Willard glanced at the small magma-heater hovering beside his feet. The blanket covering his right leg had slipped off, but he couldn’t reach it since both his hands were in casts. In fact, his entire torso and upper body were fixed into one, big, ugly white shell. So he had told the heater earlier to move to the end of the bed. But now it was getting too close to his leg, and the hotness was getting uncomfortable.

The blue hospital walls formed an ugly contrast with the glowing orange of the heater, making his already tired eyes even more sore. Even though the room was quite warm, he still felt snot slowly edging down his nose. Willard tried to suck it back in but stopped abruptly as he felt a jab in his lungs.

Which day was it again?

Willard considered this question, trying to move his neck towards the digital interface on his bedrails. He ended up twisting it a bit too much and suffered through another episode of severe pain.

Afraid to move again, he faced the window opposite to him. Unlike the standardized housing units of Harvest Towns, this one had a thick sheet of insulator gel around it that prevented the warmth from seeping out. Indeed, the room was warmer than his office, and much warmer than his home.

Maybe I should bring this one back.

Willard squinted at the window but couldn’t see anything through the raging blizzard. Vicious winds packed with icicles going fifty-miles-an-hour were storming through the Station. Strong enough to tear through flesh and dent steel upon contact. Willard wondered if the underground accident had been caused by this. Unlikely, he inferred, since strong winds were a common sight up north.

I wonder if Addy brought in the sheets.

As his focus shifted away from the glass, Willard noticed the sudden numbness in his right foot. Then he realized the numbness was actually an extremely sharp searing. Instinctively, Willard’s feet jolted up, knocking the heater burning him into a small cabinet besides the bed and toppling two plastic flasks. At the same time, he winced at the sharp twinge that shot through his waist, and felt a cold sweat roll down his forehead.

Just then, the door on the right wall swung open, and in marched a cloaked figure holding two tiny cans. His self-made leg-supports made little “clanks” as he strode across the room. Willard recognized Krummlae, a native Sorissian doctor, who raised a questioning brow upon glancing at the mess on the ground.

“I’m terribly sorry.” Willard muttered, and tried to wave the formal Sorissian greeting—cupping both hands and pushing it towards the other like an offering—but instead made it look like a dismissive gesture due to his physical restrictions. The doctor took no offense and waved a similar gesture with his right hand. He bent down and returned the fallen flasks to their place, dropped his bag, and pressed two dials on one of the breathers. It fizzled, as if someone had thrown water over molten steel.

“We do not work here. Come, Ahhhh.” He motioned, propping Willard up against the bed.

Willard opened his mouth and felt an icy gush of air rush into his throat. The coolness soon spread throughout his entire body, finally settling down again in his lungs. It had that feeling of the painful panting when being exhausted, except this time he’d just swallowed two ice cubes. He could have sworn he had heard fizzling each time he used a breather.

“Doc,” Willard said after clearing his throat, “it’s your day off, isn’t it? You should’ve just let one of the nurses do this. Plus, you’ve got much more important things to focus on other than one half-dead man.”

“You are no man yet.” Dr. Krummlae wiped the sweat off Willard’s head with his sleeve, “And don’t direct me.” He grinned, an unusual sight for a Sorissian, revealing his frighteningly sharp teeth. Willard had heard somewhere that only the physically distinguished members of Sorissian Society would have their teeth altered in the Makobi Festival, the new-year equivalent for Sorissians. Although he remembered seeing tiny children with sharp teeth the last time he visited their village.

“Alright then. When do I get to go back?” Willard straightened himself, sucking in two deep lungfuls of warm air into his lungs.

“Tomorrow.” Dr. Krummlae fished out two oily coins from his back pocket and placed them on the cabinet, then flashed Willard a warm smile that was not at all in line with the traditional Sorissian ways. “For you. Back home.”

“Ah, my bad. Not home. Back to work, I meant.”

Dr. Krummlae sat back and examined Willard, his eyes squinted and brows furrowed. His already large nostrils flaring even larger as Willard felt a momentary confusion well up inside.

“You are not in a fit state.” He grumbled, frowning whilst flipping through his notepad. From the end of the bed, Willard could smell the sweet, almost almond-like fragrance of old paper. That was one of the things he liked about Krummlae, a guy who preferred the outlandishly old lifestyle of the first world.

“Look.” Krummlae showed Willard his notepad. There was a crudely unfolded printout with several lines of scribble on it, with the very distinct bird of the company logo imprinted at the top. Willard pretended he understood and nodded. He knew it was futile to argue with him.

“This is a two weeks absence approval.” He pulled the sheet out from his notebook and stacked it on top of the coins.

“Is that so…” Willard looked down at the cast covering his entire body. He kind of looked like a mummy—something he had read about that was entirely covered in bandages.

The Firm must have done it to look good in front of the press.

“Go home and rest.” Dr. Krummlae heaved his bag from the floor and set it by the counter, “My people left you this. Kaloks.”

