This is a story I just started whipping up is inspired by something I read in the news. Scientists discovered a virus 30 metres under permafrost that had been frozen for 30 millenia. Upon thawing, the virus sprung back to life.
This is part 1, so I can break it up into readable chunks and maybe add some pointless pictures of certain real information involved.
‘Come on, move it! We’re all gonna freeze to death at this rate!’
Such a cliché line that felt all the more satisfying to yell for it. It’s around this time he would get attacked by Velociraptors or become an unwitting host to a horrifying shape-shifting alien parasite if Steven Spielberg was a man to trust.
The permafrost was a ball ache, much like everything else in this part of the world. The food, the booze, the women; complete ball aches.
Does nobody appreciate a good lager in this city? Vodka can warm your bones but beer warms the spirit, so to speak. As the boss of this operation, he was determined to find a single bar containing a single droplet of appreciable booze. To him, vodka and other transparent drinks were nothing but poison – including water – especially in this corner of the world. Water comes in ice or brown, no alternative.
Barrel, as they call him (due to his striking resemblance to a certain Final Fantasy VII character, not because of any particularly impressive drinking ability or gun yielding prowess, both of which he severely lacked), was British. He was therefore accustomed to a supply of water from all directions that he could swim in, drink or insert anally without any concern of consequences.
Here, water was about as risky as his job. He was a whaler. What the fuck he was doing here, hundreds of miles from any whale was anybody’s guess. To be the boss in charge of a bunch of low-risk criminals was even more suspect, but it paid the bills.
Paper was strewn wildly around the room like there had been a spontaneous act of tree passion after a party in the woodlands. Shattered glass speckled itself on and around the desk, reflecting pathetic amounts of light upwards from the only surviving 40-watt bulb. The air was filled with discord as an angry drunken youth rebelled against his own decision to send his father on a perilous journey.
‘You fucking… fucktastic fuckerly… fucking… ngg… FUCK’. The last expletive was slowly drowning in blubbers of inebriated tears as his throat closed up and his vocal cords scraped across each other, as if the last 6 hours of vodka consumption had done nothing to lubricate him. The vodka was complimentary of course. Its poor quality was hardly surprising, practically symbolic of the Norilsk people.
The project, as laid out so meticulously on the floor, was a drilling expedition. Researchers were troubled by the rate of permafrost recession and decline, and they needed to confirm or dismiss their concerns of potential risks the scientific community hadn’t yet taken into consideration.
Methane pouring out of huge gas pockets that had been frozen over for millennia was already a major concern, but one researcher in particular was worried about a recent discovery of a large amoeba virus found far below the ice, frozen for 30,000 years.
Upon observation, the virus thawed and sprung straight back to life and was immediately in need of a new host, as if nothing had ever happened during its extended leave. As far as the virus was concerned, nothing really had, but its discovery was a dark omen of troubles to come as some of the inhabitants of the world continued to pump its life force into the atmosphere, helping the earth remove its own virus – the Homo sapiens – from its skin.
Dr. Lemuel Gengulphus, virologist and researcher at Nottingham University was confident in the robustness of these ‘creatures’ that are only debatably living at best, and yet have managed to ingrain themselves into our very DNA, wiped out millions of us on mere whims, and bottle-necked countless other species in history. He needed an adventurous team to join him in an endeavor of truth, no matter what that truth may unveil to be.
But to his disappointment, there appeared to be no competent team that could tolerate his bloody awful personality. Of course, that’s not how he saw it. His grimy pride enabled him to see through a new spectrum, one which safely assumes they all actually had equally high-level concerns of the world to be dealing with. His foul but inconspicuous temper and judgmental preconceptions towards everyone he worked with, however, resented them bitterly for it. Satisfied with demeaning everyone internally, his pride would then take the pedestal once more to assure him that their work couldn’t possibly be as vital as his own.
He visited Manchester University months earlier for a last ditch effort of collaboration with an ex-student, who was one of the few people he found he could relate to and respect both as a person and as a partner-in-crime. He was in particular need of a partner-in-crime in this instance; since nobody qualified would take the job, he would need to edge around some loops, let the loyal dogs do the performing and hopefully they would work to distract from his potentially evil deeds in the process.
If he knew ‘Dr’ Lemuel as well as he knew himself, some imported vodka would go a long way.
To be continued.