over top of the radar dome that will soon comedown, and prepare to land.  Mike's ah shucks awe at the coolness of actually being here and looking at this, and his dread of what if, is momentarily frozen by a flash of movement near the dome.  An overactive imagination has plagued the boy since birth, and a jet-lagged and one-eyed viewing of Sean of the Dead not 10 hours ago surely didn't help.  Nah.  That was not a ragged, lumbering...nah... though, something did just scuttle around the corner of that trailer beneath the radar dome...But then the plane is banking and bucking towards a cross wind landing on dirt and his mind settles down to clenching his ass and focusing good vibes on the young monkey building hours and looking too likely to be high who also happens to be sitting in the left seat up front and, hopefully, in control of 12 souls' destiny.
         "Hey John, good to see you.  It has been a while...no, no, I'll get that, I pack like my wife."
         "Mike, good to see you.  Really good cause it means I get out of here tomorrow morning.  Yeah just throw it in back."
         John, full head of grey hair, still young looking for a guy whose been a medic for over half of his 50 or so years, indicates to Mike he can throw his silly sized duffel bag in the back and extends his hand to Mike for a shake.  Mike's going to be relieving John for the next two weeks.  John is the seasoned vet, having been around this neck of the woods last summer and since early summer this year.  Mike, the newby, has never been this far North before and obviously never to this site.  John and Mike know each other, both having worked as street medics back East a number of years ago.  Not close, may have worked together once, saw each other around, have mutual friends.  So Mike doesn't really know John.  He does however have a nicely refined Spidey-sense.  And he can't help notice how longingly John watches the plane taxi back out to the runway and take-off.  Not just a bush-ed medic pining for a flight home in that look.  And as they start the pick-up and begin the short drive up to camp Mike senses John's need to talk, to tell him something.  But they ride in silence.  It doesn't come.
         In fact the entire get settled, eat supper, get introduced, do turnaround update goes very weirdly.  Mike can't help thinking that absolutely everyone is on edge.  Nice enough sure.  But weird.  Way to quiet, furtive even.  And he can't remember a camp with locked doors  - and not simple handle locks.  Nope, big Jesus, homemade jobbies.  Nice bar stock steal hinged and padlocked at just below eye level.  That is fairly high level deterrent for an isolated camp where you know everyone.  And when he jokingly asked, 'bears huh?' It was met with a mumbled and strained, '...something like that.'    Mike just wrote all of this off.  Most of the people in camp were at or over a month in with a few 6 weeks or more, John included.  Isolated camp living can do all sorts of work on peoples psychs.  Mike knows full well in fact that he is in the throes of his own traditional week of deep depression associated with taking one of these gigs.  Lots of self recrimination and fatalist thinking.  I'm not going to make it.  What was I thinking.  I want to be home with Jane and the kids.  Sour and quiet for the 2 days leading up to his flight out of Charlottetown and lasting through travel and for the first couple of days in camp.  Being aware of it does nothing to prevent it apparently.  So Mike brushed off the weird first night, tried to take in everything John told him about the gear, the camp, medevacs and camp mates health and then went to bed.
         Morning started stranger then the night before.  Mike had a hard time falling to sleep, but must have finally dropped off and slept like a stone.  Cause when he awoke to his alarm at 5:55 AM John was gone.  Moved out.  Bed made.  Clothes hangers dangling, gone.  Mike quickly shit, showered and shaved and headed around the corner in this small camp to the kitchen.  Hun.  No John at breakfast.  Sitting down to breakfast camp style - fully loaded scrambled eggs, pancakes, fruit salad heaping, I mean no one eats like this everyday at home, but camp is camp and the food is bountiful and good - Mike catches Sam the supervisor's eye.
         "Morning."
         "Morning."
         "Plane already gone?"
         "Nope."
         "Seen John."
         "Nope."
         "Good breakfast, eh?"
         "Yup."
         Well that was as helpful as shit.  So after shoveling home his monstrous breakfast Mike decides to don his PPE (personal protective equipment for the uninitiated - meaning hard hat, boats and high vis vest) and go walk-about.  See what's what and get to the bottom of this wee mystery.
         Not two steps out the door and rounding the corner of the trailer Mike bumps startlingly into Joe the bear monitor.  A local Inuit in his 50's or 60's, it's hard to tell, Joe has one of those classic Inuit faces - at least to the wee white southern that just bumped into him.
         "Whoa, sorry there Joe, didn't see you there."
         "S'alright, you didn't knock my smoke out anyway.  You forgot to lock the door, Mike.  You need to lock the door when you leave you know."
