THE THING II: Hawke Station
Disclaimer: John Carpenter's THE THING (1982) is property of Universal.
This will be my first Thing fan fiction, but I am not asking any reviewers to go easy on it. If I fuck something up, let me know in your reviews. Criticism that is constructive is highly appreciative, as it points out both the things that are done right and the things that are done wrong, allowing the writer to adapt and grow.
Chapter 01: Hawke Station
Date: Winter Of 1982 - 1983
United States Antarctic Research Outpost "Hawke Station"
Looking out his window as the sun came up, 39 year-old Allison Barclay, often called Bar by everyone else, looked out across the vast expanse of the antarctic tundra. Barclay was one of two men in charge of the station, and while the other man, Charles Hendry, was older and had more military experience, Barclay was the one who was truly in charge. There was white snow as far as the eye could see, apart from the small untouched patches of rock found on the sides of the sparse mountains that were found in certain locations throughout the continent. Barclay could have sworn that he'd been told that Antarctica had no mountain ranges.
As the clouds lifted and the sun shone down on the white frozen water that covered the surface of the continent, Barclay took in a breath as he saw just how much snow had accumulated over the course the most recent blizzard. Gotta get the flamethrowers, Barclay thought to himself as he turned around and finished getting dressed. Allison Barclay was a barrel-chested man with a rather short beard and facial hair. After grabbing his camouflaged winter jacket, Barclay exited the room and made his way down the hallways of Hawke Station.
Most of the other crew were already awake, including the station commander, Charles Hendry, as well as the chief mechanic, Samuel Dutton, who was already in the vehicle garage. Dutton, much like Barclay, was of a large stature and muscular build, although Dutton was easily the more muscular of the two men. In terms of build, Barclay was an Army man who preferred running for exercise, while Dutton was a weight-lifter. He also wore a red baseball cap most of the time, even when indoors. Inside the recreation room, which Barclay passed on his way to the station commander's office, several crew members had made themselves comfortable at the game table.
Barclay walked inside the room, looking at the men who were already enjoying themselves with ping-pong and cards. Doctor Louis Atkins and his assistant, Arnold Thorne, were both playing ping-pong against each other. Thomas Van Wall, the chief helicopter pilot, was engaged in a game of cards with meteorologist Jim Stiles and backup pilot Harvey Jordan. Martin Crenna, a geologist, was busy sleeping in a chair.
"Hey, who wants to melt snow?" Barclay asked as he stepped forward with a smirk on his face. Nobody looked very enthused. "Pomroy's already outside," Van Wall said. "Thought he'd be with the dogs," Barclay said in surprise. "Yeah. He's teachin' them how to use the flamethrowers," Stiles joked with a chuckle. "Dutton's out there too. He's already cleared a path to the garage," Atkins said. "Shovel or fire?" Barclay asked him. "Didn't ask," Atkins responded. Barclay rolled his eyes in response before turning around and exiting the room.
Making his way over to the room where the flamethrowers were kept and checked the fuel levels before securing the canisters to his back and making his way out to the nearest exit. He opened the door inwards, ready to head outside, only to find that a seven foot tall wall of snow and ice was blocking his path. So... Dutton and Pomroy grab flamethrowers, but they DON'T use the nearest exit? Okay then, Barclay thought to himself before stepping back several feet and aiming the torch at the wall of snow blocking his path. "Fire and snow! Fire and snow!" Barclay sang to himself cheerfully as he let loose a stream of fire at the wall of snow.
When he was finally finished, he stepped outside and closed the door behind him. He looked out at the white landscape that surrounded him and the station. The stations radio dome was relatively clear, with only patches of snow on top of it. The vehicle garage, a very large shed with a small circular tarmac around it, was currently having its snow walls cleared away by Dutton, who was wearing his signature red cap.
"Hey, Dutton!" Barclay called to the man as he shoveled another load of snow away from the garage doors. Dutton looked over at Barclay. Seeing the flamethrower in his hands, Dutton grinned, knowing that his job was about to get a lot easier. "Grizzly Bar!" Dutton called out in return with a grin. He and a few other members of the station's crew had begun calling Barclay "Grizzly Bar" when the man started growing out his beard some months earlier. Barclay had decided that while he wasn't particularly fond of the nickname, it was still better than being called Alice by the summer crew members who'd learned his first name. It was especially annoying because Alice was short for Alicia, not Allison.
