End Transmission

            by David Crane

 

There are strange things done in the midnight sun

By the men who moil for gold;

The Arctic trails have their secret tales

That would make your blood run cold;

The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee.

 

            The machinery whirred to life.  Across the room, a man yawned and sat up.  He groped around the floor for his glasses.  Finally grasping the thing in his fist, he fumbled to shove them on his face and flick on the lamp next to him.  This wasn’t really necessary.  Though it was dim, the blinking light from the computers illuminated the whole room.  The man sat upright on the couch, looking around the room.  He must have had another migraine.  He was pale and had greasy black hair that was messy from his slumber.  His grimy off-white wife-beater hung on his skinny frame like a nightgown. 

            “Stand…waiting for the…stop it…the signal…” mumbled a voice, coming from the other room.  It was Kessler, talking in his sleep again.

When Patterson got up, he stubbed his toe on the corner of the table.  Hopping on one leg, he readjusted his boxers, which had gotten twisted in the night.  Tripping over a loose pair of jeans on the floor, he made his way across the room to the wooden chair and sat at the desk.  The machinery was large, taking up almost the entire opposite wall.  Dials and dimly lit buttons pock-marked the rusty tan-green metal.  At the end of the wall, in the corner, was a console, cramped and cluttered, at which Sgt. Leyland Patterson sat, waiting.  The console consisted of a fuzzy radar screen, a dark slit with sharp teeth for paper, a bendable microphone and a large rectangular light that was now flashing the words “INCOMING TRANSMISSION”.  Patterson yawned and scratched the back of his head. 

Finally, a flash of off-white paper shot out of the slit in the machinery.  It startled him, although he should’ve been used to it by now.  He grabbed the end of the paper with his thumb and forefinger and pulled.  Five feet of the yellowish paper sprayed out of the slit.  As it did so, Patterson stood watching carefully.  Finally, with a tug, he ripped the entire package off.  He sighed and glanced at the paper.

            Loading…Loading…Loading…Transmission #127583864:  Distress signal received.  Support in six days.  Stand by for regular transmission… Loading… Loading… Fox down.  Work setters in.  Imply seclusion. Avoid penmanship, implication, commentary, witnessing.  Wimbledon flew.  Platecom willing 873 still active. Transmission ending 998-876383##### Transmission #127583864:  Fox down…

            He blinked, then sighed.  He walked across the room to the kitchenette, setting aside the jumble of paper, he turned the dial on the stove and filled the kettle at the sink.  He walked to the window and yanked open the curtain.  Bright white sunlight almost blinded him.  He felt his head throb at the temples.  Once the colors stopped flashing, he cracked open his eyelids.  The small window revealed nothing but endless white.  The blizzard hadn’t let up over the night, if you could call it night when you’re somewhere far enough North to have 24-hour daylight.  They kept the shades closed usually, so that, while they slept, they weren’t blinded by the midnight suns rays reflected off the dunes of snow outside. 

            The kettle was whistling faintly.  He continued watching the flurry until the kettle was shrieking at him to remove it from the flames.  Turning from the window, he heard stirring from the bunk in the corner of the room.

            “Turn that shit off!”  A large, muscular arm swatted at the air next to the bunk, seeking to smash an alarm clock that wasn’t there.

            Leyland paused for a moment, considering allowing the torture to continue a few more moments.  Maybe this would get the bastard up and doing something. 

“Hey Patterson!  Get yer tea already, will ya?”

            “Okay Jimmy”, Leyland replied hurriedly, meandering to the tea kettle, which by now was overflowing with boiling hot water.

            As Leyland removed the device from the flame, he heard heavy bare footsteps behind him.  He turned around, and before him stood a giant of a man.  This giant was scratching his groin and yawning unapologetically.  He stood at least 6’4” and had a gut that protruded from underneath his vomit-green t-shirt, revealing a hairy navel that peered at Leyland from it’s dense foliage cover like a toad from the bottom of a murky swamp.  He cracked a toothy grin.

            “God damnit Patterson!” Corporal James R. Kessler roared jovially, “Why ya always gotta wake me up so early!”

            Patterson smiled awkwardly, concealing his overwhelming spite for the man.

            “Sorry James, I was busy with the computer and-”

            “So what’s going on?”

