Frostbite

By R L Nielsen

In the brutal dead of winter in Alaska, the absence of sunlight can drive a person crazy. The crew on an oil-drilling rig accidentally pierces a sphere hidden deep within the earth. Now, deadly monsters have been unleashed and the crewmembers are starting to disappear, one by one. In a desperate race for survival, the battle has just begun.

• Language: English
• Publisher: R L Nielsen
• Release date: May 1, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311686091

R L Nielsen

My journey through life is unconventional. At a young age I learned that whatever I set my mind to I mastered, or if I kept at it long enough, I found success. College studies entailed creative writing, pre-medical studies, biomedical physics, but a drive to succeed on my own merits brought an early end to a traditional education. I suppose the childhood upbringing was to blame for education via the hands-on method of a hard work. At nine I helped with janitorial services at a real estate company, picked cherries in the summers, cleaned mortar off bricks at a salvage yard and other odd jobs as enlisted by my father. By eleven years old I had two jobs on my own. At fifteen I added a third. Between work, I swam four hours a day during my high school years. With friends we built a greenhouse and grew tomatoes through hydroponics and cross-bred rare orchids to sell. All this in the nineteen-seventies in Roy, Utah.Born into a family of eight, sharing responsibilities and a desire for beyond boring food motivated me to learn how to cook at ten years old. On a rare visit to a pizza restaurant, which we could ill afford, I taught myself how to replicate the meal I had tasted. Later, I transformed handmade pizzas into frozen ready to reheat and eat meals. To this day, I continue to experiment replicating and perfecting the foods I taste at world renown restaurants.Fine art painting started in a middle school oil painting class. In a hand-picked class of sixteen, at twelve I was the youngest by two grades. At fifteen, a high school instructor set me out on my own as there was little more she could offer. Soon after, I developed a series of cartoon characters. The characters are now a part of children’s books and a series of collectible artwork. Although traditionally taught, the fine art experience developed into an abstract expressionist style of work in the early nineties.Achievements as a competitive swimmer in my teens resulted in eight high school team records. After graduating, I coached for six years accomplishing regional championships and an undefeated dual meet record each of last four years. Currently, I give coaching advice on technique to masters age swimmers. Many of them now own world, national and state titles.I built several companies, the most successful being a wholesale interior design showroom in Denver, Colorado which later expanded into Scottsdale, Arizona. Many of the innovative design concepts I developed are still enviable styles today. However, after seventeen years exploding rents and the ever waxing and waning economy drove me to close the businesses.Throughout life, the desire to write manifest into a skill I continue to master. Beginning simply with hand-written short stories in grade school for friends, in middle school a typing class and a journalism position at the school newspaper became outlets for humorous tales. In high school and college, creative writing became as prevalent as the need to express myself through painting.

Book preview

Chapter 1: OIL EXPEDITION- NORTHERN ALASKA

A dark, skulking shadow chased parallel to a tall thin man as he crossed the tread marks left by a snowmobile. On the ice-packed trail, Renold Dunston bundled his heavy winter coat around his shoulders and then wrapped a scarf across his face to buffer the chest-tightening cold. In his head circled ideas of how to change the world, he lived in now. Working here was not his intended future.

Renold slowed underneath a lamppost, wheezing, as the bitter air sucked his breath away. All too soon, the residual light faded at his back and he returned to darkness. He did not fear the dark but the chance he would never feel warm sunlight on his face again shook him to the core. This was not how things usually go for men, once worshiped as a god by baseball fans throughout the world. He wanted those feelings back; he wanted to regain control of his destiny.

Now in total darkness, Renold resisted using his flashlight to conserve the batteries, just incase the weekly supplies did not arrive. He thought it better to save the light for times when he actually heard something creeping about. Still, in those dark areas between the lights, it always felt like eyes were watching him—observing his every move. Despite never seeing anything inside the safety of the encampment, the menacing feelings never left.

It took fifty yards of brisk strides before the next glowing light appeared. The yellow bulbs, strung on an eleven-foot high perimeter fence, cut through the black and his shadow returned.