         "Yeah, sorry about that Joe, was just popping out for a quick look for John.  You seen him?"
         "Saw him heading to the Mod Train in the blue pick-up.  He dumped his gear in the back of it"
         "Mod Train?"
         "Under the dome.  What they call the trailers under the dome.  Up at the installation."
         "Ah, right.  Foggy as hell this morning, eh?"
         "The ice is melting.  There will be lots of fog."
         "Right.  Well maybe I'll go track him down.  See you Joe."
         "You should ask Sam first.  Not supposed to go to the Mod Train unless you ask."
         "Right.  Well I'll go ask Sam.  Thanks.  Enjoy your smoke."
         "Yup."
         What in the hell would a skulking John need from a PCB and asbestos contaminated and abandoned radar installation?  Well actually Mike could relate to this.  I mean come on, what child of the 60's through 80's wouldn't want to stroll through such a huge freaking symbol of the Cold War.  Anyone who was as a  kid kept awake at night by MAD (Mutually Assured Destruction for all you youngins) infused dreams or who had a bomb shelter in the backyard would feel a near inexorable pull to this thing.  A now excited Mike goes through the maddening process of opening the door he just painstakingly locked under the watchful and hard to read eye of Joe.
         Mike finds Sam coming out of the kitchen.
         "Sam, is it OK if I go check out the Mod Train, do a little recon in case I need do some work there someday?"  Mike is wondering why he didn't just say he was going looking for John.  'Grunt instinct', his friend Bill would say.  The big wigs don't always need to know everything.
         "Nope."
         Well now this was just getting old.  And Mike's hackles pop up in lightspeed.  He's 40 and been around the block.  An easy going guy, sure but not easily pushed around and quick with anger, especially of the righteous variety.  This could get interesting. 
         "Wait, I'll take him Skip, Tasha has been bugging me for days to take her up anyway."  And the cook appears around the corner of the kitchen.  Diffusing in an instant what could have been your prototypical camp blow-up.  It's like his reasonable tone just plain threw a switch.  Almost immediately the tension visibly drained from Sam's face and neck.  Mike watching this, subconsciously unclenched his fists and rocked back on his heals.  Lanky and craning his neck to see out of or under his small glasses perched on the end of his nose, camp chef Keith sidles up to Sam, arm talking the hole way - you know gesticulating to every syllable, arm-talking.
         "We're done here in the kitchen and Marjorie can take care of the dishes.  We won't be long."
         "Yeah, sounds good.  Take a radio."
         "Thanks Sam," says Mike, just a little strained.  Just beginning to catch-up to how fast the situation changed.
         Keith turning and leaning conspiratorially in says, "Well lets go Mike, saddle up."   

Are you kidding?  Of course I want to take a look.

    "Thanks for that back there."
    "No worries, thought you might want to take a look around up there."
    "Are you kidding ?  Of course I want to take a look," Mike replies.  They're driving in a white pick-up on the road from camp to the Mod Train.  As Mike is speaking his eyes survey what he can see of the horizon given the fog.  Not a tree.  Not one damn tree.  He just can't get over the stark beauty of this land above the tree line.  The magnificent desolation.  And then his eyes are drawn from the natural beauty flirtatiously shrouded in the mornings fog to the incongruity of a large man made white Dome sitting on top of a long train of blue trailers and the toppled external radar dishes easily 20 metres across, already victims to the planned deconstruction. 
    What the hell?  Mike inches forward in the passanger seat as they come around the corner of the downed radar dish and turn towards the entrance to the Mod train.  There parked next to an open door into the blue trailers is John's pilfered blue pick-up.  Still running and with the driver side door open.  Getting weirder every second.
    "Hey, John must be up here."
    "Um, yeah, he's was out of the room before I got up.  Wasn't quite sure where he got himself off to."  Mike sounding very caught in the cookie jar right now. 
    "He's after a circuit board or  a switch plate or something.  We've pretty much raped the entire thing of cool artifacts."  Keith has not appeared to notice Mike's discomfort and is parking and reaching for the flashlight.  Before exiting the vehicle and already leaned over grabbing the light he soft-voices while looking right in Mike's eyes:
    "This place is trippy."
    "Yeah, I get that vibe already man."