            “With the…with the computer the-we got another response.” Leyland finally stated flatly.

            “Good. Good.”  Kessler nodded sagely, his eyes were dark, but the white light from the window reflected in them to create a sort of glint that turned them pale and white, as though he were possessed. 

            “Yes…” continued Leyland, unnerved by the eerie look in his eyes. “They said the same thing.  They’re co-”

            “They’re coming. Yes yes. That’s all good. We’re as good as saved, huh?”  Kessler adjusted his floppy camo hat on top of his square buzz cut and strode over to the refrigerator.

            “Well, yes. But what about Anderson and Rodriguez?”

            “Who?” Kessler was carefully removing the milk carton from behind the margarine. 

            “The–Anderson!  Anderson and Rodriguez.”

            “Mmm” Kessler was in the middle of chugging the remaining milk in the carton.  Wiping his mouth he said, “What about ‘em?”

            “Don’t you think we should be worried for them? I-They’ve been gone for five days now.  They should be back.”

            “Don’t worry Patterson! You’re always worrying!” Kessler was now rummaging through the pantry.  He reminded Patterson of a bear at a campsite, leaning into the tent it just ripped open, choosing which human to munch on.  Suddenly, with a grunt, he straightened up and turned to face Patterson, his face no longer good-natured. 

            “Where’re the corn nuts?”

            Leyland, whose mind was still pondering Anderson and Rodriguez, was startled.

            “I-what?”

            “Don’t bullshit me Patterson. Where’re the fucking corn nuts?!”

            Kessler’s eyes were wide and furious.  Patterson couldn’t tell if he was serious or not.  Kessler’s file had shown records of aggressive behavior and a short temper. For all he knew, that was the reason the angry corporal was stationed here in the first place.

            “I…don’t know. Sorry.”

            Before he knew it, Patterson was pinned to the side of the machinery, his feet were dangling a foot off the ground and Kessler’s fists were balled up, holding him there.  Patterson’s temples throbbed violently.

            “DON’T FUCKING LIE TO ME PATTERSON!”

            “I-I’m not lying.” Leyland gasped.  Kessler’s face was purple.  Patterson couldn’t tell if it was natural or if he was starting to see colors, the next phase of his migraines.

            “This fucking little rat!  Always fuckin’ lurking around stealing my FUCKING CORN NUTS!…ANSWER ME, GOD DAMNIT!!”  Kessler shook Patterson like a rag doll, “WHERE ARE THE GODDAMN CORN NUTS!!”

            Panicking, Patterson began to feel the migraine coming on full now.  The pain in his temple’s intensified and he felt his eyeballs bug out.  It was only a matter of seconds, now.  He could feel it coming on, the extreme pain. 

            “Don’t make me ask you again Patterson.” But he was already limp in his fists.

            Patterson’s eyes cracked open.  The pulsing pain that enabled him to check his pulse from his eyeballs was forcing his eyes to remain shut for the most part.  As his eyes slowly readjusted to the light and he slowly readjusted to the pain, he realized he was lying in his bed. 

That was how it went usually.  As soon as the attack began, he couldn’t do anything to stop it.  First, colorful lights flashed across his vision.  Then, a dull pain behind his eyes usually.  Sometimes it would go straight to the excruciating pain lasting about 12 seconds.  In any case, he would always end up in the same place: in bed or on the floor where he had blacked out, unable to determine how much time had passed and plagued by an unnerving discomfort behind the eyes and a residual feeling of dreaming and waking at the same time. 

            “…on the way…blizzard…Authorized supplies …going to get you…” It was Kessler in his sleep again.  Patterson laughed.  Kessler reminded him of the transmissions.

The shades were closed.  Sitting up, Leyland banged his head on Kessler’s bunk, which was now sagging under the occupant’s weight.  He swore under his breath.  He always forgot about the damn bed.  The throbbing persisted so Patterson trudged to the couch and threw himself down, exhausted from the effort.  Kessler woke five minutes later and followed him in settling into the armchair opposite the couch.  He seemed nervous.

            “How ya doin’ buddy?”

            “Fine” This was a lie.

            “Rough night, eh?”

            “Yes.” Patterson was too exhausted to keep up his usual stuttering and fumbling for words.  The chair creaked as Kessler maneuvered his massive gut like one of those wrestlers they’ve got in Japan.

