The Winter Over(77)

Stop that . Yes, there’d been two deaths, and a blistering chaos of violence and accusations, but forty-odd crew members still lived at the station. She wasn’t the only human being left on earth, for Christ’s sake. She moved deeper into the galley, hoping to see someone she’d missed.

“Pete?” she called, figuring the cook, at least, had to be around. When there weren’t meals to be made or served, there were dishes to be washed and appliances to be maintained, right? But there was no answer. Despite the fact that she’d just left Carla in the biology lab five minutes before, the sensation that she was utterly alone returned in full force. It was like a ten-pound weight had suddenly appeared in her gut, dragging her to the floor.

Timidly, she walked across the galley to the coffee urns that were a mainstay at the base. Ignoring the decaf, she grabbed two porcelain diner cups from the rack and tilted the REGULAR urn forward, but she knew it was empty as soon as she touched it.

“Goddammit.” She slammed the cup against the counter, cracking it, and turned to look around, as if there were a roomful of people to share her exasperation. Under normal circumstances, running out of coffee would have started a riot.

She grimaced. Riot. Nice word choice . While the fracas at the midwinter party hadn’t quite fit the definition, it had been close. And for better reasons than running out of coffee. But still, where the hell was everyone?

Anne called the names again, hoping that one of the kitchen grunts simply had their head in a bin and hadn’t heard her, then bellied herself across the countertop, trying to see into the prep area without actually crossing the line from the dining room into the kitchen—a big no-no that earned an ass-chewing from Deb for violating sanitation guidelines. But there was no one.

Looking around again, this time guiltily, Anne scooted her butt onto the counter— how’s that for a sanitation violation, Deb? —spun in place, and landed on the other side. No Pete. Maybe they’d run out for supplies?

In the meantime, there had to be coffee somewhere. Gingerly at first, then with more and more assertiveness, she proceeded to ransack the kitchen, tipping open boxes and peeking into cabinets, first in search of coffee and then, she had to admit to herself, simply because it was so much fun being nosy. A grin, unfamiliar but welcome, spread across her face. If she’d known it would be this much fun to snoop, she would’ve risked a demerit weeks ago.

Coffee was still her primary goal, however, and she continued the hunt into bins, boxes, and cupboards, but to no avail. She was about to open an upper cabinet when one of the freezers kicked on with a click and hum, scaring her half to death. One hand pressed to her chest, she leaned against a counter, trying to recover. Her heart hammered in her breast like a bird beating its wings against the bars of a cage. When the rhythm returned to normal, she moved on to opening boxes and plastic crates piled by the outer door, marveling at the amount of food needed to keep forty-four people alive.

Well, forty-three, now. Or is that forty-two? The thought came ugly, unbidden, and she recoiled, disgusted with herself, wondering where the hell it had come from. Childish laughter, light and cruel, lit along the edge of her mind and she slapped herself.

She stood there, panting, dissecting her thoughts and wondering if she were going insane. Her cheek burned where she’d struck it. She needed to move, needed to do something, or she was going to lose her mind.

Spastically, she began tearing open the lids of boxes, ripping open bags, knocking canisters, jars, and pots off of shelves. Tears trickled down her cheeks as jars tumbled to the ground and broke, scattering sugar and salt across the floor. The kitchen was filled with the reek of vinegar and cheese, the must of dried spices, the malted smells of rice and flour. Gasping, she hurled a box of dried milk across the room. It burst into a cloud of white powder and she gagged as a sickly sweet smell reminiscent of infant formula floated on the air.

“Jesus H. Christ on a stick.”

Anne froze at the voice, slowly turning to face the bulging eyes of Pete Ozment. He stood in the doorway to the hall, one foot holding the outer door open. Trailing behind him was a large cart with boxes stacked three deep.

“Anne? What in blazes are you doing?”

Her mouth opened, unable to articulate a sound at first. Granules of powdered milk floated downward in the space between them. Finally, when his eyebrows hit the top of his hairline, she said simply, “I was looking for coffee.”

“Coffee?” He pushed the cart into the kitchen. It made small grinding sounds as it crushed salt and sugar crystals beneath its wheels. “This whole damn thing is full of coffee. I just busted my ass to bring back a hundred pounds of it from the warehouse and you wrecked my kitchen while I was doing it.”

She stared, fish-mouthed, at the boxes, then up at Pete’s frowning face. She couldn’t help herself, and started to laugh. He looked as if he was going to explode, then threw his head back, put his hands on his hips, and started to laugh, too. More tears, from laughter this time, cascaded down her face. She choked out an apology in the middle of her cracking up.

“Coffee.” He shook his head as his laughter wound down. “The girl wanted coffee.”

They looked around at the mess she’d made and then they both got the giggles again. As Pete put his head back to guffaw once again, a large figure suddenly appeared in the hall behind him. Anne gasped.

Following her gaze over his shoulder, Pete started to turn, making it only partway before the figure raised an arm, then chopped down like a gate swinging shut. Something hit the cook on the top of the head with the sound of a wet hand-clap.