    "Grab my camera for me Tasha, and check back there for another flash-light would ya?" asks Keith to Tasha.  Tasha is one of Keith's kitchen helpers, a young Inuit woman who was so quiet since getting in the truck that Mike actually forgot she was there.  They all get out of the Truck and make their way up the few steps and through the open door into the trailer.  Keith first semi-turned and taking his camera from Tasha, and Mike following, frigging with his head lamp and not exactly watching where he was going.  While readjusting the head strap so that it would fit over his hard-hat he smacks right into the back of Tasha who like a domino smashes into Keith who rather artfully stumbles and performs a circus caliber juggle and catch of his recently handed over camera.
    "Sorry guys," a sheepish Mike stammers and quickly adds, "Wicked catch though!"  Trying to lighten the mood. 
    "I know.  No worries.  Lights on.  I'll show you around down here first.  And then we'll head up into the dome."
    "No?!?  Do not tell me you can actually get up inside the dome?"  An incredulous Mike blurts out, forgetting completely any spideysense nonsense in an instant and in fact John is gone as well - the holy-shit factor of the thought of getting up inside the dome has blown all other thoughts out of the water.
    "Oh yeah man.  And you can spin the array.  Spins perfectly.  It is the coolest thing, well you see."
    "I wonder where John is?"  asks Tasha quietly is that lovely lilt that is so recognizable as an Inuit speaking English.  An exaggerated lengthening of syllables and a change of inflection point in phrases catches the ear and marks the speaker as Northern born immediately.
    Comedicly both men do fine mirror-image renditions of startled men, heads snapping, eyes popping and upper torso and limbs jerking slightly.
    "Right!  Where in the hell is he?" wonders Keith while turning his flshlight on and heading left down the hallway into the Mod Train.  "My guess is the control room."
    "John!" bellows Mike.  Leave it to the medic to do the yelling - not renowned for being quiet folk medics.  And nothing.
    "Hun?  Now that's strange," from Keith in a very calm and humour filled fashion.
    And in Mike's mind Keith's assertion of strangeness is confirmational and oh so correct.  Mike has the prevailing feeling that each strange moment will quickly fade under the blazing light of the next even stranger moment.
    A hand shoots out of an open doorway to the left, grabs Mike by the arm and literally drags him through the open doorway to the left into a small room.
    "What the..."
    "Shssssssssshssssshh!"  A frantic and pale John is motioning them all into the room with rapid fire hand motions of get in here now and don't say another goddamn word.
  Peeling yellow PCB and lead laced paint gives every surface of the walls an almost furry look.  The 70's era carpet, all muted tans and browns is water stained, filthy and covered in the same peeled paint and dotted with thousands of dead flies.  The nasty smell Mike noticed in the hall is much stronger in this little 10 by 10 box of a room.  The carpet reeks.  A cupboard and a built-in to the wall desk are the only furnsihings remaining in the room.  All that was left to remind you that for nearly thirty years this was a year-round manned radar station.  All except for the pen-scrawled graffitt above the desk on the back wall:
    YOU GOT NO BUSINESS IN HERE!
    KISS MY ASS
    All written in caps.  And though more then a little freaked out, Mike is chuffed by the intentional, or not, use of puctuation in the mindless little missive.  The emphatic, 'YOU GOT NO BUSINESS IN HERE,' follwed almost gently by the seeming afterthought, 'KISS MY ASS.'  He suppresses a giggle, intuitively sensing that this is not the time for giggling.
    "He, he, he, he, he, he, he, he..." giggles Tasha.  Mike thinks, no way, no way she's thinking about the graffitti too.  Nope.  She's just giggling.  Probably found it funny, John's gestures and Mike's startlement followed by his face blankly fixating on the wall.  In his 24 hours now at the arctic circle, Mike is ready to label, anthropologically, not stereotypically, not that he can exactly define the difference, but he just feels better, justified; Mike is ready to label the Inuit as gigglers.  Constant laughter has infused every overheard conversation among the locals.  And he is never sure what they are laughing at, probably at him, not that he cares.  The cadence and inflection changes in the speech takes some getting used to and he's not quite there yet.
    "Shhhhsssss!"  John is demanding silence and motioning them all back from the doorway.
    A bemused Keith is now giggling with Tasha, both nearing the point of no return, of nearing that point oft seen at teenage girls' sleep overs and in university boys' smoke filled dorm rooms, the giggling fit.  John looks to be contemplating murder to quiet them and his gestures grow aggressive and even more frantic.
    "Weeeeerawrrrooommmmmmmhhhhhhhh!"
    "What in the blue balzes of hell was that?"  John got his wish.  Total silence now after Mike's freaked out query.  Total silence, with all three craning and willing their ears and brain to connect and figure out what made that non-animal, but not human either, sound, and where exactly had it come from.
