Arctic Horror
By Nicole L. Duffeck
“Arliiiii.” The figure before him groaned. “Arliiiii.” Jung Kook could have sworn it was his own voice, echoing back at him, but that was impossible. The wind all but stole your voice before it had a chance of reaching your companion standing mere feet from you.
Jung stopped short, conflicted between being euphoric over finding Arli and confused at this sudden development. “Arli? What’s going on? Are you ok?” Jung asked, his words coming out in a jumbled rush.
“Arliiiii?” The thing before him mimicked the question.
Some primal part of Jung’s brain took over before the conscious part of his mind could make sense of what his body was doing. Before he knew it, he was running for the habitat door. Behind him, he could hear a shuffling as the thing followed him, its breath seeming to rattle in its chest.
Fourteen hours earlier
There’s a certain horror in not knowing what comes next: When you’ll get your next meal, your next breath of fresh air, the next time you’ll feel the sun on your face, the next time you’ll feel someone embrace you. That was the downside to any Arctic expedition: the instant insanity of endless night, of deadly cold, of breaths that turned lungs to ice, the isolation of snow and silence, the strain of ears to catch a sound other than the omnipresent howl of wind and scouring ice.
That night (or was it day? It was impossible to tell when the body and brain were in a perpetual state of darkness) there was a sound, or maybe the memory of a sound. A soft keening, moaning sound that could have been the wind or a wounded animal or any number of things. Whatever the source, it set Jung Kook’s nerves on edge, shredding his sanity in nearly imperceptible increments.
Wondering if he was finally succumbing to the white madness, he poked his head out of the thermal blankets and looked at the digital clock on his bedside table. The red lights displayed that it was nearly seven in the morning; time to get up and perform the morning systems check. There was at least that: the comforting routine of checking the weather measuring instruments, the environmental systems that kept him and the other scientists alive in a climate that was hellbent on killing any living creature that hadn’t evolved to exist there over the course of several millennia. As it was, Jung was the only living human at the Z-037 outpost, the others having left four days prior to beat the storm; the same storm that was preventing the relief team from coming in. Jung had stayed behind to ensure the continual running of the research station and, if he were honest, to hang onto the gossamer-thin hope that Arli was alive somewhere, out there, in one of the outbuildings and had just had to ride out the storm. The logical, scientific part of him knew that wasn’t possible; that Arli had fallen into a glacial crevice or succumbed to the elements after having gotten turned around in one of the many whiteouts that would hit with little to no notice.
More than likely, the sounds he was hearing were a combination of guilt, hope, and despair manifesting in the form of the white madness. Regardless, Jung kicked his feet out of bed, heedless of the thermal blanket he had been wrapped in falling to the floor. The ambient temperature of the habitat was still uncomfortably low since the inhabitants weren’t expected to be out of bed for another fifteen minutes. Resources were scarce out here, making rationing and frugality a matter of life and death.
Jung donned his heaviest sweater, hat, winter outer pants, and opened the door to his quarters. The first thing he noticed was the oppressive silence of the module he had been calling home for the past three months. Having only been alone for four days, he hadn’t grown fully accustomed to there being no other signs of life. Even if all the other personnel were sleeping, there were still the sounds of snoring, breathing, talking in their sleep, or simply absorbing the cacophonous stillness. The suddenness of the Z-037 bringing itself into day mode made Jung jump. The lights came on to their full brightness, the HVAC turned up a few levels bringing it from a low white noise to a full hum and, most importantly, the coffee machine began brewing.
Jung made his way to the kitchen and took a few sips of too-hot coffee before moving on to the brain of the hub. The control room was insulated between four walls of thick steel and kept environmentally stable with its own climate control, powered by its own solar panels and backup generator. Jung took his time checking the instrumental readings, the surveillance footage, and the habitat’s artificial intelligence. Everything was running as it should, but Jung was reluctant to leave the control room; there was something comforting in being in front of screens, even if all they were doing was showing him the vast, white expanse of the snowfields, unbroken only by the UN’s outbuildings, a few snow machines, and an all-terrain utility vehicle.
The silence and unbroken view lulled Jung into a sort of waking torpor, his mind wandering to Arli and the last time they had seen each other. They had been arguing about what Jung couldn’t remember—that’s how trivial it had been. Arli had gone against the weather recommendations and stormed out into the ice fields, stating he needed to check on the penguin population he was there to observe. That was the last Jung, or anyone, had seen of Arli. Shortly after leaving, a massive windstorm blew across the plain; stirring up ice and snow, blinding any creature that was unfortunate enough to be out in it.