Normally while walking along the way, an incessant wind whipped snow across the icy path. On those nights, it made the distance of eight-hundred yards to the Central Operations building feel like a ten-mile journey. To make it worse, it was generally quiet on the trek from the temporary housing units north to work, save for the ice crunching beneath his boots. If only he had a companion, someone to confide the recent revelations of what he had become—a man who had lost hope of the future and his passion for life. In the short time he had been on the site, he could determine if the temperature was below zero by how the snow squeaked or squished under his boots. That spoke volumes of how desolate his life had become—a barometer and nothing more.

Out here in the wilderness, miles from the nearest fishing village of Buckland, Alaska, any number of animals could be prowling outside the enclosure. Possibly one of the wolves Renold had seen marauding at the edge of the forest. Whenever he began to feel wary, he blamed it on too many stories of Big Foot he heard as a child.

The two lamps marking the entrance to the U-shaped trash containment area could not have arrived fast enough. The light cut through the dark and snapped Renold out of his daydreams. A moaning sigh sent a wisp of steam that evaporated swiftly in the cold night air. As he passed by the enclosure, he studied two rows of trash containers, following the parameter fence to where it ended at the edge of the forest. His pace quickened across the open space, some thirty-feet toward where the U-shaped fence would return on the other side.

The remoteness of the expedition site made it impossible to dispose of trash by other means. With an allotment of containers to get through the winter, it would be late spring before they hauled them away. Even the cold did not dissuade the stench.

Renold kept walking until he reached the galvanized mesh. With a faint hope that he might spot wildlife lurking about, he shoved gloved fingers between the links and waited in silence. When he heard nothing, he resorted to using the flashlight to cut the blackness toward the forest. Occasionally, when he had spotted the silvery reflection of eyes in woods, adrenaline rushed through his body with a satisfying charge. It was something he looked forward to, as there was not much else to get excited about on the job. When it did happen, it created enough energy to keep him alert throughout a boring night of work. On slow nights, that rush of adrenaline did more for him than a pot of coffee.

It had been over a month since a huge grizzly bear reared up out of nowhere. That was a night to remember. Renold nearly wet his pants with delight. The smell of trash piling up in the dumpsters had become a great draw for wildlife and the perfect place for getting his fix.

Nothing, Renold sighed. The bears must be well into hibernation by now.

On sullen nights like this, Renold lingered for a while, praying to see a stray wolf or anything to bring back that thrill. If only big foot liked garbage. Tonight however, only the eerie crack of tree limbs—certainly caught by a sudden gust of wind—kept his mind from drifting back to the gloom. He often wondered why he put himself through such a fright when it was creepy enough walking in the dark between the lampposts. He justified the safety fence as being like a seatbelt—protecting him from harm during a thrilling rollercoaster ride.

He glanced at his watch. Ten minutes remained before he needed reach the office. He began pondering his first two months of work at the drill site. He felt trapped and the dark was taking a toll. The sense of being powerless over his future took some getting used to, but he could not fathom how regular people did this kind of work. Are they built for it or do they just lack the intellect to go further? Maybe its greed, He thought, the company did pay well. Greed and stupidity must be the worst curse in life. No matter what the reason, he had developed a growing distain for people who never seemed to evolve beyond more than apes, men in clothing who had little ability to carry a conversation. Thinking back, a few of the men he thought of as apes working the site, had never uttered a single word since his arrival.

At this moment, Renold wished for nothing more than to return to the days when he trained as a professional baseball player in the Arizona sun. If only the career ending shoulder injury had never happened. There could be no place on earth further from the training fields in Phoenix than here in an isolated box canyon in the dead of winter.

Buckland, the nearest town to the drill site, offered the expedition no escape from the daily life. The small village of four-hundred was comprised mostly native tribes’ people who hunted and fished for a living. In the winter, they were more like the hibernating wildlife. Holed-up inside reading, playing cards, doing what they did when they could not fish and hunt meat.

The Buckland airport served as the only link for transporting supplies and when the weather was bad, which it was most of the time, the workers had to wait. Renold could find no reason to go to Buckland—ever.

