Page 10 of Spread Me

The end of the team’s first full week at the research station coincides with their first sandstorm. Weatherman fills the lab with warm red light, which Domino translates into news of incoming danger. The wind outside screams against the walls of the station. The lab wing and the residential wing both feel exposed, thanks to their exterior walls. Over the course of the day, the entire team has drifted into the canteen, where the outside world feels a little more removed.

Jacques is the last to enter. He arrived at the station the same time as Saskia, the two of them joining the rest of the team the day before the storm. He shivers as he walks into the canteen. It’s eternally chilly in here, since there aren’t any exterior walls letting in heat. The air conditioner is always working overtime to keep the residential wing and the lab wing cool, but the canteen has an entire storage room between it and the elements outside, so it gets refrigerated by the overactive cooling system.

“Hope you’re nearly done with that blanket,”

he says, nodding to Saskia as he passes through the canteen. She’s sitting on one of the beat-up secondhand sofas and armchairs that form a rash around the scarred coffee table. The first few inches of a knitted blanket hang between her fingers.

“Oh, sure. Just a few more minutes,”

she murmurs. Domino is the only one who catches the joke. The laugh they let out is loud and sudden enough that it startles Mads into dropping their pristine copy of Tropic of Cancer.

Nothing in the canteen is fully attached to the walls, not even the sink. Bulk-bought shelf-stable food is stacked on wire shelves lining the walls. Jacques bypasses them and opens the storage closet at the back of the canteen.

“What’s in here?”

The sound of the wind outside invades the room.

“Sandstorm. Don’t let it out,”

Nkrumah calls. She’s sitting next to the coffee table, laying out cards for a complicated version of solitaire that she refuses to explain to the others.

Jacques disappears into the closet. He emerges again a moment later with a handle of dark rum in one hand and a bag of limes in the other. “Jackpot.”

“Jaques-pot,”

Domino corrects.

“Where you headed with all those limes?”

Jacques kicks the storage closet door shut behind him, dropping the room back into relative peace.

“We’re all stuck in here tonight. Tomorrow morning too, probably. So I figure we should have a good time while we’re at it. Tomorrow, I think we should see about knocking out some of the walls between things. So much wasted space. But not tonight. What do you say, Boss? Cocktails?”

Kinsey stands up, walks to the stack of heavy-duty plastic bins that hold the team’s dishware. She pops the lid off the bin that holds the mugs, pulls one out, uses the tail of her shirt to wipe dust out of it.

“That seems like a yes?”

he says, using his thumb to break the seal on top of the handle of rum.

Kinsey holds her mug out to him.

“Let’s fucking party.”

He takes it with an approving nod and starts to pour as the others rummage for their own mugs. Once everyone has a full pour, a healthy squeeze of lime, and a splash of the watery ginger ale Mads pulls out of the storage closet, Jacques raises his mug for a toast.

“To sandstorms.”

The rest of them follow suit.

“To sandstorms!”