"Winter Silence":
I had been at the Amundsen-Scott South Pole Station for months when things started to go wrong. My job involved monitoring telescopes, collecting data on stars that no one else could see from anywhere but here. The team was small that winter, just fifty of us locked in by the cold, with no planes coming or going until spring. Rodney was one of the astrophysicists, a guy from Australia with a quick laugh and a habit of sharing his home-brewed beer after shifts. He handled the big scopes, always tinkering with equipment in the dark sector.
One evening, as I finished logging readings in the main lab, Rodney walked in looking off. His face was pale under the fluorescent lights, and he rubbed his eyes like something burned them. "Hey, mate," he said, his voice rough. "You got any aspirin? Feels like my head's splitting."
I handed him a bottle from the drawer. "Rough day? Those scopes giving you trouble again?"
He swallowed a couple pills dry. "Nah, just tired. Been staring at screens too long. Vision's blurry, and my chest feels tight. Probably nothing." He forced a grin and headed back to his quarters. I watched him go, figuring it was the usual cabin fever. We all got it down here—aches from the dry air, moods swinging from the endless routine.
The next morning, during breakfast in the galley, Rodney didn't show. I grabbed a tray and went to check on him. His room was dim, curtains drawn. He sat on his bunk, hunched over, breathing hard. "Can't catch my breath," he muttered. "And my stomach—it's killing me."
I helped him up. "Let's get you to Doc Thompson. No messing around."
We walked slow to the medical bay. Rodney leaned on me, his steps unsteady. Thompson, our station doctor, was there sorting supplies. He was a quiet man, ex-military, always calm. "What's going on?" he asked, motioning Rodney to sit.
Rodney explained his symptoms—the blurred vision, the pain in his joints now too, like fire in his bones. Thompson checked his vitals, shone a light in his eyes. "Could be altitude sickness catching up, or maybe an infection. I'll run some tests."
I waited outside while Thompson examined him. When Rodney came out, he looked no better. "Gave me some meds," he said. "Said to rest. But I feel worse."
"Take it easy then. I'll cover your shift if needed."
He nodded, but his eyes darted around, uneasy. "Thanks. Just... keep an eye out, yeah? This place gets to people sometimes."
I didn't think much of it then. But that afternoon, during a team meeting in the lounge, whispers started. Karen, our biologist, pulled me aside. She was sharp-eyed, always noticing details. "Rodney looked bad this morning. You think it's something in the air? We had that CO leak last month."
"Nah, Doc's on it," I replied. But doubt crept in. The station was old, pipes and vents everywhere. What if something toxic had seeped in?
By evening, Rodney was back in medical, worse. I stopped by after dinner. He lay on the exam table, sweating, his face twisted in pain. "It's my eyes," he gasped. "Can't stand the light. And I'm throwing up blood now."
Thompson was there, injecting something into his arm. "This should calm you down," the doc said. "It's an antipsychotic—might help with the agitation."
Rodney grabbed my sleeve. "Don't leave me here alone. Something's wrong. I didn't drink anything weird, but... feels like poison."
His words hit hard. Poison? In this frozen nowhere? I stayed, holding his hand as he rambled. "Remember that argument with Paul last week? Over the equipment budget. He was mad, said I'd regret it."
Paul was our engineer, a burly guy with a short temper. They'd clashed, sure, but nothing serious. Or was it?
Thompson stepped out to grab more supplies. Rodney's breathing grew ragged. "Promise me," he whispered. "If I don't make it, check my stuff. My flask—I always use it for water. Someone might have..."
He trailed off as Thompson returned. I left feeling unsettled, the hallway lights buzzing too loud in the quiet base.
That night, sleep wouldn't come. I lay in my bunk, staring at the ceiling, replaying Rodney's words. The station creaked around me, metal contracting in the extreme temperatures outside. What if someone had tampered with his things? We all shared spaces—the galley, the labs. Easy to slip something in.
Next morning, alarms blared. I rushed to medical. A crowd gathered: Karen, Paul, a few others. Thompson knelt over Rodney, doing CPR. "He's in cardiac arrest," the doc shouted. "Get the defibrillator!"
We worked for what felt like hours—shocks, compressions. Rodney's body jerked, but no response. Finally, Thompson stopped, wiped his brow. "Time of death: 6:45 p.m. yesterday? No, wait—it's past midnight now. He's gone."
Gasps rippled through the group. Karen covered her mouth. "What happened? He was fine two days ago."