“You’re too kind, all of you.” Willard smiled despite the fact he hated the sour taste of those boluses. He made a mental note to keep three and sell the rest. Sorissian high-value specialties were bound to fetch a good price. He was sure Krummlae would understand…from a practical perspective, anyway.

“Go home. To your Aiga.” Dr. Krummlae gently tapped the bridge of Willard’s nose, “they need you, especially Adrian.”

“I know they do.” Willard wiggled his fingers that out of the cast, “that’s……why I’m here.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

Just then, an index-finger sized icicle smashed into the outer window. Instead of breaking apart, it was stuck there, motionless like a small piece of bird feces. Dr. Krummlae frowned, and rose to inspect it.

“Agh, Pliach. I din’t know it would come this soon.” Willard heard him mutter to himself. “We were certain we’ll still have several weeks.”

“Willard, my duties require me to be elsewhere.” Dr. Krummlae furrowed his brows. Leaving things unfinished was a quality frowned upon in the Tukumoa tribe. “We will proceed at our community center. I expect you to be home by then.”

He opened the door, took one last, quizzical look at Willard, and vanished into the corridor, the clanking of his leg supports growing fainter and fainter, until they couldn’t be heard anymore.

Willard sat alone in the passenger box. The constant roaring of the winds outside, the clattering of the train’s wheels on the rails, and the pitter-patter of hail overhead all combined to form a steady rhythm. Tonight’s a clear night, and he could see the faraway hills and mountains rushing by.

Sorissu’s scenery was nothing to gawk at. Once Willard had seen enough of the icy peaks and desolate plains, this white land had quickly become an eyesore. Yet, trapped beneath all that ice were innumerable riches.

Ore deposits, oil wells, Divicsian stone, gaseous mineral hotspots, and, most importantly, Sorissian Soil. Willard stared out of the window with half shut eyes. There was once a time when he believed he could stand above this land as the master of its riches. Instead he was wasting his remaining life away, deep underground.

A daydream of a foolish child.

At this thought, his lips curled slightly into a bitter smile.

The train roared and clanged onward onto a bridge. Willard felt the vibrations of a deep honk coming from the locomotive and listened as the sound echoed through the still night. Below the bridge, a wide canyon stretched far into the horizon, where a moon was slowly rising.

He glanced at the empty rows of seats across from him. Moonlight wrapping around the iron poles of the bridge cast long, slanted shadows that enveloped the entire space. Shadows whipped past so fast they seemed to flash.

What a familiar scene.

Willard could vaguely recall resting his head on his mother’s lap, his eyes closed, trying to count the number of flashes that bounced off his eyelids. Mother had placed her hand on his head, gently stroking his hair to the rhythmic chugging of the train. Even above the numerous layers of clothing she had on, he had felt the warmth radiating from her abdomen. He had felt a fuzzy feeling, realizing how close he was to everything.

Another flash, and the light abruptly cut away as the train entered the tunnel on the other side, leaving Willard alone again, staring back at the dark.

As the train thundered on, the compartments shook ever so slightly. The overhead proximity lights above Willard’s seat flickered, momentarily making the space go completely dark.

He stared into the unlit back rows of the compartment, just barely making out their silhouettes. The last time he was here, this place had been full of life. Fathers going home from week-shifts chugging booze with their colleagues, brothers carrying strings of sausages dancing together, and old men just sitting and smiling at them. The noise faded in his ears and Willard stared into the hushed darkness.

As he stared into the dark, Willard felt a sense of growing unease well up within him. He realized his pupils had dilated, his breath had become sharper, and blood was rushing to his head. Someone was watching him.

It had been the same when he was trapped below the rubbles of the ruined mineshaft. There had been a small hole between the ice lumps covering the toppled elevator. Willard had screamed through it until his throat became hoarse, and then had collapsed again into a puddle of his own blood. A few moments later the remaining light of his last glow stick dimmed. It was then that he’d felt a presence there, standing above the ice. Even though everything had been pitch black, he was sure of it.

Growing up, Willard had no talents, and his senses were dulled due to his underground workplace. But he always had a strange perception of unseen things. He could tell beforehand that a snowball was about to hit him, that mother was about to call, that a landslide was about to occur, or that…that a catastrophe was about to happen. It was a twisted sense of deja vu.

‘Divine Intuition’, his brother Adrian used to joke about it. It was not divine. It was useless. In fact, it was more like a punishment, suddenly knowing that things would happen without even having the time to react.

It was when there, thousands of meters underground, when it had really messed with his head. Willard had tried to call for the figure, to say something, anything. But all that had come out of his mouth was a weak croak and a bloodied blubbering. Its presence remained there for several minutes, then vanished entirely. However, within that time Willard had felt an intense fixation on him. He had been staring into the dark. And somewhere in the dark, something was staring back at him. And that stare felt like thousands of needles scraping at the exposed bone of his right arm. It had left him there, gasping for breath, clawing at his injured shoulder.

Now he sat staring at the dark again, as that familiar, unnerving feeling crept up his spine. Willard shook his head. It was a foolish thought. A hallucination. An unreal image born out of pain and fear. There couldn’t have been anyone down there with him. He had been told he was the only survivor, and the press had swarmed him the instant they saw him step out of the hospital.