Feeling trapped in the wintry mountains was common. The squeeze between the canyon walls on sunless days felt claustrophobic. It could be the reason why the workers spoke so little, Renold imagined. One cross word on a bad day might get you stabbed. It could also be the reason for banning fire arms with the exception of those kept in the makeshift jail for protection and sport. There was not much choice if one were to go mad, possibly strip naked and climb the fence as a man from California did once. Beyond the safety fence, getting lost in the dark would be easy—dying from exposure, a painful but quick way to go.

Back at the fence, Renold moved away from the light, tottered into darkness and the dismal mood returned. A few yards down the path, his boots began to squeak lightly in the snow. Then, an unmistakable thump sent hackles up his spine. The sound came back toward the fence in the field near the woods. He fumbled for the flashlight and then swept the beam toward the trash containment area. When he saw nothing, he swept left, closer to where he stood.

In a flash, he saw a pair of large eyes. Just as quickly, they disappeared. His mind now raced in time with his heart. What he had seen appeared too high off the ground to be a wolf or bear unless the bear was standing on hind legs. He kept the flashlight trained on the area and removed his hood to listen. All remained silent, so he crept closer toward the fence and waited for signs of movement. The field toward the forest remained empty and not a single track appeared in the snow.

You’re imagining things.

Just when Renold was about to return to the path and head for work, a shadow crossed the fence and into the beam of the flashlight.

Hey! Renold shouted, still seeing nothing. The shadow continued to move closer until whatever had made it, appeared to be standing directly in front of him.

For the first time the he truly felt fearful. On a mad sprint back to the pathway, he continued toward work.

It would be at least another week or two before the sun would return and start skipping a thin stroke of light across the mid-afternoon sky. Renold could not wait. After this experience, he felt concerned that he had lost his mind. Complete exposure to sunlight at the drill site would not break for at least another month, given the strange angle at which the box-canyon laid. Missing the sun was just one more thing that caused him to worry.

On a map he once studied, the canyon looked like someone had scooped dirt the wrong way in a sandbox of mountains. It did not follow with the natural contours of the surrounding area. It ran north and south against the mountains while everything else ran east to west. Until recent years, after a glacial melt, the canyon had remained buried under ice for centuries. He was certain that was the cause for poor contact with satellite communications and possibly the reason it seemed darker than normal.

On rare clear nights, the moon and stars shone so brightly they burned spots in his eyes. It was something Renold had not experienced before, having lived in a big city where surrounding lights made heavenly objects look dull. At the encampment, those nights were cherished and few.

Once Renold calmed, his mind drifted back to lush green fields, throwing a baseball and wearing the pinstripes of his favorite team. A bitter gust pierced deep into his shoulder, stirring a painful reminder of his injury. Each time the numbing cold caused a crick in his joints, a mental conversation between his adversaries would begin anew.

Leaving you was a mistake, can we make up, he thought. The dialogue he pretended to hear from his ex-girl friend, Natalie Piersson, back in Chicago. Things not working out with Mark Weston? He would say, given the chance. His anger over their breakup had long since passed, or so he thought, but they were quick to flare to the surface whenever his arm throbbed. Each time the cold brought pain to the old wound, it also reminded him of those things he could not change—the failed baseball career, the estrangement from his father, his failure with women. Surely, there’s more for me in life than working in a frozen hellhole forever, he thought.

Tonight Renold was determined to box Natalie’s memory on the shelf, right next to the anger-filled images of his father. The shadow had him realizing how one could go stark raving mad, trapped alone in the dark—mulling over a past he could not change. He vowed to keep his chin-up. With nobody to share his experiences with and no one to express his deepest concerns, it was up to him and him alone to survive. In time past, when he struggled to contain his emotions, he switched to survival mode. That meant withdrawing from others just to get though the days. It had served him well.

Before the breakup, Natalie secured Renold’s position on the expedition. At the time, he felt grateful. His wealthy father cut him off and the baseball money had long run out. Instead of taking charge of his future, he let Natalie convince him to take the job. I must have been depressed. Looking back, there must have been a reason for Natalie to send him so far away from Chicago. Most likely, she did not have the guts to break-up in person, later doing it over the phone during his first week. She set me up. He long suspected she was only interested in men who kept her in diamonds. He could not but the CEO Mark Weston did.

