Fiery Ice

Michael had been the first official member of the Fiery Ice project team.

He remembered it all too well. It was the reason why he was here now, on the verge of doing the single most important thing of his life.

He recalled the enthusiasm he had felt when he had stepped into base Alpha01, his team behind him. Rob, Jun and Hamed — more than colleagues, they were family to him. He felt his eyes tearing up.

Rob had been the first one to go. He had been unwell for days; it was clear in hindsight, but at the time nobody thought much of it. He was singing strange songs all the time, sometimes talking to himself, but nothing serious, they thought.

He was found outside, frozen to death, after having drawn his own blood.

The company had intervened with all the tools at its disposal. Psychologists, doctors, experts in any and all fields had arrived, studied every last corner of the base, and left with more questions than answers.

It took quite a while to convince them all that they were ok, that they could continue. Whatever that problem was, it could not be contagious, after all.

He almost smiled. How wrong they had been.

Hamed was next. Of course he was: he had always been unable to ignore an unsolved mystery, especially one so inexplicable. Like a moth to a flame, he started dancing too close to the truth.

Michael himself had entered the power core and found him standing there, a mindless statue of flesh. It seemed he had gone blind and deaf, as if his soul had left the body without waiting for its death. It was the most chilling thing he had ever seen.

When she came, Jun wanted to call the Company, ask for help. Michael felt compelled to stop her. He didn’t really know why, but it felt wrong. They needed more time, he said.

‘Time for what?’ she cried.

‘Trust me. It will be clear,’ he answered.

She shook her head and turned, going for the door.

A moment later she was on the floor, bleeding. He looked at his hands, and found he was holding a hammer soaked in red. He didn’t even remember picking it up.

That was thirty minutes ago.

Now he was in the Lab. The red and yellow lights of the fire he had caused were painting deep shadows on the walls. He was sitting on his chair, waiting for the inevitable.

No one should ever touch their work. It was poison. It was death. He would not allow it to spread.

He started coughing, the chemicals in the air burning his lungs. He convulsed and fell. It was painful, but he felt at peace.

Michael could not know that Hamed was just outside the door, watching his convulsions with clinical interest.

A little smile on his pale face.