Willard shifted uncomfortably in his seat and peeled his eyes away from the dark.

I should get some sleep.

He shut his eyes and leveled his breaths. However, the usual fatigue was nowhere to be found. He stayed still for another minute, then gave up. Perhaps it was because he had been bedridden for such a long time at the hospital, his body had finally gotten the rest it had previously craved.

His built-in TimeScale beeped twice, indicating the arrival of midnight.

The train clambered onward out of the tunnel. Moonlight illuminated the rest of the carriage, driving the darkness away. Willard felt an unexpected sigh of relief escape him.

Willard adjusted the straps of his leg supports, pulling them up as far as possible. The hospital had run out of the standardized mechanical contraptions, so he was fitted with a crude, experimental one. It was a bit too large for him, as its upper shell was wrapped around his pelvis, not his thighs.

The decreasing sounds of the wind outside indicated deceleration. As the train cruised through another cliff bridge, Willard saw tiny flickers of light below. Though first he saw the ancient megaliths first. Two giant cogs that were nearly as tall as the cliff itself, one flat on its side, the other propped up slightly by an enormous shaft that dwarfed even the Bagiraek skyscrapers he saw on news. In between the narrow opening of the two cogs, he saw the Sorissian village. It wasn’t lit at all, but the luminous surface of its outer wall made it easier to pinpoint. Several hundred meters above it, above the slanted cog and under the enormous shaft, was another settlement, Its snow-covered houses were tiny sugar cubes compared to the megalith that loomed over it.

Home.

The train sped across the bridge, and the scenery became more organized. Tall signal lights replaced the scarce flora, and grid-like patterns started to emerge. As the brakes finally screeched, the train platforms came into view. It was exactly as Willard remembered. The grey bricks, covered in snow; the dark stairs that stretched downwards into an even darker tunnel; the rows of dirty galvanized seats; and, as his sights moved up, a tattered sign that read: B6 Ferah.

Something caught his eye. Tonight, the usually windswept platform was packed full of people, a sea of heads bobbing up and down. Willard pulled his hood over his own head. He had been afraid something like this would happen. He took two deep breaths, stood up, shook his supports, and clanked his way to the exit hatch. The doors on either sides closed, and he heard the sound of air getting sucked into the airtight tubes. The train’s screeching rang in his head.

Please. Just go.

One of the onlookers spotted him through the door and pointed, shouting something. In an instant, the entire station was in uproar. People shouting, pushing at the station barriers, just to get a better look at him, at the only one who survived the cave-in. He could see them better now. People he recognized and people he didn’t. Friends and family, all red in the face, with hope in their eyes.

A group of men clad in black was standing guard next to the crowd barriers. They did a good job at driving the people back just by standing there. Willard pulled his hood further down, until it covered the entirety of his upper face. The train’s hatch hissed and opened. A cloud of vapor flowed out and settled at his feet. Willard, though, remained in the compartment. He bit his lips, and, to his surprise, drew a bit of blood.

How can they not know?

Willard took one step out onto the platform, then another. The night air scraped against his cheek, tearing at his lungs. He could feel the hundred of pairs of eyes fixed on him, some in anticipation, some in dread. A woman wrapped in a thin winter suit approached him from the crowd line. She wore a pair of dark yellow glasses, and, as she got closer, Willard recognized the company logo on it.

“You must be tired. I will escort you back home.” She said in a monotone voice that somehow calmed Willard down. Willard pulled out a slightly shaking hand and allowed her to guide him down the elevated entry platform. As he got closer to the barrier, he glanced at the crowd under his hood. They stared back at him with wide, desperate eyes. He knew them. He had laughed with them, drank with them, and even dined with their families. Families that were now broken.

Willard’s teeth dug into his lips. He stopped, his feet frozen on the cold, hard ground. He gulped, feeling a terrible responsibility slide down his throat.

“Sir?”

Willard couldn’t hear her over his own heartbeat. He turned around and walked back towards the platform. Slowly, one agonizing step at a time, he climbed back onto the top. The wind blew across his chin, searing the coldness into it. The noise died down. His lips trembled.

What am I doing?

“My…my name is Willard Price.” His voice echoed around the platform. At that moment, nobody made a sound. It was as if the world had frozen over. Willard clenched his fists, squeezing them as hard as he could until his nails dug into the flesh. The pain did not pull his attention away from their eyes.

Stopstopstopstopstopstopstop.

“I am sorry.”

Tears welled up in his eyes.

Why am I apologizing?

A strong wind blew the hood off his head. The train behind him blasted its horn, blaring into the night sky, ringing inside Willard’s head and deafening him. He did not hear their cries. Instead, he could only stare in horror as mothers buried their face into their hands, as fathers collapsed onto their knees, as friends thumped the ground with tear-streaked eyes, and as children—who did not realize what had happened—opened their mouth to join the cacophony of cries. The winds howled.