❄️ Norðvik High Arctic Research Base: Day 7
The call came early, the name flashing on the screen.
Sanna Korhonen.
Rebecca stepped aside from the main room and into the hall, the door easing shut behind her as she answered.
Sanna’s voice was steady.
Sanna: We ventilated him overnight.
A deafening silence.
Sanna: The high-flow oxygen wasn’t maintaining his saturations. We had to intubate.
Rebecca closed her eyes briefly and her ears dropped.
Rebecca: Understood.
Sanna: He’s critical—his oxygen and ventilation requirements may continue to change.
They both knew what that meant.
Rebecca: Thank you.
The call ended. Her ears deflated completely, and Rebecca leant her head against the wall, her emotions welling.
Eugene woke drenched in sweat.
Everything felt too warm—and too cold.
He lay still for a moment, staring at the ceiling, trying to engage his brain. His head throbbed faintly, a pressure building behind his eyes. His throat felt dry, raw, and scratchy.
He swung his legs off the bed.
The floor felt unsteady, and the room spun. He quickly sat back on the edge of the bed.
Still tired. That was all.
He stood again, slightly steadier this time.
By mid-morning, Rebecca had seen enough.
Eugene sat exactly where she’d left him, elbows on his knees, hands loosely clasped. His focus drifted, his responses slow and hesitant when spoken to.
Rebecca: Eugene.
He looked up, taking a moment to register.
Rebecca: We’re going.
Eugene: It’s okay, I’ll be fine.
Rebecca held his gaze.
Rebecca: No, you’re not fine.
Outside, the truck was already running, engine warming.
Huxley sat at his desk as Rebecca returned briefly to report.
Huxley: Update.
Rebecca: Lucas is ventilated.
His ears twitched just a fraction downward.
Rebecca: Eugene—probable same presentation. I’m taking him now.
Chilling.
Like heat escaping from an open arctic door.
Huxley: Understood.
He paused, thinking.
Anyone else? Humans? Hundes?
Rebecca: Not that I know of. No hundes.
Huxley nodded once.
Huxley: Keep me informed.
❄️ Arctic Research Base: Outside
Outside, activity around the base continued as usual.
Sleds were stored, equipment put away, and dogs cared for.
Matthias and Markus were working together, catching up on the multitude of small maintenance yard tasks that always seemed to get put off.
Matthias: Weather’s cleared.
Markus: I agree, it’s looking good.
Markus continued inspecting the belt and track on one of the snowmobiles.
Markus: The Hux approved. We fly out later this morning—we take a look at the site, assess, and report back.
Matthias gave a short huff, already moving to prepare what they needed.
Matthias: About time.
They continued packing their gear, methodical, efficient, and precise.
Nearby, Nyra lifted her head briefly, watching them, before settling again. There was no need for her to be involved. She didn’t approve of planes—they made the rest of the dogs fart.
The sky—now a brilliant, clear blue.
Meanwhile, back inside
James sat at the same table, the same data open in front of him.
He wasn’t reading it now—he had been going over it for hours.
He was thinking.
Lucas.
—And now Eugene.
He rubbed at his throat again. Dry and scratchy.
This time, he noticed—but dismissed it just as quickly.
James: That’s two.
Elena didn’t look up.
Elena: Two what?
James: Cases.
Elena: Correlation isn’t causation.
James leaned back slightly.
James: Four humans at TA-3.
Silence.
James: No external contact—we had been out there for two weeks since the last crew change.
Elena: And?
She briefly stopped typing.
James: No one was sick when we arrived.
Elena finally stopped properly and looked at him.
Elena: It’s just the flu. Bad timing. Exposure. Stress.
James shook his head, not forcefully—just… a no.
James: Where did it come from?
More silence.
James: That sample.
Elena: You’re reaching.
I was there. I checked. He was using appropriate precautions.
You received the sample, decontaminated and stored.
You’re not sick.
That landed. A niggle of a thought—his throat.
Elena continued.
Elena: Then it’s not the sample.
James didn’t answer.
Because that left nothing else.
James looked back at the screen.
No, it wasn’t the data.
It was the absence of an explanation.
An infection in a closed system, with no source.
And yet—
He leaned back, eyes unfocused for a moment.
Then, almost absently, he reached for his phone—it was buzzing.
A photo filled the screen.
Sebastian.
James’ thumb hovered over the green button for a second longer than it needed to.
James: Hey, Sebby, how’s school been?
He opened a message and started typing an email to his wife.
Hi Katrín, something’s not right here—
He stopped.
Delete.
He started again.
We may have been exposed to something—
Another pause—more thoughts swirling in his mind.
He stared at the words.
The words stared back at him.
❄️ Norðvik Hospital
Eugene was already on oxygen.
Not as serious as Lucas—not yet.
But he was clearly heading on the same trajectory.
Rebecca stood nearby, watching the numbers change on the monitor.
Watching the same pattern.
She didn’t need anyone to explain it.
Isolated in another room—
Lucas lay still, except for the mechanical rise and fall of his chest.
Ventilated.
One glove. One tear.
If you would like to find out what happens next—continue reading the next short story here:
Screw Pile Developments 
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