            “Hey Patterson,” Patterson’s head tilted slightly. “Just what did you do back home?”

            Patterson sighed, “I was a software engineer.  I did a bunch of work for the government.”

            “The government…”

            “CIA”

            “Huh…”

            For a long time they just sat there silently observing one another.  In this quiet, Patterson noticed how child-like Kessler was.  Not in build, obviously, but in demeanor.  Something about his face reminded Patterson of a toddler.  He’s just a big fat fucking man-baby, Patterson thought to himself.  He shut his eyes and massaged his temples.

            When his eyes opened again, Kessler had moved across the room to the window.  The movement was like a blip in a movie reel.  Patterson had barely closed his eyes for more than two seconds and Kessler had moved clear across the room and was grasping the shade with one of his fat, hairy fists.  Before Patterson could say anything, the shade gave a “SHKKKKKKKKK” and shot to the ceiling.   Bright light exploded into the room, forcing Patterson to shut his eyes once more.

            “You know, Patterson.”  He heard Kessler say from the window.  Would he move again?  “I sometimes wonder what we’re doing here.  I mean to say…What are we doing?”

            Patterson finally managed to crack his eyes a little and get his bearings.  The light had been a bucket of icy water, drenching his entire body and making him alert and fearful.  Breathing heavily, he looked around.   All of the shades had been drawn and every dark corner of the room was gone.  The levees had broken, and the shack was submerged in a sea of cold white arctic brightness.  Kessler was at the window, he hadn’t moved.  A cigarette hung loosely from his stubble-covered mouth.  He seemed to be waiting for a response.

            “What are we doing here Patterson?”

            “I…well, we get the transmissions.  Then we-I change the code. And we send the whole thing back out again. Different wavelength.”

            “What does that do?”

            “I don’t-what?”

            “What does that accomplish?”

            “Well, I…suppose we’re passing some message along to another outpost…?

            “Link in a chain?

            “Erm-yeah.”

            Kessler turned his gaze towards Patterson.  It was as if a completely different man was standing at the cold window with a camel in his mouth staring down at him.  Kessler wasn’t boisterous, ruddy-faced or loud.  In the light his barroom demeanor, that Homer Simpson obnoxiousness, was awash with a piercing stare and hard features.  His jaw was clenched and his eyes were wide.  His eyes.  His eyes were blank, all color washed out by the saturation of light coming from the snow outside.

            “Do you ever think there might be something else to it?”

            “What do you mean?”

            “I mean, they don’t tell us anything. I suppose they wouldn’t, but that’s besides the-or is it? It could be the main thing…”

            Patterson blinked.

            “What?”

            Kessler snapped out of his musings, straightened his back, and turned slowly to face Patterson.  In a voice so low, Patterson had to lean in, in spite of himself, he said, “I have a theory, Patterson.” 

            Normally, the thought of Kessler having theories about anything but pork chops and beer would have made Patterson laugh out loud.  But not this time.  There was something about Kessler’s face, his eyes.

            “Maybe there are no operations.” Kessler went on, “Maybe we’re up here.  Sending these…transmissions out to some other jackass stuck in the same situation.  He’s doing the same thing as us, the code.  Except when he changes it, the code, he changes the message.  And then it comes right back to us.  Different message.  We do the same thing.  A chain without an end.”

            “Kessler, that’s impossible.  The codes don’t change the message enough.  We’d notice.”

            “Then maybe there are more outposts!”  Kessler’s voice grew more urgent.  “Hundreds-Thousands!  We’re all up here.  Remnants of some mission-we don’t even know what it is-and we keep passing this message along, like little kids playing telephone! They’ve probably forgot that we’re even up here…” His pitch-white pupils flashed. He said again, “Link in a chain, Patterson, link in a chain…” As if repeating this idea would convince Patterson that the idea wasn’t completely ludicrous.  How did he come up with this, Patterson thought.

            Kessler sat down across from Patterson again. They stared at one another for what seemed like hours.  Then, just like that, a smile flashed across that frightening face.  It was like the real Kessler had regained control of his faculties, and whatever stranger had inhabited his voice and body had retreated back to his home in the dark corners of his mind.