Thompson shook his head. "Natural causes, probably. Heart gave out."
But Rodney's last words echoed in my mind. I pulled Thompson aside later. "He mentioned poison. Said to check his flask."
The doc's eyes narrowed. "Delirium from the illness. But I'll note it."
I couldn't let it go. That afternoon, I slipped into Rodney's room while others ate. His flask sat on the desk, half-full. I sniffed it—odorless. But methanol, I recalled from safety training, was hard to detect. It was everywhere in the labs, for cleaning gear.
Paul walked in unexpected. "What are you doing here?" he asked, voice low.
"Just... collecting his notes for the report." My hands shook as I pocketed the flask.
He stared. "Rodney was a good guy. Shame." But his tone felt flat, eyes avoiding mine.
Suspicion grew. In the days after, the base felt different. People avoided each other in the halls. At dinner, Karen whispered to me, "Thompson didn't use the blood analyzer on Rodney. I heard him say the battery was dead. But I saw him charge it last week."
"Why wouldn't he?" I asked.
She shrugged. "Maybe he missed something. Or... didn't want to find it."
I tested the flask myself in the lab, late at night. No fancy equipment, just basic chem strips. The reading showed traces of something off—not water. My pulse raced. If it was methanol, how did it get there?
I confronted Paul in the workshop. "Rodney thought someone messed with his stuff. You two fought recently."
Paul set down his tools, face reddening. "You accusing me? He was reckless with gear, that's all. If he drank the wrong thing, that's on him."
"But he didn't drink alcohol like that. He brewed beer, sure, but methanol?"
Paul leaned close. "Watch yourself. We're stuck here months more. Accidents happen."
His words lingered, a threat hanging in the air. I started locking my door, checking my food. Nights blurred into days under the artificial lights. Whispers spread—rumors of past grudges, hidden resentments bubbling up in isolation.
One evening, in the lounge, a group gathered: me, Karen, Thompson, and a few techs. Tension thickened as we discussed Rodney. "We need to radio Christchurch," I said. "Report this properly."
Thompson sighed. "Lines are spotty. And NSF says wait for evac. No point stirring panic."
Karen spoke up. "But if it's poison, one of us did it. We can't just sit here."
Eyes shifted, no one meeting gazes. Paul wasn't there, but his absence felt ominous.
Later, alone in my quarters, I heard footsteps outside my door—slow, deliberate. They paused, then moved on. I gripped my pillow, mind racing. Who? Why Rodney?
Weeks dragged. We buried him in a snow trench, waiting for the body to fly out. Investigations loomed, but down here, we were our own law. I watched everyone: Thompson's calm demeanor, now suspicious; Karen's questions, maybe covering her tracks; Paulavoiding me altogether.
One night, I found a note under my door: "Stop digging. Or you're next."
Fear gripped me constant. Every sip of water, every bite, I wondered. The base, once a haven of science, became a trap. Trapped with a killer, or killers, among friends turned strangers.
When planes finally came in October, they took Rodney's body. Autopsy confirmed methanol poisoning. But how? Accident? Suicide? Murder? Questions lingered, answers none.
I left that season, but the fear followed. In quiet moments, I wonder who walked those halls with poison in hand. And if they watch me still.
"The Last Page":
I had been at Bellingshausen Station for six months when things started to change between Sergey and Oleg. My name is Anna, and I work as a biologist here, studying ice core samples to understand past climates. The station sits on King George Island, far from everything, with just a small group of us—scientists and support staff—keeping the place running. We all knew each other well by then, sharing meals, chores, and the endless routine of data collection. Sergey was the engineer, always fixing equipment with his steady hands, and Oleg handled welding and repairs, quick with tools but even quicker with his words.
At first, the two men got along fine. Sergey liked to read in his bunk after shifts, burying himself in old novels from the station's library. He would pick classics, like Dostoevsky or Tolstoy, savoring each page slowly. Oleg, on the other hand, devoured books faster than anyone. He finished one every few days and loved talking about them. "Anna," he would say to me over coffee in the canteen, "have you read that one about the brothers? The ending will surprise you." I nodded politely, but I noticed Sergey often stayed quiet during those chats, his eyes fixed on his mug.
One evening, after a long day calibrating sensors, we all gathered for dinner. The canteen smelled of boiled potatoes and canned stew, the same meal we rotated through. Sergey sat across from me, flipping through a worn copy of a mystery novel. Oleg plopped down next to him, grinning. "Hey, Sergey, I saw you with that book. Good choice. But wait until you get to the part where the detective finds out the killer is his own—"
"Stop," Sergey interrupted, his voice low but firm. He closed the book with a snap. "I haven't finished it yet. Don't ruin it."