Walking over to Dutton's position, Barclay looked around at the pitiful trenches of snow that the man had dug with his shovel. "I guess we got more snow than we expected from that last storm, eh?" Barclay asked the mechanic. "Actually... I kind of expected more," Dutton replied.
Barclay looked at the man, raising an eyebrow. "You're kidding, right?" Barclay asked him, prompting the mechanic to shake his head. "I'm serious. First two weeks of winter in Antarctica. I was seriously expecting a lot worse," Dutton said. "How much more snow is blocking the doors?" Barclay asked him. "Enough that you'll need some fire," Dutton said.
Barclay studied Dutton for a moment. "You just wanna see this thing in action, don't you?" Barclay asked him, referring to his flamethrower. Dutton briefly looked away before relenting. "Yes," Dutton admitted reluctantly. "Why not just say so?" Barclay asked him. Dutton merely shrugged his shoulders in response. "Better yet, why didn't you just grab a flamethrower of your own before coming out here?" Barclay asked him.
"I got carried away with shoveling. I was gonna shovel a little bit in front of the base and then grab a flamethrower to melt the rest away, but... I got carried away," Dutton explained. "Fine, whatever," Barclay muttered. "Just stand back. I don't wanna fry you by accident," Barclay said as he motioned for Dutton to get behind him.
Meanwhile, In The Radio Room...
Bart Caldwell was busy fiddling with the dials on his equipment while assistant radio operator Tom Sanchez lit up a cigarette. "Could you not do that in here? I don't need this equipment getting gunked up by the smoke," Caldwell said. "Whatever," Sanchez replied flippantly before putting out his cigarette on the nearest table. Tom Sanchez was a thin red-headed man with short-cropped hair, while Bart Caldwell was a stocky man and had brown hair, along with a mustache that he refused to shave, despite the many looks that people gave him for it. Caldwell was also a fan of Jazz music, while Sanchez preferred Rock and Roll, being a huge Beatles fan.
"Come in, McMurdo. This is Hawke Station. We are testing for communications in the wake of the latest winter storm. Please respond," Caldwell requested over the radio. "Uh, Bart? I think I know why you haven't been getting any responses this morning," Sanchez said as he looked down at the floor underneath the table. "Yeah? Why's that?" Caldwell asked him. "You don't have that thing plugged in properly," Sanchez said, pointing at the loose cable on the floor.
Caldwell pushed his chair back and leaned over to peek under the table, seeing that the power cord for the microphone was indeed unplugged. "Do you need glasses or something?" Sanchez asked the older man with a snicker. Caldwell merely sighed in contempt for his assistant before getting on his knees and crawling under the table to plug the cord back into the outlet.
When he crawled back out, he looked up and saw Sanchez standing over him. "Boo!" Sanchez said before chuckling. Caldwell merely frowned in return. "Asshole," he muttered before getting back in his chair and resuming his attempts at contacting McMurdo station.
In The Green House...
Botanist Dillon Walters jotted down some notes on a clipboard as he moved from one plant to the next, studying each one carefully. "No changes observed yet," he muttered. "Consistent temperature with minor variations, regardless of season, have yielded a consistent growth rate for the plants in groups A, B, and C," he said to himself. "Group D, however... has shown little to no progress since the end of Summer. The plants grown in this section will require further examination," he said to himself before walking over to the next group of plants in the green house.
"I hope I don't have to start all over again," he muttered as he walked through several rows of hydroponically grown plants. Dillon Walters was a lean man in his early thirties with a short beard and a balding head. His hair was black, and he had a crooked nose. He was also fond of gardening.
Walking over to the vegetable garden, or the Salad Barracks as Kinner, the resident cook, had called it once, Walters opened the door and entered the slightly smaller temperature-controlled room. Looking around at the rows and columns of various tomatoes, lettuce, and zucchini that lined the room, Walters nodded his head in appreciation. "Well, at least we'll have some fresh food by tomorrow," he said to himself as he closed the door behind him and began his daily inspections.
"No signs of any unwanted contaminants," Walters said to himself after a careful inspection of each plant. "Rock wool medium shows no problems, as guaranteed by the supplier," he then added with a smile. Walking over to the very end of the room, Walters knelt down next to the small row of marijuana plants. "Why did I let them plant you in here again?" Walters asked himself as he inspected the plants. "Well... I guess the air is a little cleaner with you guys in here," he said reluctantly.
