Run Cold (Limited Edition)

28: drip, drip

Normally, I was a light sleeper, but after the drugs, antibiotics, and the stress of cleaning my arm, all I remembered about the previous night was worrying about bleeding on their nice white sheets. The next thing I knew, Amy was darting after a hall light and Anders made a joke about hibernating bears and waking up. The bedroom door slammed behind them and left me feeling the unfamiliar walls in search of curtains. 

I gave up fast and eased back to the sheets, arms outstretched in search of clothes. Last night, Emma had laid out clothes for me somewhere on the bed. Mine were ruined. I'd zombie-walked past them, sights set on the down comforter. I found them twisted around one pillar of the headboard.

The long-sleeved shirt held the cotton soft texture of being run through the washer a few hundred times. In the dark I felt for a frayed tag. Slipping on something with the texture of my favorite road race tee was familiar, comforting, routine. The jeans, however, were starchier than last night's potatoes. They were baggy and had an elastic waistband, but I'd take sag over rotten seal juice any day.

Outside, Emma stood in the hall with a quilted green vest draped over her arm. She hand me damp boots bubbled with Dawn. "Scrubbed best I could."

"Thanks," I said, pulling them on over my socks. The wetness soaked straight in, but I appreciated her effort to eradicate the stench.

She extended the vest next. "This should keep you warm until you reach the Engen's ranch." The vest matched horribly well with what I realized, under the flickering hall light, was a teal tie-dye shirt and sand-blasted jeans. The back was covered in flaked lettering from an iron-on emblem of the Global Seed Vault. On the front, the faded green letters 'GSV' had been embroidered on the chest pocket.

Emma watched me put zip up. "I want you to be lying," she said softly. "Can't bring myself to think of my good friend as a killer. Can't wrap my head around why."

"Wish I knew that answer," I said, flashing an uncomfortable smile. "All I know is I'm thankful and hungry. I don't mean to impose, but, breakfast?"

"In the car. Andy's got it running."

We left in the gray of night, sunlight diffused through wide clouds. I kept quiet in the trunk, stowed away under a plastic tarp and fishing gear. Hardly the glorious arrival I'd imagined. Bumps and shakes rattled my brains. A tackle box banged my elbow every other bounce. Feathered lures jingled inches from my nose.  Worse, breakfast had been a teeny, cold egg and pills, which Emma had to practically grab my jaw and force down my throat as I wanted to stay sharp for Jon.

Meanwhile, fed and swaddled, Amy snoozed in a dog crate on the back seat.

After one final hairpin turn, the car putted to a halt. Doors opened and closed. Gravel crunched toward the rear. Several minutes felt like an eternity, then Anders banged three times on the trunk, signaling a clear coast. He unlatched the lock and pushed off the equipment.

"One hour," he whispered, hoisting me from the depths. "Be at the docks in one hour. Be safe."

He'd pulled about twenty meters past the end of a long row of houses you could make a hard game of 'spot the differences' out of. Each was painted along the spectrum of spring green to buttery yellow. The homes lay stacked upon each other with steep black roofs whose corners nearly overlapped. Every yard was fenced in. The black sheep in the herd, Mr. Tveit had chosen the deep indigo of mountain shadows. Anders turned the car around as I hurried to the front door.

If I leaned off the short porch, the ocean glittered beyond the row of homes across the street. The dock was downhill from his doorstep, right past the houses, then two more lanes and across a small strip of storefronts and an empty parking lot. Behind his house and directly to the side, stood open brushland. I took a deep breath, scanned the sun-warmed field for bears, then knocked. Homes in Svalbard often kept doors unlocked in case someone needed refuge from  predatory Isbjørn, but barging in at this hour without a giant ice bear breathing down my neck seemed like the first ingredient in a recipe for disaster. Especially considering Jon hadn't returned their call. Had Kasper or the Queen's guards beat me here?