A few yards away from the drill-site headquarters and Renold’s thoughts were now swimming—flashing between anger, fear and abandonment. His footsteps turned heavy and his chin sunk deep to his chest. He hardly noticed the light shining from the building or the silhouette that crept stealthily over the jagged edges of ice along the ground at his side. The amorphous shape caught his eye and he turned to see it stretched out like a boney claw—grasping for his back. When the image melded with his shadow, he passed it off as double vision, something he experienced before, when a baseball had hit him in the head.

The wind picked up, howling through distant trees. The noise forced Renold back to the reality of his job. The miserable job he never wanted. Catching the movement of the shadow again, he glanced back at a set of footprints disappearing into the dark and now felt certain that something had been watching. He quickened his pace and the shadow raced to catch up. He dashed up a steel staircase, dislodging dirty snow with several hard stomps. A flood of yellow light chased the shadows away and Renold tried to quell the pounding in his head.

Morgan Scott, the day shift manager glared across the neatly stacked papers on his desk. He narrowed eyes and scratched through the graying ends of his red and black dappled beard. You’re late newbie, he said.

Renold removed his hood and glanced at the clock above his desk reading 11:01 P.M. With a quick swipe at the sweat dripping down his forehead, he slithered out of the coat, purposely not saying a word. A glance to his wristwatch, he noticed how the florescent bulbs, made his arms look a sickly shade of yellow.

Did you hear me? You’re late, Morgan said again.

Sorry, my watch says 10:55, Renold said, curling his lip up with a tentative smile. As Morgan’s supervisor, he tried to respect him but the man’s experience made him cower.

This is the only time that counts, Morgan said, pointing at the clock on the wall.

It’s nice to see you made it through another day, Renold said, half-heartedly shaking droplets of melted snow from his boots.

A sneer from Morgan felt expected. He acted his usual scratchy self. Oh, such a warm-hearted bastard you are, Morgan grumbled. It’s a shame you didn’t freeze to death, toddling your way to work. Would it kill you to get here early so I don’t have to spend the whole damn night leaving instructions?

Morgan’s cranky attitude had become tolerable over the last few weeks. It was much better than the down right contemptible way he had treated Renold during his first month of work. Morgan was quick to show his disdain for the newbie with little real world experience, a label given to Renold on his first day that he could not shake.

Have you noticed anything unusual around here lately? Renold asked.

Just you, Morgan replied.

Renold had worked hard just to get along. At times, avoidance seemed the best resolve, as cajoling Morgan with a joke here-and-there did little to sooth the angst. He felt it best not to share what he had just experienced, incase Morgan found it crazy. He would never live that down. Instead, he slouched into a chair, noting how Morgan’s favorite plaid shirt made him look like a stunted lumberjack. Warm-hearted is right, I forget about that icy heart of yours, he said softly.

At least I still have a heart, Morgan said and then forced his stout body from the chair with a grunt.

The course hairs sticking above his shirt-collar and out his arm-sleeves were not so different from an ape, Renold thought. His thick beard covered his face like the mask of a bandit. Morgan claimed it provided protection from the harsh winter. He took a badgering when he had disagreed. The way it curled around his thick lips, up to his bulbous nose also reminded him of a gorilla. Ape, ape, ape.

Renold rubbed over his chin, dusted with day-old stubble. He began to wonder when he too would give in and stop caring how he looked. Already his once lean body had grown slightly fleshy with the lack of exercise. Thinking of how he looked in the mirror earlier before work, the fluorescent lighting made him appear much older than twenty-eight. Morgan might be in his fifties, but under this light, he could pass for seventy.

In the two months since Renold arrived at the drilling site, Morgan made it known he was an unwelcome surprise to the oil company executives. It did not help that Natalie had assigned him to manage the project and get it back on schedule. At first, Renold fought to change Morgan’s unappreciative attitude, but soon succumbed to the doldrums of the working environment. Now they got along but just barely, like old married couples that stick together for the sake of children still in the nest.