Oleg laughed it off. "Come on, it's just a story. Besides, the twist is brilliant. You'll see why when—"
"I said stop." Sergey's face tightened, his knuckles white around the book's spine. The rest of us—me, the station doctor Elena, and the cook Viktor—exchanged glances. It wasn't like Sergey to snap. He usually kept to himself, polite and methodical.
Oleg shrugged. "Fine, fine. Keep your secrets." But he winked at me across the table, as if it was all in fun.
That was the first crack I noticed. Over the next weeks, it got worse. The station's isolation pressed in on us, with no flights out until the supply plane came in a month. We relied on radio for contact with the outside world, but signals were spotty. Books became our escape, the library our only library. Sergey borrowed more volumes, stacking them by his bed. Oleg kept speeding through them, and he couldn't resist dropping hints.
One afternoon, I found Sergey alone in the lab, staring at a blank screen. "Everything okay?" I asked, setting down my samples.
He rubbed his eyes. "Oleg again. He told me the end of another one last night. Why does he do that? It's like he enjoys taking the surprise away."
I tried to lighten it. "Maybe he's just excited. Talk to him about it."
Sergey shook his head. "I've tried. He laughs it off. But those stories... they're all I have here to unwind. Without the endings being mine to discover, what's left?"
I didn't know what to say. Later that day, I pulled Oleg aside in the hallway. "Ease up on Sergey with the book talk. It's bothering him."
Oleg rolled his eyes. "He's too sensitive. It's harmless. Besides, Anna, you should read faster if you want to join the discussions."
His casual tone made me uneasy, but I let it go. We all had our ways of coping with the confinement.
As days passed, Sergey's mood darkened. He started eating alone, skipping group meals. I heard him muttering to himself in the corridors, pacing late into the night. The station's lights hummed constantly, and the sound of his footsteps echoed through the metal walls. One time, I woke up to it—step, step, pause—right outside my door. I lay there, listening, wondering if he was okay.
Elena, the doctor, noticed too. During a routine check-up, she confided in me. "Sergey's blood pressure is up. He says he's not sleeping well. I asked if something's wrong, and he mentioned arguments with Oleg."
"Over books?" I asked.
She nodded. "Seems trivial, but in a place like this, small things build up. Isolation can twist the mind."
That night, over cards in the common room, tension boiled over. Viktor dealt the hands, and we played quietly at first. Oleg won a round and slapped his cards down. "Like that book Sergey lent me—the hero always wins in the end, right? Or does he?"
Sergey stood up suddenly, his chair scraping back. "Enough, Oleg. You do this on purpose."
Oleg leaned back, smirking. "What? It's a joke. Sit down."
"No. You spoil everything. Every single one. Why? To make me miserable?"
The room went still. Viktor cleared his throat. "Guys, let's calm down."
But Sergey pointed at Oleg. "You think it's funny? In this frozen hole, those books are my only break from the boredom. And you take that away, piece by piece."
Oleg's smile faded. "You're overreacting. It's just words."
Sergey stormed out, slamming the door. Elena looked at me. "We need to watch this. It could get bad."
I agreed, but what could we do? The next supply flight was weeks away, and the radio couldn't summon help overnight.
A few days later, I caught Sergey in the library, rearranging shelves. His eyes were red-rimmed. "Anna, stay away from Oleg. He's not right."
"What do you mean?" I asked, my voice steady.
"He watches me. Whispers spoilers when he thinks I'm not listening. Last night, he slipped a note under my door with the end of my current read."
I doubted it, but Sergey's paranoia scared me. "Show me the note."
He pulled a crumpled paper from his pocket. Scrawled in pencil: "The butler did it. Sweet dreams."
Oleg's handwriting. My skin prickled. "This isn't funny anymore."
That evening, I confronted Oleg in the workshop. He was welding a pipe, sparks flying. "Why the note? You're pushing him too far."
He shut off the torch and lifted his mask. "To mess with him. He takes himself too seriously. Lighten up, Anna."
"It's not a game. Stop before something happens."
He chuckled. "What, you think he'll snap? Over books?"
His dismissiveness chilled me. That night, I couldn't sleep, imagining worst-case scenarios in our sealed world.
The following week, Sergey isolated himself more. He skipped shifts, claiming illness. Elena checked on him, but he waved her off. "Just tired," he said.