    "That I think I'll have to show you.  Won't believe me if I tell you.  I don't really believe it when I say it, even out loud.  Come on Keith, you know something strange is going on up here?"  And John won't make eye contact with any of them - he's moved so he's the closest to the door and he's staring out surreptitiously while talking, quietly.  Mike looks down and he can see that John's hands are shaking.
    "Oh you know that's just camp bullshit," a still bemused Keith responds though now showing a hint of apprehension and he has become noticeably less demonstrative with talking.
    "So why has Sam installed the locks?  Why can't we keep a bear monitor, or any elders in camp?  They know something ain't right.  All those fresh carcasses up here near the mod train.  No way we got bears this close to camp.  And what about the weird noises at twilight?  They sure don't sound like camp bunnies to me."  John speaks in an emotionless monotone all the while staring up the darkened hallway.
    This is summer time above the arctic circle so when John says twilight he means around 5 AM when the sun finally hits the horizon.  There is no real true night.  It is the land of the endless day in Summer.  Mike actually noticed last night around 3 AM after comingback from a piss that it was still bright out.  Of course he was expecting it, but in a half sleep shuffle retuning from the bathroom at 3 in the morning, a bright sky should not fill the window of the TV room.  He wonders how long its actually dark? 
    "You are losing it my friend.  And that sound could be air moving through this old place."  Keith is regaining control and his base-line humourous nature.  He even reaches out and gives John a slight shove.  Nothing.  No response.
    "John, so what you are telling me is that something is living in the mod train?  That it can kill?  And that folks know about it and haven't done anything about it?  That about cover it?"  A none too happy Mike is more then a little freaked out and hating himself for watching that silly Zombie movie, funny as it was, still a zombie movie.  He knows he is too prone to suggestion and stopped watching horror movies in his teens.  Even to this day, he's a lights on at night kind of guy.  His wife Jane makes fun of him.
    "Yup."
    "I still say you are bushed man.  You need to get home, get your feet up and be around friends and family.  Nothing more."
    "Could be an animal," says Tasha.  This time forgotten by everyone.
    "What?" startled and in unison, Mike and Keith.
    "An animal.  Foxes maybe?  Probably not a bear."  And then she starts to giggle again.  Mike cannot decide whether this is endearing or infuriating.
    "Nope.  No fox I know, hell or whole pack of foxes, could kill a caribou and drag it back to the mod train.  This is not a fox problem."  Just there at the end, in those last couple of words, you could just detect a slackening of John's tension, maybe even a trace of ease. 

We have a small zombie infestation...

    And then from down the hall came the sound of movement, foot dragging movement, blessedly sounding like it was heading away from them.  Then the tonk, clang, unmistakable as feet, likely bare, padding up metal stairs.  And more shuffling, and groans from above.  John turns quickly back into the room and walks towards the 40 year old metal desk.
    "We have a small Zombie infestation at the station.  They don't like light, and must be pretty weak."  Spoken with halting breaths and dead eyes, John is now reaching under the desk for a large piece of steel laying there.  "What ain't good is that I saw them hunt and kill a muskox this morning during the twilight.  With more food around, who knows, they might have enough energy to attack the camp?"
    John's two deadpan eyes are scanning the the faces of the other three.  No giggles now.  Jaws dropped and staring they stand transfixed listening to his every word.  No incredulity showing on there faces.  Keith and Tasha have been in the camp long enough to have seen things and heard things, despite Keith's comments earlier..  They were ready to believe.  And Mike has always been a little ready for the BIG day.  A little too into sci-fi movies and books with an, again, over active imagination.  He has an overwhelming feeling that Zombies is exactly what he just heard and that, of course, he'd be here for this.  Knew it his entire life.  He may even be a little excited.  Scared completely and utterly shitless, but a small bit in their is actually excited.
    "I knew it," blurts Mike before he can control himself.  He remembers the figure as the plane circles, the weird reception of the other folks in camp, the spideysense feeling.  But he did not mean to blurt it out to the others so, almost, joyfully.  Fear is replaced for a split second in the other three faces by flashes of bewilderment, apprehension and annoyance. 
    "There's a group in here, I think they lay low during the day and then move out at twilight to find food," says John settling the length of steal in his hand, finding the balance point.
    "A hive!" again blurted by Mike, "they're called hives...at least in zombie movies that's what they call..."  Mike starts speaking ebulliently and then quiets as he notices the reaction his little excited outbursts are producing in his companions.  Time to get control and tone this down.  One more mumbled, "Just saw a zombie movie in Yellowknife," by way of explanation and with down cast eyes.