A noise pulled Jung from his reverie; a low, faint keening, the same sound that had roused him from his sleep. He scanned the CCTV screens, looking to see what the source of the noise was. At first, there was nothing on the monitors except the vast expanse of the plains. Just as he was about to stand and walk away from the desk, he saw it: A small corner of what looked like blaze orange; the same color of clothing the crew wore for outerwear, the best chance they had of being seen in a whiteout. He could dismiss the sounds as nothing more than the wind or a lost and starving arctic fox but the scrap of cloth – that couldn’t be discounted. Since there was no one else but him and the countless dead explorers who’d come before him at the base, the only rational explanation was that Arli was out there, alive and trying to find his way back to the base.
Jung jumped up from his chair and ran to the antechamber that would lead to the outside. There, he hastily dressed for the tundra, forced the door open, and stepped out into the violent gale.
Strung from the habitat and anchored in place at intervals using lead pipes was a blaze orange cord, now frosted white from snow and ice. For a moment, the rational science brain whispered that he had just seen a flash of the cord and not a sign of Arli struggling to get home to him. Jung pushed the thought away and fought his way forward against the hurricane-force winds.
Above the howl of the wind, Jung heard the keening sound again. Louder, despite the weather. He could just make out a single word, his name, “Jung,” being cried out against the storm. He knew, with the certainty of a man who’d heard the voice a million times, that he was hearing Arli call for him, calling to him for help.
Jung’s lungs and heart nearly burst. Arli was alive! He knew Jung was there, coming to him, coming to find him and bring him back to warmth and safety. Fueled by blind determination, Jung tried to quicken his pace, but the elements persisted in slowing him down; all he was doing was wasting energy and calories, both of which needed to be rationed. He needed to be logical, clinical if he was going to get himself and, more importantly, Arli, back to safety.
Jung forced himself to slow down, to get his bearings and trudge calmly and methodically through the drifts of snow and blinding wind. With one hand, he held fast to the guideline and, with the other, he prodded the ground with his walking stick. Chances were, Arli was using the same cord or, worst-case scenario, he was unconscious in one of the snowbanks. If the first, they would meet somewhere along the line. If the latter, the walking stick would issue the tactile warning that there was an anomaly beneath the waist-high embankments.
The going was slow, and the cold was taking its toll on Jung. His feet and hands were beginning to go numb, and his eyelashes, beard, and mustache were crusted in ice, creating an all too persistent time clock, telling him he couldn’t stay out of the habitat much longer. His heart insisted he go on but the logical part of his mind urged him to be rational; if he succumbed to the elements, both he and Arli would be lost to the Arctic.
As if the universe finally started to care, the decision was made for him in the form of the guideline running out; he’d reached the end of the camp without finding any signs of Arli. It was time to go back and get out of his ice-encrusted gear and warm up. He could check the surveillance cameras for signs of Arli and make a plan to find him and bring him back.
Feeling downtrodden but bolstered by having an actionable plan, Jung found his way back to the habitat, discarded his outerwear, and brewed a cup of coffee before settling down in front of the monitors. There was nothing to see except for the omnipresent white of the landscape; even his footprints were all but swallowed up by the flurry. There was certainly no way of seeing if Arli was still out there unless he was upright and moving. Jung found that highly unlikely; he’d been missing for four days now. Unless he found shelter and food, he’d be weak from the elements and hunger…or worse. Jung shook his head, refusing to fall into the depression the flash of orange had pulled him out of. He’d find Arli, they’d get out of this godforsaken place together and spend the rest of their lives in a warm place.
Station protocol was that researchers only go outside once a day; even if they felt they’d warmed up to normal body temperatures. There was too great a possibility of the heart and lungs being damaged from the cold and the person not being aware of it. Despite being the only person there, Jung still followed protocol, the need to follow a structured pattern and adhere to the rules. The monotony and predictability staved off insanity thus far, it would have to continue.
