A writer whether I want to be or not.

Woke up at 6:00 this morning with the words, "John is planning to kill you," running through my head.

I tried to get back to sleep, but the scene kept going.


"She spoke softly, but I never doubted what she said. I didn't ask why or how or when. I went to my room, opened the top drawer of the dresser, and pulled out the Beretta 92. I put on my lab coat, which was as white as the snow outside and still wrinkled from shipping. I slipped the gun into the right front pocket. The bulge was barely noticeable."


Come back later, I told myself. But the words kept coming.


"When I returned the kitchen, Karen was standing in front of the Keurig machine, still pumping out dark coffee in soft spurts. She didn't look at me. The windows were iced over, reflecting the harsh florescent lights, which had the opposite effect of softening her sharp features, making her dark eyes softer.

It was early Thursday morning, February 15th. Last flight out had been Tuesday."


What the fuck is this? If you're going to write something, make it a Hart Davis story!


"John came into the kitchen a half hour later. In a trance, he went to the coffee machine, not even replacing the pod. He gulped down a quick six ounces, groaning softly. "Damn, I love this machine."
He slipped his cup back in, put in a fresh pod, added some creamer. He sat down across from me at the long table, which was big enough to service a fully staffed station. There was just the three of us for the next nine months.

"Weird how it never snows," he said, glancing at the windows. "Two kilometers of ice and it never fucking snows."  


I give up. I throw on my bathrobe, grab my laptop and start writing.


Karen was leaning against the counter, still not looking at either of us. Neither of us answered. My hand was in my pocket. I hesitated for a moment, then left the safety on.

"What the hell?" John asked. "This is going to be a long winter if you two aren't going to talk."

Karen snorted and poured her coffee into the sink. She rinsed her mug and hung it from one of the hooks. There were twenty-five other mugs lined up, waiting for their owners to return. She turned and left without saying another word.

John glanced over at me, his eyebrows raised. "You guys have a fight?"

I almost answered. Karen and I never fight. We just get even.

She's just grumpy in the morning. As you well know."


Linda wakes up, I read to her what I've written.


John looked toward the door, then suddenly hunched forward, hugging his coffee mug. "She's going to kill you, Iain."

Karen's words hadn't surprised me, but this did. John wasn't the confiding type. You two need to get your plans straight. "Literally or figuratively?" I asked.  

"I mean it, man. Watch your back. I'll be watching mine."


"Cool," Linda says. "Where are they?"

"Hell if I know. Antarctica?"


John stared at me as if he knew my right hand was on the butt of the Beretta. I took a deep breath, then put both hands on the table. It wasn't going to happen this moment. These were just the preliminaries. We'd all been thinking about it ever since Jennifer Maslow had left with the others, diagnosed with the first signs of Multiple Sclerosis. We'd all been expecting her to keep the peace.


What the hell is this?