"But they'd better not sell this shit and get us shut down," Walters then grumbled under his breath.
The Dining Room/Mess Hall...
Commander Charles Hendry poured himself a cup of coffee before adding cream and sugar, turning his head as he heard footsteps. "Good morning, Stewart," Hendry said to the scientist who had entered the room. "Good morning, Charles," Stewart Carrington said as he walked over to the coffee pot. "Hey... there's barely enough left for half a cup!" Carrington whined.
"You snooze, you lose," Hendry said with a mirthful chuckle and a smile. Carrington glared at Hendry before sighing in defeat. "I guess I don't really need the caffeine that much anyway," Carrington muttered to himself. Charles Hendry was an Army man in his early sixties. He had been assigned to Hawke Station in order to keep an eye on Barclay, who had been given the antarctic assignment after catching two superior officers, both married but not to each other, having an affair back home.
Hendry was only a few years away from retirement, so he took the assignment as a way of getting a change of scenery before finally settling down somewhere. One last adventure, he'd told himself. Hendry had a large frame, with the lean musculature expected of an Army veteran, especially one who had served in the Korean War. Barclay had also served in a war; the much more recent Vietnam War. Because Hendry had felt that the Korean War had become forgotten by most people, and with Barclay being a veteran of Vietnam, which had received far more attention than the Korean War, there had been tension between the two men for a couple of months until they'd finally settled their differences.
Looking at the young scientist in front of him, Hendry offered the man his cup. "I haven't drank out of it yet," Hendry said. Carrington shook his head in response. "I appreciate the gesture, but... it's yours. Besides, I prefer to drink de-caf anyway. Makes me need to go to the bathroom less often," Carrington replied. "Suit yourself," Hendry said.
Stewart Carrington was a biophysicist with a short beard and a balding head, despite only being in his early thirties. His hair was a dark blond color, and he had the most hideous taste in clothing, although his clothing choices were always pragmatic and practical, even if they were sore on the eyes of his colleagues. Prior to leaving for Antarctica, Carrington had been offered a teaching position at the University of Maine, which he had declined for the opportunity to conduct research in the antarctic. He'd regretted that decision after seven months of living at Hawke Station, especially after learning that the teaching position had been given to someone else shortly after he'd left.
A minute later, Jonathan Connant, the station's chief biologist and senior biophysicist, entered the room. Connant was a man of average stature and build, and he was in his early fifties. He also still had a full head of hair, which he sometimes used to tease the younger and balding Carrington, much to the latter's dismay. "Mornin' fellas," Connant said as he walked over to a pantry cupboard and grabbed a ceramic mug. "Good morning, Jonathan," Hendry said after taking another sip of his coffee.
"Morning, Connant," Carrington said unenthusiastically. "Has anyone seen Crenna this morning?" Connant asked the two men. "I think he's in the rec room. Why?" Carrington responded. "He borrowed one of my rulers last week for some kind of experiment and he still hasn't returned it," Connant said before he walked over to the coffee maker. After pouring what was left of the pot into his cup, the older scientist walked out of the room and into the hallway, heading for the rec room.
"Huh. He didn't say anything about my hair this morning," Carrington said. "What hair?" Hendry asked him with a chuckle. Carrington glared at the older man before walking over to the pantry cupboard and grabbing a ceramic mug of his own, grumbling under his breath.
Back Outside In The Snow...
Barclay let out a whistle as he melted the last of the snow blocking the doors of the vehicle garage. "I guess now it's-hey, Ralsen," Barclay said as he spotted Benjamin Ralsen, the assistant mechanic, heading towards him and Dutton. Bill Lambert, a mechanical engineer on a temporary assignment at Hawke Station, was close behind. Ralsen and Lambert were both somewhat scrawny men, but Ralsen had grown a small amount of muscle from all of the manual labor he'd been doing at the station since his arrival, while Lambert had only been at the station since the end of the Summer season.
"So, what's the plan for today, Boss?" Ralsen asked Barclay. "Hey, I'm the boss," Dutton said with a smirk. "Get some shovels and start digging out whatever snow is blocking the external station doors," Barclay said firmly. "We don't get to use the flame-" "No, Lambert. No, you do not. Get some shovels. It'll be safer for you anyway," Barclay interrupted the man.