    "Alright then, a hive.  As good a name as any.  Not sure how many but for the last few mornings I've caught glimpses of small groups - 4, 6 maybe.  Lets hope that's all.  They move real fast when they need to - should have seen them take down that muskox."
    "Can I ask the seemingly obvious question?  What in the fuck are we doing in here?  Lets get the hell out and tell everyone and get some real weapons.  I don't think we'll be able to do much with two cameras, a couple of flashlights and your piece of steel," asks a now serious and focused Keith.  Like most chef's, Keith can quickly get into General mode when need arises.  You don't manage a big kitchen and feed hundred's of people without the ability to get serious and get shit done.
    It's like light-bulbs popped on over three heads.  Even John's.  He has just realized that he has no plan.  And that if his plan was to go and attempt to kill a hive a zombies with a piece of metal, it was a god awful one.
    And in an instant arms and legs and bodies are mishing and mashing ala keystone cops as realization produces amped movement and our group crawls over each other, momentarily stuck in the doorway.  There is a collective pause and then theatrically Keith throws his arms wide in the universal, just wait a damn second, movement.  Then a slight bow and a motion of, after you.  Moment of panic over, they walk orderly and briskly out into the arctic sun that has burst through the morning fog and beeline it to the trucks.  Mike jumps in with John, medics unconsciously buddy up - it's neat.
    "This is something that might have come up two days ago in those emails.  I'm just saying."  Mike speaking to John in a  level and direct tone.
    "Yah, well about that.  I just had a bad feeling at that time.  Hadn't really seen anything.  Just a feeling and the weirdness we all have experienced.  Sorry man.  Sorry for dragging you all into this.  I just didn't know."  and Mike believes him.  Besides there is zero chance he would have taken, 'hey, don't come, there are zombies up here,' seriously.  Mike needed the money to keep the family afloat and would have just assumed what Keith said earlier, 'bush-ed.'
    "No worries.  In a strange way I feel kind of prepared for this.  I just watched Sean of the Dead in the hotel in Yellowknife on the lay-over.  Have you seen it?  Changed my life - really that funny."  And Mike again realizes that he is being looked at like he's crazy and a little worrying.  Lets call it nerves.  And maybe he's so infused with pop culture that this just hasn't become real for him yet.
    "Ah, no," spoken in drawn out syllables. "No, I never did catch that one.  But anyway.  We'll get back, find Sam, and figure out how fast we can get that plane back."
    "Yeah.  Um...that sounds like a plan, but maybe you should check you rearview.  Cause we got company."
    "Holy shit.  I've never seen then active in the day.  This is not good.  This...is...not...good."  As John is speaking he's reaching for his radio.  And as calm as can be - medics pride themselves on never sounding excited on the radio - says:
    "Sam, you near a radio?"
    "Yup."
    "Could you unbar the kitchen door for us if it isn't open already?  And have the work groups gone out yet?"  The whole time John's talking he's driving while staring at the group of zombies who might be gaining on them from behind.  He hears Mike whisper, they're gaining, and sees him hold up 5 fingers.  So unless this is just an advance party they now know how many.
    "Already open and all gone."
    "Thanks.  Can I see you in the kitchen when I get back?  And Sam get everyone to the hanger in the heavy equipment and do it now."
    "I'll meet you in the kitchen."  Nothing more.  But they had run out of time for an argument on the radio.  They are pulling into camp and running like hell for the kitchen door.  They gather up a sauntering Keith and Tasha and burst into the kitchen and slam and begin to bar the door.  Oh shit, Mike sees out of the corner of his eye that a number of laborers are working on the old trailers, getting them ready for new staff scheduled to come later in the week.  He tries to fight John from locking the door, to get to them and warn them...and then he hears the screams; ...what the fu..., oh my god...no...no..o..please, nooo...
    And then nothing, so quickly just nothing.  If it was in some weird and small way fun for Mike, it no longer was.  John lets him go and Keith begins assembling knives from shelves and racks in the kitchen.  Tasha stands stunned - many of her friends from home are laborers, were out there.  Sam is approaching with a face on - has something to say about the last radio transmission.  He is stopped short by Keith's accumulating bladed arsenal and the now thunderous mewling and banging on the newly barred door.
    "Sam, it's very bad out there, and in a very short while it is going to get very bad in here."
