It wasn’t the work, which kept him busy enough, he supposed, but he’d been on tougher jobs and even the farm where he grew up had a more demanding schedule. Which is to say, when something broke, you fixed it whether it was night or day, rain or shine, whether you were exhausted or not.
No, it wasn’t the job. It was the constant push and pull of dealing with so many people, so many personalities, while all the while the wind was blowing and bullying, speaking to him as it thrashed the sides of the base. For weeks, his only solace had been the tunnel system below Shackleton, a place so quiet that his breathing was often the loudest thing he could hear. He’d explored farther and farther, inventing jobs so that he could pass entire shifts simply walking the warrens, old and new. He felt a small flush of pride—there probably wasn’t anyone alive who knew more about the lost tracks and empty rooms below the South Pole than he did.
But his work had to get done sometime or they’d start asking questions, maybe even following. So, up he would come, like a prairie dog popping its head aboveground, taking the Beer Can steps to the surface where the wind would scream at him, berating him for hiding, setting his nerves on their bleeding edge.
When he wasn’t in the tunnels, the crew was so small that he was constantly bumping into exactly the people he didn’t want to see. Taylor, who looked at him with a sideways squint. Keene, acting like a long-lost uncle while wearing that phony, three-dollar smile.
And her . He didn’t want to say her name, not even in his head. Meeting her in the hall, seeing her from across the galley. The pretty smile and long, swinging hair. He was always polite, his upbringing wouldn’t let him act any other way, but every time he saw her coming down the hall, the wind seemed to pick up, screaming and rattling against the outside walls so loud that half the time he couldn’t even hear her say hello or ask him how he was doing.
He groaned and rolled onto his side, his eyes squeezed shut, willing himself to sleep. Lord knows he was weary enough. But all he seemed to hear was the wind. Whistling in his head, whispering in his ear, telling, demanding, wanting.
Sleep wasn’t happening, not right now. Maybe if he went to the lounge and put on a movie he’d pass out and finally get some rest. He sighed and opened his eyes, preparing to roll back out of bed, when he frowned. On his nightstand were two small, orange pill bottles, standing side by side. He hadn’t seen them when he’d come in.
He reached out and grabbed one, bringing it closer. The pills inside rattled like teeth in a jar. The label read:
LEROY BUSKINS – TAKE 1 PILL PER DAY AS PRESCRIBED
He opened the bottle. Inside were perhaps forty pink, hexagonal pills. They barely filled the bottle to the halfway point.
A gust suddenly slammed the outside wall of his berth and he froze. A prickling sensation ran from the crown of his head down to his toes and he held his breath as he waited for it to speak. But the gale died away and he slowly relaxed.
Leroy put the lid back on the first bottle, then sat up and reached for the second. The label was identical, but inside were much larger blue capsules. They filled the bottle to the brim. He glanced at the labels again. They looked official enough, but neither had the name of the drug printed on it. That was okay; he’d been on so many meds over the years, with so many different names, it made no difference to him. The important thing was that he’d been taking two kinds of pills before he got to Shackleton. Here were two kinds of pills, right on his nightstand. The math added up.
Normally, he was supposed to pick up his meds from Doc Ayres at the clinic, but maybe they were trying to simplify the process. It had always seemed a little silly for him to have to go down there, show his ID, then sign for the drugs they both knew damn well were his. It only made sense to streamline things. And he couldn’t complain about the service . . . delivered right to his room. No more BS trips to the clinic.
Leroy shook out a pill from each bottle, knocked them both back with a swig from an old can of soda he found sitting next to the bed, then rolled out of bed and started donning his cold weather gear again. He grunted a laugh as he pulled on his boots. A movie ? He thought a movie would help him? With the wind thrashing outside and moaning through every crack and crevice? There was only one place he could find peace in this little patch of hell. He shrugged on his parka and grabbed his hat, then headed out the door for the tunnels fifty feet below the station.
CHAPTER TWENTY