"Yes sir," Lambert spat before walking away. Ralsen looked at his retreating form before turning back to look at Barclay. "What was that all about?" Ralsen asked him. "He hasn't had any training with the flamethrowers. I don't need him setting himself on fire by accident, or anyone else for that matter," Barclay explained.
"So, do you want me to go get a shovel too?" Ralsen asked Barclay. "Yes, Ralsen. Go get a shovel and start shoveling," Barclay said to him. "And you, Dutton. Go find out where Pomroy is. I wanna know where the dogs are before I start clearing the snow around the kennel area," Barclay said before he stopped talking. He stared out into the distance at a lone figure out in the snow.
"What?" Dutton asked, before turning around to look in the direction of Barclay's gaze. "Is that Silva?" Dutton asked rhetorically. "And his camera," Barclay said as he watched Victor Silva take pictures of the snowy landscape around them. As Silva turned his camera around and prepared for another shot, he looked over at them and waved. Barclay half-heartedly waved back at him.
"You think he's trying to get a picture of you with the flamethrower?" Dutton asked him. "Don't know. Don't care," Barclay replied tersely. He began moving forward, only for Silva to hold out a hand, signaling for him to stop. "Oh, come on. Is he serious?" Barclay asked in frustration as he waited for Silva to finish his first round of picture-taking. "You're actually going to stand here for him?" Dutton asked.
"Might as well. If I go over there now, I'll just have to listen to him ramble about how our positions relative to him can affect the lights and shadows of his shots, and I really don't care to hear about that for the umpteenth time," Barclay said, glancing at Dutton. A few minutes later, Silva waved at them, motioning for them to start moving.
"Go find Pomroy like I said earlier," Barclay ordered Dutton. Dutton nodded his head and made his way over to the other end of the station, where the kennel was located. Meanwhile, Barclay made his way over to Silva, keeping his flamethrower pointed away from the other man as he got closer. "Morning, Bar!" Silva said enthusiastically as he started preparing to move his camera and tripod.
"Morning, Silva," Barclay said before he got close enough to notice the thermos hanging from a clasp on Silva's snow-covered jacket. "So... how long have you been out here?" Barclay asked the photographer. "Oh, about an hour. Maybe longer," Silva replied with a grin. "Uh-huh. Right, and... what exactly are you doing?" Barclay asked him. "Taking pictures," Silva answered.
"Of what? What is there around here that you haven't already photographed?" Barclay asked him. "I just felt like taking pictures of the station after the storm. I took some pictures of the station before the storm hit, so now I'm taking pictures of it afterward. It'll be a record of the station," Silva explained. "Yeah, well... make sure that you let someone know when you're coming out here to take pictures by yourself. I don't need to fry you by accident, and we don't need someone getting lost or freezing to death," Barclay said.
"I told Hendry," Silva said. "He didn't say anything to me," Barclay said. "Well... I told someone," Silva said. "Well, next time, make sure that it's more than one person. By the way, did you do any shoveling in the time that you've been out here?" Barclay asked the photographer. "I cleared the snow away from the entrance by the kennel," Silva said.
"Funny, I didn't hear the dogs barking this morning," Barclay muttered. "They're used to me by now," Silva said. "Uh-huh. Right. Look, just make sure you don't go overboard with the pictures. It's winter, so we aren't getting anymore supply shipments until Spring, and that means you need to ration what you've got until then," Barclay said. "Oh, I know. I have at least three crates of film in storage," Silva said. "Three crates?" Barclay asked him. "Yeah. Each one's about a foot and a half wide high and wide by two feet in length," Silva explained.
"Just... don't break your camera then," Barclay said. "I have a spare," Silva said. "That doesn't mean you should get careless with it. I don't wanna hear you whining if it gets broken," Barclay said before he walked over to the snow-covered tool shed.
Back In The Radio Room...
"Right," Caldwell said as he jotted some notes down on a piece of paper. "We'll make sure to check it out today," Caldwell said. "Thanks. We've tried contacting Outpost Thirty-One, but we've gotten no response so far. You guys are the second-closest ones other than the Soviet station. We'd feel better if you were the ones to check them out," the radio operator from McMurdo station said. "Don't worry. I'll get Commander Hendry or Captain Barclay to check it out. We'll try contacting Outpost Thirty-One as well in the meantime. Hawke Station, out," Caldwell said before ending the radio conversation.