            “Of course this is all some bullshit, right Patterson?” He said brightly, “We’ve been gettin’ those messages from the big boys in…wherever, and they keep telling us help’s on the way, just sit tight…yeah?” He laughed.  Patterson managed to let out a half sigh that may have passed as a laugh, but felt a lot more like a slug in the gut.  Before he could say anything, the computer started blinking.  “INCOMING TRANSMISSION” began to flash on the screen. 

            Loading……Loading…..Loading……Transmission #12758384464: Help is on the way.  Delay due to blizzard.  Authorized to use emergency supplies.  Sit tight. We’re going to get you.

            Patterson felt the floor drop for beneath his feet.  His mind raced through the last week, to what he had just heard, to Kessler’s sleep-talking.  Dread swallowed every part of his body.

            “What’s it say?”

            Kessler was looking at the ground.  He was just staring at a spot on the floor. His hands limp in his lap.  When he turned his head, his eyes were white.

            “What’s it say?” He repeated.

            Patterson’s chair squealed when he pushed himself aside to allow Kessler to look over his shoulder. 

            “That’s interesting…” he judged.

            Patterson struggled to conceal his fear.  His heart was pounding in his throat.  So, Kessler had been looping the signal.  How long had he been able to do that? Could all the transmissions have be—

            “Get your parka on.”  Kessler was already suiting up next to the door.

            “What? Why?” Patterson couldn’t stop the panic creeping into his voice.

            “We’re going to the shack.”

            Patterson suddenly got it.  Supplies.  The shack had all of their emergency supplies.  Going to the shack required going outside and would mean full blizzard gear to only go about 100 yards.  They would be out there.  In the freezing cold.  Nowhere to run.

            “Move it, Patterson.” Kessler said with a voice as icy as their surroundings. 

            Patterson kept his distance from Kessler while he walked to the entryway where all of the coats and special boots were kept.  As he put on his parka he became aware that Kessler was watching him.  He tensed up, but decided not to say anything. 

            What was he going to do?  He needed some kind of plan.  It was possible that no help was coming at all.  Kessler could have been planting the transmissions all along.  But maybe, and the thought lifted Patterson’s hopes, maybe Anderson and Rodriguez will come back soon, bringing help, and a court marshal.  So all Patterson needed to do was survive until they returned. 

            He was fully suited up now.  It had taken a long time, changing from his t-shirt and jeans into a full standard-issue sub-zero resistant uniform.  The gear made him look a lot bigger than he really was.  It made Kessler look gargantuan.

            “Okay.”  Said Patterson nervously.

            “Let’s go”

            They opened the first door, the one leading to the anteroom that was positioned above a blasting heater so as to transition into the extreme cold.  Patterson was at the front door first, Kessler right behind him.  They both looked out the window for a moment and saw the shack.  They’re destination.  It seemed like miles in the snow.  Thank god the sky was clear.

            “You know, Patterson, we could wait on this.” Kessler said, “we don’t need to start using the emergency supplies now.”

            Patterson looked at Kessler, but avoided looking at those aggressively pale eyes.

            “No…let’s do it now.”

            Kessler said nothing and reached across Patterson to unlock the door.  With a grunt he shoved against the door, fighting against the snow and ice, and the door swung open.  The cold hit them like a tidal wave.  Patterson took a step back before proceeding out the door. 

            The walk was long and exhausting.  The recent snowfall had created at least ten inches of powder that sunk their feet into the ground with every step.  The arctic wind whipped at Patterson’s clean-shaven face.  He glanced at Kessler’s bulking figure ahead.  He could have been anyone he was so bundled up.  They continued trudging to the shack. 

They’d reached the door and were using a crowbar to pry open the frozen hinges.  It took a while, but after a few minutes of thrusting and straining, the door yielded. 

The shack certainly had no furnace.  They may as well have been outside.  It was like a deep-freeze mini-version of Safeway.  Shelves of jet-black cans and plastic bags lined the walls of the long, thin room. 

“What the fuck is that smell?” Kessler said, putting his meaty palm over his nose and mouth.  Something must have gone bad, because Patterson could smell it too.