Morgan pointed to the counter where a phone with a small antenna sat. Get Natalie on the horn and find out what’s going on with last night’s core analysis. Whatever we hit yesterday wobbled the drill. We need to know what we’re dealing with, he said, taking a long drag off a cigarette. Corporate is already on my ass. One more delay and they’re going to pull my vacation time at the end of the month.

Spending a week drunk on tequila in a Mexican hotel with a yeasty old hooker isn’t what I’d call a vacation, Renold said, smirking.

The phone began to ring and he waved his hand to quiet Morgan’s pithy response.

Hey Renold, how’s the new job working out? Natalie said casually when she picked up.

Nice to hear your voice Nat, he replied, drawing a long breath—still finding it difficult not to think of her firm body.

A crackle of static electricity buzzed over the phone, filling the uncomfortable silence.

Renold gritted his teeth and tried not to imagine strangling Natalie. Still, her fresh voice brought a certain amount comfort, as any female’s voice outside of this place would. After all, it was not his fault that she had discovered how to use her long legs and Midwestern beauty to further her burgeoning career. Mark got lucky.

What’s the temperature there? Natalie asked, breaking into small talk.

Bitter, Renold said, with a rub to his shoulder.

Nice, sounds like the weather here in Chicago, Natalie responded. We’re in the middle of another blizzard…it’s fifteen below and dropping.

Renold tried not to care about Natalie and he did not want to hear about the weather, so he got straight to the point: Morgan tells me the drill hit something last night, do you have the results of the core analysis we sent?

From the sound of the keys tapping away in the background, Renold could only imagine Natalie was just now searching for the report.

It looks like you’ve hit some crystallized rock below the permafrost layer, possibly remnants of ancient volcanic activity, she said.

Is it safe to cut through the stuff? The drill acted a little obstinate after we struck the rock, I’m told.

The geologists report indicates no problems, Natalie responded. You may hit a pocket or two more of tough areas, so just ease back and the drill should be fine.

Should be fine? Renold said, frowning at Morgan. That doesn’t sound very comforting.

Look— Natalie said with a loud sigh. Just grind through the rough patch, you’ll be fine!

Renold stiffened at Natalie’s curt response, taking it as a personal attack. Hey Nat, since you are so close with the executive officer, could you do me a favor and rub up against his furry legs, maybe purr a little in his ear? Better yet, just scratch his favorite spot and see if you can get our deadline extended?

Natalie’s voice turned harsh. Cut the adolescent chatter. I’m your boss now and I can easily take your job away and leave you stranded.

The SAT phone clicked and Renold turned his attention to the stream of cigarette smoke wafting his way.

Soooo…how’s Natalie? Morgan said grinning wryly.

Ah, she’s fine…, he mumbled, snapping the phone down on the receiver. Just fine…

So what’d they find? Morgan asked and then took another drag off the cigarette.

It’s just a little volcanic rock. We should slow the drill down for a while.

Slow down…what do you mean slow down? Morgan snapped, Get back on that phone and tell ladder-climbing girlfriend of yours I’m not going to compromise my vacation over a few old rocks!

She’s aware of the deadline, Renold said. And she’s not my girlfriend.

I heard how you spoke to her. Now get back on the phone and tell her we’re not slowing the drill. If I don’t get away from this permafrost hell-hole soon, I’ll turn to murder, Morgan growled, cheeks turning red. He slammed his fist slammed against the metal desk and yelled: Where the hell is Potato Head?

Nick Thomas was Potato Head’s real name. Renold only remembered his last name by associating it with Ptomaine poisoning after a school pal named Thomas got it. If anything could spoil a peaceful night, it was Nick’s short temper. Still, he preferred to call him Nick.

Renold snorted when he saw Nick’s red face and stubby body. A stomp around the kitchen wall, the kindly freckles dotting the bridge of his nose, conjured stories Nick had shared about his childhood spent on a farm in Idaho—another reason Morgan nicknamed him Potato Head. I’ll bet he had chronic encephalitis as a child… to grow a head that big, Renold thought.

Wadda you want? And don’t call me potato head! Nick said wringing fists. Hi ya’ Renold, he added and then waved clumsily.