Sanchez looked at Caldwell with a curious expression. "Did that really just happen? I mean, did they really say that the Soviets are heading their way to drop off an American scientist at their doorstep? I mean, the Soviets?" Sanchez asked Caldwell. "Yes, Tom. They did say that," Caldwell replied as he looked at his notes.
"Now, go get Barclay or Hendry and give them these notes," Caldwell said as he handed the paper to Sanchez. Sanchez rolled his eyes and grabbed the papers with an exasperated sigh before making his way out of the radio room. Caldwell watched the younger man leave the room before returning his attention to the radio. He took out his frequency and channel listings book before attempting to make contact with US Outpost number 31.
"Come in, Outpost Thirty-One. This is Hawke Station. Please respond. Come in, Outpost Thirty-One. Please respond, over." After several minutes of repeating the same thing, Caldwell shook his head with a growl and reset the radio before trying once more. "This is horseshit," he muttered to himself after another failed attempt at contacting the silent American station.
"Say that again?" Barclay asked Sanchez as he stepped away from the snow plow. "Here," Sanchez said as he handed the notes to Barclay. Barclay looked at the paper carefully. "Are you serious?" he asked the assistant radio operator. "Yeah," Sanchez replied. "You didn't say anything to Hendry, did you?" Barclay asked him. "Not yet," Sanchez replied. Barclay mulled over the new information quietly, biting his lower lip before letting out a breath.
"Okay, go back inside and find out who the closest station is to that location," Barclay said. "It's US Outpost Thirty-One. Caldwell's trying to get through to them right now," Sanchez replied. "What about McMurdo? Have they heard from them either?" Barclay asked him. "No. We're the closest American station. The only other station close enough to the Norwegians is the Soviet station," Sanchez said.
Barclay looked around the outside of Hawke Station. Dutton was already plowing snow away from the vehicle garage with the snowplow, and Ralsen and Lambert were clearing snow off of the helicopter. "Alright, give me a few minutes to finish up out here, and then I'll be back inside. Go back to the radio room and find out if Caldwell's made any progress reaching Outpost Thirty-One yet. I'm gonna go get Hendry after I'm finished out here," Barclay said.
Sanchez nodded his head before turning around and making his way back inside the station, tripping over his boot laces before picking himself up and resuming his trek towards the warmth of the building's interior. Barclay looked back down at the paper that was in his gloved hand. "What a way to start off the winter," he muttered to himself.
Making his way to the radio room, Barclay heard multiple voices involved in conversation. One of those voices was Hendry's. Stopping just outside the door way of the room, Barclay saw Charles Hendry standing near a table, arguing with Caldwell while Sanchez was busy trying to use the radio. Hearing footsteps behind him, Barclay turned his head and saw Anthony Reynolds, the station's assistant cook.
"Hey, what's with the noise?" Reynolds asked Barclay. Anthony Reynolds was a rather scrawny man, with a clean-shaven face and hair that he had tied into a ponytail. He had a very laid-back personality and when he wasn't cooking, he preferred to spend his time reading mystery and detective novels.
"Just an unusual radio message," Barclay said vaguely before he turned back to walk into the radio room. "Caldwell, have you managed to reach Outpost Thirty-One yet?" Barclay asked the radio operator. "No! I haven't been able to contact them at all. Besides, the blizzard just ended last night, so they're just as likely to have gotten one as well," Caldwell replied.
"Or those soviets are involved," Hendry spat. "Hendry, they're scientists, not soldiers," Caldwell retorted. "Then what are they doing with an American scientist in their clutches? Hm? Answer me that!" Hendry responded with vigor. "Charles, calm down," Barclay said sternly. "Now, Bart, I want you to tell me what the guys at McMurdo told you," Barclay said as he shifted his attention.
"They said that they were recently contacted by the guys at one of the Soviet research stations. The soviets claimed that an American scientist made her way to their station just before a large storm hit them earlier this week," Caldwell began. "The Soviets are planning to take her to an American station, preferably McMurdo," he finished. "Why not Amundsen-Scott?" Barclay asked him. "I'm sure they'd have room under that big dome," he added.