    "The window's!" Tasha screams.  And in seconds they have all accepted a weapon form Keith - Mike is inwardly quite happy with his big jesus cleaver - and rushed past a stunned and silent Sam, left staring at the commotion at the door, heading to get to a window each.  It will never be enough.  Before they've taken 10 steps each they here the reports of a rifle going off.  Rapid fire.  Bang! Bang! Bang!  Three...four five six times.  Its got to be Joe!
    "Joe!" The four yell in unison.  The mewling cacophony is replaced by in human yelps and the sound of rapid foot falls and one or two more shots.
    There is a pounding, a human pounding, at the door to the kitchen.  And then Joe's voice, familiar northern cadence, calmly:
    "Are you going to let me in?"
    Keith and John push passed a still stunned Sam and quickly work to unlock and open the door.  Joe, in insulated coveralls with rain boots up over the legs, dark shooting sun glasses and an open faced helmet walks into the kitchen.  With him and his rifle comes the smell of gunpowder.

Not today zombie!

    "I got two of them, but they kept on going.  All ran back towards the mod train."
    "You have to chop off their heads.  Or really put big holes in 'em, oh and burning, I think burning works."  Again with the blurting.  Mike is expressing recent knowledge gained by a British comedy and barely remembered internet surfing  that landed on, How to Kill a Zombie sites - you know it can happen pretty easily.
    "How many did you see?"  asks John.
    "We have to go and see if anyone was hurt."  Yells Keith expasperatedly over John.  And at this Tasha audibly whimpers a she thinks of her friend Nathan.  Out there.
    "No need."  That's all Joe says.  They all know what he means.  Tasha begins to cry quietly.  Everyone else just shares looks of horror and disbelief.
    "What the hell just happened here?" asks a now speaking Sam.
    "Zombies."  spoken in three part harmony by Mike, Keith and John.  Joe smiles at this.  As if to say, is that what they were, I've heard of those. 
    "The DCC guys that just left.  Eric, Taylor, Frank.  They didn't go out on that plane like we thought.  And what about that haz-mat laborer and his cousin that we thought had wandered off early in the season.  There bodies were never found. DCC's been calling for days bugging me about flight manifests and where the fuck their workers are..."  That's five. Everyone is nodding as Sam is speaking.  Its a little weird how everyone has caught up so quickly to the idea of Zombies. But the proof is in the bodies. 
    "What in the hell caused this?" asks a bewildered and with knife in hand gesticulating Keith. 
    As everyone leans back in turn as he pivots in inquiry  - knife out, Keith responds athoritatively, "who knows what they did in these stations and what chemicals have been brewing for the last 40 or so years?"
    "Makes sense to me.  Now what do we know?" asks Mike rhetorically before continuing, "there are five zombies out there.  Probably back in the mod train.  They probably don't dig the sun, but showed us that it doesn't stop them.  You can shoot them and they keep coming.  They've killed...people.  And..."
    But Mike is interrupted by Sam.
    "Jesus, Dana and the equipment operators.  I got to get them to the hangar."  And Sam reaches for his radio.  Mike and Keith exchange looks.  The eye-rolling looks of disdain that only medics look, reserving it for Supervisors that love ideas but only if they reimagine them as their own.
      As Sam works the radio, dealing with the natural why question from Dana with a typically parental response, because  I said so, John turns to the group.
    "Lets go get those bastards.  There is no chance that we can get a plane here in time - and Sam nods at this - and they'll be coming for all of us at twilight.  Joe, any more guns in camp."
    "Nope."
    "Alright, we've got knives, we should get some fire - handheld plumbers torches, that roofers torch doohickey, maybe make some torches with sticks and gassed soaked rags - who knows Zombie-boy here may actually know something."
    "Yeah lets do this.  I'd rather go down swinging then huddled in a corner wetting myself," responds Mike to John.  Mike inwardly quite pleased with his new moniker.  Goofy yet super hero-ish.  Mike and John get nods of confirmation from Keith and a tear streaked Tasha.  Sam having heard is already moving to gather what they need.  All eyes turn to Joe. 
    "Well I do have my gun.  Wouldn't mind stopping one of them things."
    Good, that's everyone.  As they are getting ready, the radio cackles.  It's Dana.
    "Ah, Sam, not to be to blunt, but what the fuck is going on?"
    "You don't want to know.  Listen in twenty minutes you and Rob come up here, go right to the phone and call for the plane.  It's an emergency.  Then high tail it back down to the hanger and stay in the heavy equipment.  I'll explain later."
    "Alrighty then.  Are you sure we shouldn't come up and lend a hand with your...your emergency?"
