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.
CHAPTER FIVE
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.
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.