Protocol 7

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“That’s insane.”

The violent blizzard was menacing-the most powerful storm Robert Donnelley had experienced in two years stationed in Antarctica. He could hear it screaming outside Station 3-27 as the murderous wind scraped a swarm of ice particles from the surface of the Ross Ice Shelf; less than twenty-two seconds later, the same ice particles pounded the walls of the modular scientific outpost, half-buried in the desolate terrain. According to Donnelley’s readouts, the wind speed exceeded 122 miles per hour.

Inside the tiny domed facility, Donnelley’s hand shook as his fingers tightened on the syringe he was about to plunge into his thigh. Ignore the shaking, he ordered himself as he took a breath and let the needle penetrate his flesh. He tried instead to focus on the label that read “INSULIN…EXP 11/2038.” He knew that this was the last of the med packs, and he knew it didn’t matter anymore. He would have all the insulin he needed soon enough. A two-year supply, he thought. All gone now.

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