They each began inspecting the wares.  Canned foods, freeze dried fruits and veggies, cereals, it was all here in these neat plastic bags.  Patterson had passed the food section of the aisle and was passing other supplies.  First aid kits, flare guns, life vests (life vests? He thought), axes, gasoline, toilet paper, soap and, Patterson stopped, hunting rifles.  They were disassembled and stored in large black storage cases on the bottom shelf, but Patterson knew what they were.  There were two of them, along with enough ammunition to bring down a polar bear.  Next to the first case sat a second, longer and thinner one.  Patterson glanced at Kessler still rummaging through the food.  He wouldn’t notice.  Patterson undid the latches and swung the case open.  Inside were four, standard-issue M9 handguns in a row, packed into the gray foam like ceramics.  A fifth was missing. 

“HEY!” Patterson jolted upright, “Check it out!  Corn nuts!”

They had piled up all they had decided to bring back to the station.  Patterson was performing one last sweep of the place to make sure they hadn’t missed anything.  As he passed the first aid again his footfall sounded hollow.  Patterson stopped.  Looking down he saw a small ring attached to the ground.  Then he realized what he was standing on and got off.  With another quick glance at Kessler, who was already diving into the corn nuts furtively, Patterson gripped the ring and lifted the trap door.

The stench of decay and rotting vegetables washed over Patterson and he took a step back.  There was a staircase leading down and a light switch on the side.  The room below was pitch black.  Patterson bent over, flipped the switch, and somewhere below, a fluorescent bulb flickered on.

Lying at the bottom of the stairs, their necks snapped from the fall, lay the bodies of Staff Sergeant John Anderson and Private First Class Julian Rodriguez.  Their bodies were stiff from the temperature or rigor mortis, and covered with frozen blood.  Even from his vantage point, Patterson could see the spots where an ax had been taken to their remains.  In Anderson’s hand was clutched the missing M9.

“Hey Patterson, what’s taking so long?” Kessler was licking his fingers, “You’re like a fuckin’…” but his voice trailed when he saw Patterson standing over the open trap door.  “What are you looking at?” Patterson turned slowly, and lifted his fearful eyes to Kessler’s angry.

 

Patterson rolled over and looked at the clock.  9:45. AM or PM, not that it mattered here.  He lay in bed listening to the upper bunk’s snores and groans.  Kessler was talking in his sleep again.

“On our way…we’re coming…soon, soon…we’re coming to get you soon…”

Patterson got up, avoiding the bottom of Kessler’s bunk.  He meandered to the bathroom and splashed water on his face, massaging life back into his eyes and temples.  While he brushed his teeth, he studied himself in the mirror.  He’d lost some weight while here, not that there was much to lose in the first place.  His cheekbones were more defined and his greasy black hair was long and unkempt.  His eyes were white. 

The screen was blinking that familiar, “INCOMING TRANSMISSION” when Patterson came back to the main room.  He gave a sigh and sank into the chair and waited.  It was comforting, in a way.  Like meditating.  Doing one meaningless action again, and again, and again, it didn’t require effort, at least for him. And, when he really thought about it, he admitted it relaxed him.  Suddenly, the paper began spilling out of the slit in the machinery.

“Loading…Loading…Loading…Transmission #1275845386:  On our way. We’re coming soon. We’re coming to get you, soon……………. Transmission ending 998-876383##### Transmission #1275845386:  On our way….”

Patterson had heard this before, that feeling of déjà vu that he usually attributed to having done this so many times.  But this time was different.  He knew where the déjà vu was coming from.

There are strange things done in the midnight sun, by the men who moil for gold…

Kessler wasn’t in his bed.  He hadn’t been when Patterson awoke.  He pulled the blinds to look out the window.  The room was flooded with pale light that made his temples flare, but Patterson didn’t care.  The shack couldn’t be seen.  All Patterson could see was white, white, white. 

            The arctic trails have their secret tales that will make your blood run cold…

            The computer was flashing again.  Paper began spilling out of the machine like vomit.  Patterson watched as it overran the desk.  Finally, he walked over, took the first transmission, the one from before, and began copying it down, translating it.  The light blinked on and on.  “INCOMING TRANSMISSION…INCOMING TRANSMISSION… INCOMING TRANSMISSION… INCOMING TRANSMISSION…” The pile of paper was huge, now, but Patterson didn’t care.  He had no one to bother him, and nothing but time.

            The northern lights have seen queer sights, but the queerest they ever did see, was that night on the marge, of Lake Lebarge I cremated Sam McGee.