Part of that routine was the midday systems check, reading the instruments, checking the life support systems, and reaching out to the main base with his status and the status of the station. The rhythm was soothing and allowed his mind to wander, that is, until a low noise pulled him out of his stupor. It was faint, just like the keening and, like the keening, it was persistent. Jung rose from his chair and walked quietly in his stocking feet, walking back and forth across the room, trying to ascertain where the noise was originating from. There! A sort of scritch, scritch, scriiiiitttccchhhh sound from the outside of the habitat. If there were any trees in the vicinity, he’d have thought the sound was being created from a branch scratching the walls but there was nothing of the sort on this barren plain. The sound was far to faint to be that of a moose or other wild beast. “Arli.” Jung whispered to himself. Arli had found the habitat! He was trying to locate the door in the blinding whiteout.
Jung ran to the surveillance room and flicked through the various screens, trying to find the right cameras with the correct angles that would show the outer perimeter of the habitat. In his haste, he’d skip over some cameras and double up on others. Jung forced himself to slow down once again, be methodical and check the cameras carefully. In the frame of Camera 3, he saw it, the proof he needed: Fresh boot prints. Arli was out there! He was certain of that now.
Rules be damned, he donned his dripping wet outerwear and hurled himself out into the weather. Rendered stupid with hope and love, Jung didn’t wait for his snow goggles to acclimate to the temperature change before charging in the direction of Camera 3’s view. He rounded the corner of the habitat and, in through the hurtling snowflakes, saw a shadow standing about eight feet in front of him. Through the fogged-up lenses of his goggles, Jung could just make out the blaze orange of the outerwear the field scientists wore. “Arli!” Jung cried out, tears of happiness and relief freezing on his face.
“Arliiiii.” The figure before him groaned. “Arliiiii.” Jung could have sworn it was his own voice, echoing back at him but that was impossible. The wind all but stole your voice before it had a chance of reaching your companion standing mere feet from you.
Jung stopped short, conflicted between being euphoric over finding Arli and confused at this sudden development. “Arli? What’s going on? Are you ok?” Jung asked, his words coming out in a rushed jumble.
“Arliiiii?” The thing before him mimicked the question.
Some primal part of Jung’s brain took over before the conscious part of his mind could make sense of what his body was doing. Before he knew it, he was running for the habitat door. Behind him, he could hear a shuffling as the thing followed him, shuffling, its breath seeming to rattle in its chest.
Jung slammed into the habitat door and fumbled with the handle as the thing stalked closer. Finally managing to get his numb, gloved hand to cooperate, Jung crashed through the door and slammed it shut behind him and, he could have sworn, he felt the hot, putrid breath of the thing on his skin.
Breathing heavily, Jung leaned against the door, trying to get his wits about him. That thing was Arli, he was sure of it but, also, positive it wasn’t Arli, at least, not the Arli he knew, the Arli he loved. What happened to him?
“Arliiiii.” He could hear his voice coming from outside the door followed by the scritch, scritch, sriiiiiiitcccch of, what he now knew, to be long, yellow claws.
Arli ran his gloved hands over his face, only realizing then that he was still wearing his outdoor gear when he jammed the goggles into the bones of his cheeks.
Checking again that the door was secure, Jung disposed of his outer wear, leaving them in a wet heap in the middle of the floor. Not caring that he was numb to the bone, he made his way to the surveillance room and brought up the camera for the front door of the habitat. There, he saw, hunched over itself, wearing tattered, blaze orange outerwear with the Z037 insignia emblazoned on its chest, the emaciated form of what had once been Arli. Arli had been a healthy, robust man and the thing that was scratching at the outside of habitat had ashen, papery, torn skin. Its lips were gone, in their place was chewed, ragged flesh. The thing had a stump where its tongue should have been. The tattered clothing revealed open, oozing wounds that wept despite the sub-zero temperatures. As he watched the Arli Thing, it tore a chunk of remaining flesh from its upper thigh, shoved it in it’s mouth and gnashed it with its teeth then swallowed it, the only trace left behind was sinew that clung to its teeth and a smattering of gore in the corners of its mouth.
Jung could taste the bile rising in his throat and heaved his coffee onto the floor, not caring about the mess. He needed to get out of there or he’d be the next gore in Arli’s teeth. He grappled with the comms system, finally getting it keyed up. “Z037 in distress! Z037 needs emergency assistance. Send help NOW!” He hollered into the microphone.
At first only static met his ear then, very lightly, he heard a keening, gargling “Arliiiiiii.” Jung dropped the mic and jumped back from the desk. Slowly, he turned. The thing that had been Arli was standing there, mere feet away and blocking the only door out.
The last coherent thought Jung had as the thing bit into his face and tore the flesh from his eye socket was that he had finally found what had happened to Arli.
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