Drill’s good to go, Morgan said. Get your scrubby ass to the site and crank it up.

Nick took a slow deliberate sip of his coffee. I heard what Nat told’ Ren, he said in a deep southern drawl. I’ve done this before and she is right. We should take ‘er easy ‘till we bust through that rock.

You listen to me, sprout, Morgan said. He jammed his cigarette in the metal ashtray and pointed a tobacco-stained finger at Nick. You know damn well that rig is built to cut through all kinds of rock. He paused and a wicked grin crept across his face. "You’re pretty apt at handling that kind of deep drilling though… aren’t you," he said sarcastically.

Enough, Morgan, Renold interjected, knowing how he loved to push Nick’s buttons. He was not about to get between the men when Nick unleashed his temper. When pushed to anger, Nick was as dangerous as he was unpredictable. At those times, his mixed, martial arts background usually kicked in and no one was safe. The admiration Nick gave Renold though, reminded him of a neighborhood bully he once knocked out, afterward they treated each other respectfully.

Listen, just keep an eye on that rig tonight, Renold said, motioning for Nick to keep the peace. By the color of his face, Renold guessed that Nick was seething over Morgan’s jab. The gossip of Nick’s impropriety with a fellow worker on an oil field in Texas was something only a few brave soles dare speak of—usually men looking for a fight. Keep it moving and tell the crew to stay alert. We’ve got a few tough spots ahead and I don’t want anyone getting smacked around out there.

Nick nodded and marched toward Renold. Screw you Morgan, I’ve got this under control, he said. He snatched a coat off a chair, slammed his coffee mug on the desk and headed to the exit.

Renold grinned when Nick tripped on his pants that were a size too long. It reminded him of a child wearing his dad’s clothes.

Nick jerked the pants high on his waist and by the time he reached the exit, they had slid mid-butt and bunched at his ankles again. JEESSS! Nick’s voice echoed on his way outside.

Renold shot an irritated glare at Morgan. You need to lay off the guy.

You think mister five-foot-six is going to knock the block off an old tuff like me? Morgan said.

I say that with your best interest in mind; I’ve seen him fight. Now go home and get some rest, old man…before I take a swat at you, Renold said, keeping his head down as he strolled off to the kitchen. The lights flickered as he opened a 1950’s style refrigerator. You’d think we’d have better accommodations…pumping all that black gold into those sons-a-bitches pockets… just doesn’t seem right.

Need to check the generators, Morgan yelled before exiting.

Yeah, I’ll see you tomorrow, Renold grumbled.

Morgan seemed in a hurry for Renold to slow him down with a conversation now. He had had second thoughts about telling him about the shadow, thinking he should at least warn him. The longer he thought about it, shadows don’t chase you, the animal creating them does. Even though there was no animal to speak of, just a pair of silvery eyes and a shadow, he felt assured now he was not just imagining. Double vision does not make noise or leave footprints.

Chapter 2: THE DRILLING SITE

Ten minutes on a snowmobile, driving north from central ops to the drill site did little to quell Nick’s anger. Near a hill that overlooked the site, he let up on the throttle, jumped from the moving machine and watched it slide into a drift. During a forceful march, his doubts about moving to Alaska replayed in his head. The desperate effort to outrun rumors and bitter memories of the violent scrapes he had with the rednecks back in Texas had failed. Each time someone brought up his past, he felt like strangling them, just to make it go away. Even the icy wind, cutting through his clothes could not cool his temper. While stomping through mud down the hill toward the jobs trailer he slipped and landed on his back.

Argghh! Nick yelled. He began punching the ground until his fist ached. Morgan’s comments had completely unraveled his mind. His emotions were in a freefall spin, just like the days when he fought in the ring, he knew if he did not calm down, he would pass out. The whispers and those slanted glances…the men will never respect me. If it weren’t for Morgan, things would be just fine.

At the jobs trailer, Nick gave the frozen handle a jerk twice before the door smacked him in the face. Damn it!

Inside, a trail of thick muddy boot prints across the linoleum floor sent his pulse into overdrive. The boot-scrape and mat he had purchase