Then came the alcohol. We had a small stash for special occasions, but someone started dipping into it. Bottles went missing. Viktor accused Oleg, who denied it. "Maybe Sergey's drowning his sorrows."
One morning, I found an empty vodka bottle in the trash, fingerprints smudged. Suspicion grew.
The breaking point hit on a Tuesday. We were in the canteen for lunch—stew again. Sergey entered late, his face pale. He sat far from Oleg, but Oleg called out. "Hey, finished that thriller yet? The killer's the one you least expect—the—"
Sergey lunged across the table, grabbing Oleg by the collar. "Shut your mouth!"
Viktor pulled them apart. "Enough! Both of you!"
Sergey backed off, breathing hard. "One more word, and I swear..."
Elena stepped in. "Sergey, come with me. Let's talk."
He followed her out, but his glare at Oleg lingered.
That afternoon, the radio crackled with static—no clear signal. We were truly cut off.
By evening, things seemed calmer. We ate quietly. Sergey apologized. "Sorry for earlier. Won't happen again."
Oleg nodded. "Water under the bridge."
But as we cleared plates, Oleg leaned toward Sergey. "Just one thing—that book? The hero dies alone."
Sergey's eyes widened. He grabbed a kitchen knife from the counter, the one we used for cutting bread. "You... you won't stop."
Before anyone could react, he plunged it into Oleg's chest. Blood spread across Oleg's shirt. He gasped, clutching the wound. "What... Sergey..."
I screamed, backing away. Viktor tackled Sergey, pinning him down. Elena rushed to Oleg, pressing a cloth to the stab. "Hold on! We need to stabilize him!"
Sergey didn't resist, his face blank. "He took everything from me. Every ending."
We radioed for help, but the signal was weak. It took hours to connect. Medevac came two days later, airlifting Oleg to Chile. He survived, barely.
Sergey was confined until authorities arrived. He sat in his room, staring at unfinished books.
Even now, back home, I can't pick up a novel without checking who's around. In that station, small irritations became deadly. And with no way out, anyone could break.
"Outpost Unit 3":
I arrived at the remote station feeling full of purpose. I had trained for months for this mission. Inside the little base, I found Jenna and Lucas already busy. We were a team of three: a geologist, an engineer, and me, the communications specialist. Everything seemed normal as we greeted each other and brewed coffee.
Jenna smiled when I stepped into the kitchen. Lucas carried a tray of steaming mugs. He set one beside me and said, “Morning scans are clear, no issues reported.” I took a sip and replied, “That’s good. Any word from Cape Town?” He shook his head. “Nothing, just radio silence since the supply ship left. Should be normal though.” Jenna chimed in, “We’ll manage. Just the three of us.” We joked about the endless sunlight and how silly it would be to get homesick at the South Pole. It felt comforting to have a routine in this isolated place.
Lucas asked, “Did anyone notice that the power gauge dipped last night?” I frowned. Jenna pulled up a screen. “Yes, I saw it. The geothermal sensor reading dropped suddenly.” Lucas leaned in, tapping his clipboard. “Interference or power glitch,” he said. “No big deal, we have backup.” Jenna sighed and nodded. “Okay,” she said. “This station is built for survival. Trust the design.” I forced a smile and agreed, but a small worry knotted in my gut.
We finished our midday checks and I prepared to test the radio dish outside. Lucas locked the hatch behind us and we stepped into a bright glare. I adjusted the antenna, squinting at the whiteness. Behind me, Lucas and Jenna bundled up and headed back to the lab. I muttered to myself, “I hope I never get bored of this view.” Jenna heard and laughed, saying, “Focus, we’re relying on you to keep us connected.” I smiled. “Everything will be fine,” I assured her.
Back inside, Jenna worked on the sensor logs while Lucas typed notes into his clipboard. “No significant problems,” he said, reading his notes. “Trust me, this station is built for survival. We’re prepared for things like this.” Jenna nodded slowly but still looked uncertain. I patted Lucas on the shoulder. “He’s right,” I said. “This place was designed for long winters.” We tried to move on, but the silence felt heavier than before.