    "Nope.  Trust me on this.  Stay put and we'll talk again real soon.  If you don't hear from us, do what I said."
    This exchange between Dana and Sam has all heads turned and all ears open.  Some would think extra help would be warranted, but no one disagrees.  This is the team.  This is the time.
    They quickly finish arming themselves: John with long carving knife and a plummers torch; Mike with his trusty cleaver and ingeniously he has managed to quickly backpack the propane tank on his back and is holding the business end of the roofers doohickey in his hand, sparker in his pocket; Tasha two big knives; Sam too jury rigged torches - clothing rapped 3-4 foot long 2 by 4's already reeking of gas, just waiting for ignition; Keith has his favorite meat carving knife and has fashioned quickly a spear - a broom handle topped with a rolled to a point piece of trailer skirting, of course Joe has his gun.  Armed they make their way out of the door and try not to look at the evidence of the carnage that occurred moments ago.  That is impossible.  They have to step over an eyes-open and disemboweled Anthony.  If they allow theirr gaze to wander even more horrific things can be seen.  Most don't.  They just step and move off down the lane towards the back of camp.  Some are thinking that they hope to live long enough to be haunted by these images of thier coworkers, their friends.
    Shaken but undaunted they walk past the pickups, unspoken they have decided that this is a task that one marches to, not drives.
    Except Joe.  They all spin around at the sound of the quad starting and then rocketing by them, a smiling Joe waving quickly as he passes.  They all break into a run after Joe.  In no time he is around the corner of the mod train and out of site.  Mike and Tasha move ahead of the other three - youth and fitness realtively on their side.  As they meet the corner of the mod train they hear three quick shots and then nothing.  Mike grabs Tasha's arm to stop here and works quickly to light his roofers doohickey.  Breathing hard, they hear the others approaching.  Wordlessly mike  lights first John's plumbers torch and Sam's old school torches like a shared smoker's lighter.  No sound of Joe since the shots.  No sound at all now.
    Looking one to the other, they all catch their breath as best they can, check their weapons and then move to the entrance to the mod train.  They find Joe's glasses and his rifle just in the doorway.  John enters first and motions he is headed right and motions Mike, next to enter, to go left.  Keith follows John and Tasha and Sam follow Mike.  In seconds after beginning their opposite treks down the hallways the attach happens.  John is gone in a flash of ragged arms, inhuman sounds and with a ferocity and quickness that is unimagineable.  Keith attacks the Zombie from the rear as they are dragging John off - one already chewing through John's voicebox and jugular ending his life and any cry for help in a fountain of blood.  And with such speed and a strength he never could have imagined he possessed he has the trailing Zombie by the hair and in one motion his surgically sharp carving knife has nearly severed the head from the body.  The zombie, barely recognizable as DCC Eric slumps to the ground finished - dead just doesn't fit.  Without stopping to think or with any hesitation Keith jumps the now prone zombie Eric and sprints after the one that took John.  The partial devourer of John.  Mike is turning all of them in pursuit of Keith, when they are blindsided by three more who leap at them from darkened rooms off the hallway.
    "Mike, Tasha, look out," yells Sam weilding his torches and pushing with all his might to disentangle biting and tearing zombies bent on overwhelming Tasha.  Mike turns and buries his roofer doohickey into the face of one of the zombies who is attempting to pull Tasha out of the hallway.  It turns its ravaged face, mouth torn open, one eye missing and now sporting a monster of a burn just below his jaw to Mike.  Before he can think his cleaver is imbedded in the zombies forehead just off of a center and he's following that up with drivng the doohickey spitting blue flame into the open and screaming mouth of the zombie.
    Sam is fighting a losing battle with one and kicking himself for not bringing a knife.  Then Tasha goes down as one of the two left that was attacking her has bit with inhuman strength into her leg and everyone hears the crack!  She screams and his attention flys from his battle to Tasha.  He sees Sam struggling to get around the now finished Zombie as he shrugs off his attacker and dives with all of his weight onto Tasha's zombie, dropping his torches in the process.  Go Sam!
    Mike needs to make a split second decision because out of the corner of his eye he sees and then remembers, Joe's gun!  He turns back the few steps for the gun, picks it up, turns it, levels it from his hip and fires.  Into a dark hallway,  teaming with his new friends in death's own battle with the un-dead, he fires.  And with all the luck in the world, having banked enough in life's karmic bank, the top of the zombie who is gouging Sam's eye's out explodes.  At the sound of the gunshot the one chewing on Tasha's leg bolts his head-up and she drills him in the eye with her knife, to the hilt.  It immediately springs to its feet and attempts to jump over a dying Sam and a finished colleague, knife handle sticking out. 