"The last flight from Amundsen-Scott already left for the winter," Hendry said. "Shit," Barclay muttered. "Well, why don't we pick her up and take her to McMurdo?" Reynolds suggested, causing Hendry to scoff. "Better yet, why not take her to Outpost Thirty-One? They're American," Sanchez spoke up. "Are you kidding? No one's heard from Thirty-One for over a week," Caldwell said.
"When did the commies pick this man up?" Hendry asked. "Woman. The scientist is a woman, at least according to the guys at the Soviet station," Caldwell said. "What kind of scientist is she?" Hendry asked. "I don't know. They just said that she's a scientist who traveled from a Norwegian station after... something bad happened," Caldwell said. "What do you mean 'something bad'?" Hendry asked him. "I don't know. They said that she claimed to be from Thule Station, which is a Norwegian research station in the Queen Maude Land area," Caldwell said.
"So, why not take her to another Norwegian station? Like Troll, or that Chinese station, Showa?" Reynolds asked him. "Showa is a Japanese research station, not Chinese. And besides, do you know how far away those stations are from here? Too damn far," Hendry said, correcting him. "Most of those places are a hell of a lot easier to get to than McMurdo, though, so why go through all of the trouble?" Barclay asked. "I don't know," Caldwell said. "I. Do. Not. Know," he reiterated. "Wait... if she's an American scientist, then why didn't she make her way to Outpost Thirty-One?" Sanchez asked.
"We don't even know how far away Thirty-One is from the Norwegian station that this American scientist is supposedly from," Barclay said. "Reynolds, go to the cartography room and get us a map. One that has our research stations listed on it," Hendry ordered. "Uh, why do I-" "Just do it," Hendry said forcefully. Reynolds nodded his head and took off down the hall.
"Did they tell you anything else about this woman? Her name? Why she was at a Norwegian station?" Barclay asked Caldwell. Caldwell sighed and threw up his hands in exasperation. "Oh my god, for the final time. I. Do. Not. Know. They didn't tell me that stuff. I'd have to call back McMurdo and ask them," Caldwell said. "Then do it," Hendry told him.
"I'll get them," Sanchez said from his radio console. "Come in, McMurdo. This is United States Hawke Station calling McMurdo, do you read me, over?" Sanchez asked. "This is McMurdo responding to Hawke Station, over." "Yes," Sanchez whispered to himself. "Uh, hey, McMurdo, you told us earlier about some Soviet guys bringing an American scientist to your doorstep; can you explain a bit more about that? Like, her name for instance?" Sanchez asked.
"The Soviets said her name was Lloyd. That's all we know. They said their translator is having a difficult time trying to understand half of what she says, so they're bringing her to us within the next two days. Have you guys sent anyone to check out the Norwegian place yet?" "Uh, negative. We're still clearing snow off of our helicopter at the moment. We just got out of a pretty bad snow storm last night," Sanchez replied.
"Well, if you can, try to check it out before tonight. Outpost Thirty-One is the closest, but no one's heard from them since they got hit with a storm a few days ago. We think they tried calling us before it hit, but atmospheric conditions made it difficult for us to hear anything clearly on their end. Every time we called them, we'd get static or no one would respond. If you can, try checking on them too. I know I already asked the other guy who talked to us about this," the McMurdo radio operator said.
Barclay walked over and tapped on Sanchez's left shoulder. "Uh, hold on, my boss wants to talk to you," Sanchez said before he got out of the chair and let Barclay sit down. "This is Captain Alli- Al Barclay speaking. I want you guys to contact the Soviet guys again, make sure that you have a translator, and find out-" "Okay, I found a map!" Reynolds exclaimed as he returned to the room with a large map in his hands. Reynolds walked over to the table where Caldwell and Sanchez had placed their breakfast plates and laid out the map on it.
"Find out if she was part of the station's original crew or if she was a visitor. And find out how the Soviets plan on taking her to you. Call us back when you've done this. We'll be getting ready to fly over in a few hours once we make sure we have the location of the Norwegian research station. Do you already have the name of the station?" Barclay asked.
"Uh... the Soviets said that Miss Lloyd, Kate Lloyd, was from the Thule Station. They don't know if she was part of their original crew or not. We'll try to find out more in a little bit. Let us know what you find then. McMurdo, out." Barclay sat back in the chair and closed his eyes. "Okay... let's look at that map," Barclay said before getting up and walking over to the table where Reynolds had laid down the map.
