Cthulhu Cthursday: Teatime at the Antarctic Excavation

Infusionist’s Log, Byrd Research Station, Day #308

I’ve spent the last four hours checking my watch, the station clocks, the Russian broadcast television that dribbles in from Russkaya station during the storms. Mostly, it’s 4pm. Mostly. We brought almost enough tea, but I use the bags twice, mostly out of fear. I can see too many grim futures, see us trapped in some snow-in for weeks, buoyed only by strong cups and thick cream.

I miss rain, frankly. And noise. I miss black, glistening nights in breathy cities; I miss the undulations of power lines beyond an accelerating car. I miss tea that stays warm for more than a few gulps. I miss tea that doesn’t crystallize.

Sure, I signed up for it. We all did. Brownlee brought in the contract one day and sat down with us, earnestly propping his elbows on his knees and underlining words like “compensation”, and “retirement”, and “phonesex”. We were seduced, enthused! We started biting and hitting and climbing over one another, just to get to our empty suitcases!

That night, our last night in civilization, we celebrated. We fools, we babes in the wood, we celebrated. Qais turned to me, well into his second cream cheese log, and threw one of his junky-limbs over my scapula. “Isn’t this what we always wanted, E?” he slurred, spraying almond slivers. “This is why we did it. The blog, the jointly-published papers, the letters to the Lancet, the black-tie nude revues. We finally got our funding. We’ll be able to prove everything.” I tugged his hair and laughed, then.

Well, bitterness is my cream cheese now. There was no “research facility”. There was no “heated dorm”, nor “Swedish masseuse”. There was a hot tub, yes, but a dank waft blew from under its protective tarp, and we could summon no will to lift it. Sometimes we find Ross standing on the tiles, barefoot and swaying. He says he has always been an accomplished sonambulist, a claim for which some of his prescription bottles make a case, but during these spells he does not have the slack absence of a true sleepwalker. No, he watches. He looks for something. Something I think I can smell, on evenings like this.

They’ll come back inside, soon.