    Sam's hand shoots out and he grabs the leg of the passing zombie.  Mike is rushing forward and pulling the trigger as he runs.  Bang!  In the chest.  Bang!  In the neck.  The third and last shot is into the forehead of the fallen zombie with the barrel pushed firmly, firmly up against.  The resultant explosion causes Mike to drop the weapon and step back and he stumbles and falls over a now still Sam, hand still convulsively clutching the now finished zombie.  Mike lands awkwardly on Tasha who winces from her broken leg, but smiles and begins to giggle anyway.  Mike isn't giggling.  As he stumbled over Sam he saw that the first zombie he shot had driven fingers into both eyes and also into Sam's brain.  He's dead.
    Tasha leans up, helping Mike up, and freezes when she see's Sam.  Her giggles are quelched and her gaze hardens.  She says steely, "Go help Keith.  Get that last one."
    Mike gives her a quick smile and a nod, reaches back for the gun, takes one more last look at Sam and sprints down the hall in the direction he last saw Keith heading.  A small part of him hesitates for just a hint of a second with the thought of leaving Tasha there with Sam and that thing, but mostly Sam.  But today is a day for new rules and he knows she will be as fine as anyone who survives this will be.  He runs on.
    He just knows that there is only one left.  He can feel it.  And he can hear climbing and Keith yelling incoherently from just ahead.  Mike plows into a room and can see dimly, a ladder.  Up apparently.  The chase went up.  he hopes beyond hope that Keith is chasing and not the other way around.  As he grabs rungs and begins to quickly climb, his peripheral vision records a discarded and pale mess that was John.  But today is a day for new rules and mourning will come after this is over.
    "Not today Zombie!" erupts unconsciously out of his mouth in a maniacal scream.  Hand over hand, rung after rung he climbs.  He hears a muffled, 'up here man, keep coming, I've got him cornered.'  Keith is still alive!  He finds another gear sprinting for the next ladder and climbing again.  Round and round, two, three steps at a time, another landing and the last short ladder.
    "Careful man, he's right near the ladder."  Keith more clear now, without a tint of fear in his voice.  After this day, they may actually be back in control.
    Mike looks up and makes out what he thinks is the tattered work pants that covers the ass of the last zombie.
    Bang!
    Just the one shot rings out, echoing in the radar zone.  And there is an almost animal yelp and a flurry of movement.
    "You got him man he's crawled under the turntable.  Get up here."  A still controlled Keith yells.
    Mike climbs quickly and finds himself in the radar dome looking at the large metal array and a grinning Keith.  The radar dome, painted white on the outside actually casts a golden glow inside.  They are standing on a flat round floor looking at a scrambling zombie under the array.  The array is affixed to the center of the floor siting on a large metal disk like a turntable.  Atop the tray the array is actually two metal features identical in shape, in mirror image.  Each side is a framework that holds hundreds of flat metal bands, laid in parallel rows creating a rounded and beautiful bed of metal groves.  Mike and Keith, watching the scurrying figure move closer to the center, look at each other and simultaneously reach for the array and start to push and then building up speed they break into a run to the sound of flesh and bone being ripped and torn and destroyed. 
    They keep running and pushing, yelling in turn, "it still spins!"  And, "After 40 years!"  Repeated, one after the other, taking turns, they run and spin for another minute.  If they we're on the floor below they would see the work of their efforts, a steady flow of mangled zombie.  They stop and hands fall to knees, and large thankful breaths are drawn.  Keith walks to the far wall opens a triangular hatch and steps outside.  For a fleeting second Mike things he's jumped to his death without a word.  But his mind quickly dismisses this and as he approaches the hatch he remembers that an outer platform rings the lower dome.  He crawls out and finds Keith sitting, feet dangling over the edge and, hands steady, lighting a smoke.
    "Can I get one of those?"
    "You smoke?"
    "Thought I might take it up."
    "You know these things can kill you?"
    "Lots of stuff can kill you."
    Mike takes the proffered cigarette from Keith and inhales as Keith lights his with the end of his own lit cigarette.  He coughs and sputters like a preteen with his first smoke outside the gym of the juniorhigh school.  It wasn't the smoke.  Mike has just realized that Tasha is still alive.
    "Tasha's down there," through coughs and caught breaths, "Alive."
    "Quiet, that one, I always forget she's there."
    And as they sit and smoke and stare out at the beauty that is the Arctic in summer they laugh and laugh.