"There," Caldwell said as he put a finger on the map. "That's Thule Station," he said. "Isn't Thule located in Greenland?" Hendry asked him. "Who cares? Now, where is... there! Outpost Thirty-One," Barclay said as he pointed at the red dot on the map. "They're about eighty kilometers northeast of Thule. That's fifty miles, I think. They're at least a hundred kilometers away from us. And... Lazarev station, that must be the Soviet station we've been hearing about," Barclay said, pointing at another dot.
"They're about one hundred kilometers northwest of Thule station. They're a lot further away, but it looks like there's a plateau, or at least a small mountain area, between Thirty-One and Thule; that might be why Miss America didn't go there," Barclay said thoughtfully. "That's a lot of flying. You guys should probably take a spare fuel canister with you," Reynolds said.
Barclay paused and looked at Reynolds. "Reynolds? Why exactly are you here?" Barclay asked him. "I'm the assistant cook," Reynolds replied. "No. I mean, why are you in this room with us in the first place? What exactly were you coming over here for earlier?" Barclay asked him. "I was gonna ask what everyone wanted to for dinner," Reynolds said.
"Dinner? It's not even noon," Sanchez said. "He's thinking ahead," Hendry said. "That's smart. Getting things ready ahead of time," he added with a smile. "Okay, I'll go get Van Wall and tell him to prep the chopper. Then, I'm gonna go get Atkins. We might need him," Barclay said before grabbing the map and folding it up. He quickly made his way out of the room.
"So, what do you guys want for dinner?" Reynolds asked the remaining people in the radio room.
Over An Hour Later...
Atkins looked down at his travel gear and made sure that his First Aid kit was fully loaded before he and Barclay stepped out the door. Walking outside, Barclay closed the door behind them as they saw Van Wall loading a spare canister of fuel into the back of the helicopter before securing it with Velcro straps. Van Wall stepped back and looked over at Barclay and Atkins with a grumpy frown on his face. "Do we really have to do this?" Van Wall asked sourly.
"Yes, Van. Now quit yer bitchin' and get ready to move. I have a map with us, and Kinner gave us some food for the trip," Barclay said. "I'm not worried about being hungry. I'm worried about taking the bird on a trip so soon after thawing her out," Van Wall said in return. "Are you saying that the helicopter may not be safe to use?" Barclay asked him.
"Well, no. But I-" "Then we're good to go," Barclay said firmly as he reached for his holstered Colt M1911 and patted it to reassure himself. "We have flares with us, right?" Atkins asked as he got into the helicopter. "Yeah. We have flares. Traffic cones, too. Even a portable street light for mile-high traffic lanes," Van Wall said sarcastically.
"Van, just cut the shit already," Barclay said, annoyed. "Whatever," Van Wall mumbled under his breath as he grabbed his goggles and put them over his face before getting into the front of the helicopter. Barclay walked over to the other side and got in the passenger seat, taking out the map and unfolding it in his hands. "You ready?" he asked Van Wall. "No," Van Wall replied tersely as he began his pre-flight check sequence.
"It won't take us that long to get there, Van. Between ninety minutes and two hours," Barclay said. "I feel so much better," Van Wall quipped sarcastically. Thomas Van Wall was a large burly man with black hair and a recently trimmed beard. He usually wore an old green bomber jacket that his uncle had given to him ten years prior. Unlike the other members of the Hawke crew, Van Wall was originally born in Canada, but his parents had moved to Wisconsin just a few years after his birth.
The rotor blades soon began spinning, and from inside the upper deck of the station, Commander Hendry looked on. "Good luck, fellas," Hendry said quietly to himself. The helicopter slowly lifted into the air, and soon it turned itself around as it made its way over the white landscape beyond the station.
Author's Notes: And this is the first chapter of THE THING II: Hawke Station. I was originally going to call it THE THING II: Who Goes There?, but it would seem that someone else has already started a fan fiction story by that name. And, yes, Hawke Station is indeed a reference to Howard Hawkes. Hendry and Carrington are also both taken from the 1951 film as well, and several other characters, such as Barclay and Van Wall, are taken from the original John W. Campbell novella. No, Kate Lloyd will not be making an extensive appearance in this story. She will be present for a small section of one future chapter, and then she'll be whisked away to... wherever.
Anyway, the next chapter features the investigation of Outpost #31 and Thule Station. I guess... let me know what you think of the story so far in your reviews.