Night came and the station grew quiet. I couldn’t sleep. Around midnight I heard Jenna’s footsteps echoing down the hall. Curious, I got up and followed. I found her fiddling with her handheld radio near the comms desk, pressing buttons into the static. She spoke softly, “Lucas, can you hear me?” The reply crackled: “Jenna, I’m here. What’s wrong?” Jenna whispered, “You told me to leave if something happened. I’m scared.” Suddenly the line went dead. Jenna’s eyes met mine from behind the crate. She mouthed, “He said I should leave.” A chill ran through me. I placed a hand on Jenna’s shoulder. “It’s okay,” I said quietly. “We’ll sort this out.”
Silence followed in the corridor. I stepped out. Jenna looked at me. “He said I had to get out of here. If I don't, something bad will happen,” she mouthed urgently. My throat tightened. We stood in the dim hallway together for a moment. Finally I led her back to our bunks, but neither of us rested that night.
The next morning, Lucas was missing. We searched the hall, the lab, and even outside. I called out, “Lucas!” in empty rooms. Jenna trembled at every echo. In the kitchen, I discovered a smear of blood on the floor leading out the side hatch. My breath caught. “Lucas?” I whispered. Jenna crouched by the blood. “That’s real blood,” she said, panic in her voice. I grabbed the radio handset and tried a channel. Only silence answered. My hands shook. “He’s hurt,” I said. Jenna nodded, her face pale. “Where is he?” she asked. I didn’t know.
By noon we argued. I said, “He couldn't have just disappeared. We have emergency supplies if needed.” Jenna clenched her fist. “We should have called for help!” I shook my head. “There's no way until we fix the radio.” She bit her lip and nodded. “You’re right. I just... I can’t believe this is happening.” I put my hand on her shoulder. “We’ll figure this out together,” I said firmly.
I grabbed a heavy wrench from the workshop. “This will do, I guess,” I murmured. Jenna took a spare recorder. Suddenly the radio hissed, playing Lucas’s voice: “Stay back or I shoot.” My heart froze. Jenna gasped, “He said that? Are you sure?” I nodded slowly. We both backed into the hallway, wrench and recorder raised. Jenna whispered, “He’s not himself.” The anger in his voice was not my friend’s.
Footsteps pounded outside the lab. Jenna gripped my arm. Lucas burst in, knife in hand, his clothes torn and eyes wild. He yelled, “I saw you. I know you’re lying to me!” He lunged. I swung the wrench, hitting his arm. He yelped and stumbled. Jenna threw a chair into his path. We scrambled toward the communications room. He chased us, screaming incoherently. I locked the heavy door behind us. The crash of his blows echoed through the metal as he tried to break in.
Safely locked in, we both trembled. Jenna whispered, “He shot at me.” I felt sick hearing it. “It’s okay now. He’s behind that door,” I said quietly. Jenna sank to the floor, shaking. “What do we do now?” she murmured. I backed against the wall. “We stay calm. No one can reach us until we call for help. We just wait and hope for dawn.” Jenna nodded slowly. We sat in silence, listening for any sound outside.
We huddled together through the night, using the radio only to listen. Each time footsteps creaked outside the door, we held our breath. I wanted to sleep, but every small noise startled me. Jenna murmured prayers. The hours dragged. Finally, in the early morning, I heard nothing. The station was eerily silent except for the low hum of the generator.
At dawn, we crept out. The station corridors were empty and silent. I raced to the radio and activated the emergency distress signal. My voice cracked as I announced, “This is Outpost Unit 3. We have an intruder. We need immediate help.” Static answered. I repeated myself into the mic. Jenna shook her head. “No one can hear us yet,” I said.
We gathered our gear and left the station through the side hatch. The snow crunched under our boots. Jenna looked at me, eyes wide. I answered her unspoken question, voice trembling: “He’s gone. We are safe now.”
We set off across the ice sheet, pulling a sled with our supplies. The sun was rising, but it gave little warmth. I felt hollow as we walked. Behind us, the station stood small and quiet. A few times I shouted into the white emptiness, “Hello? Hello?” Only the wind answered. Jenna kept moving forward, determined. Hours later, we reached the emergency shelter. Inside was another radio. I set it up and spoke: “Outpost Unit 3 survived. Requesting immediate evacuation.” The radio crackled to life. Relief washed over me.
Eventually a rescue helicopter arrived on the horizon. As we climbed aboard, I didn’t look back, but I felt the weight of what happened still lingering. Jenna and I said little. We would heal physically, but neither of us would ever feel completely safe in the stillness of the dark again. In the quiet of a hospital bed, I replay Lucas’s voice in my head. His face, once friendly, haunted me. Even now, across the vast silence of the ice, I can’t shake the memory that somewhere out there, in the white cold, danger still lurks.