The White Static of Winter

A low, metallic shriek ripped through the muffled quiet, slicing through the deep snow and the thick, winter air. Frank, crouched low, his small mittened hands scraping at the frozen earth under the snow, froze. He was trying to dig out a piece of dark, frozen willow branch, imagining it as the mast of a ship trapped in an icy sea. The sound wasn't like a snowmobile, or the distant roar of a transport plane. It was sharper, a sustained, tearing noise, like metal being stretched too far. It came from the west perimeter, near the fence line where the big, unmarked supply trucks usually parked.

He lifted his head, snow clinging to the brim of his wool hat, and peered through the swirling flakes. The base buildings, squat and dark, seemed to pull closer, their windows reflecting nothing but the grey light. The sound tapered off into a high-pitched whine, then dissolved into the omnipresent hum that vibrated through the ground, a low thrumming that was always there, just beneath the threshold of hearing, like a sleeping giant. Frank had heard it for months now, a vibration in his teeth when he pressed his ear to the frosted windowpanes of the community hall. The adults just called it 'base operations.'

Frank shivered, not just from the cold that nipped at his exposed cheeks. He stood up, shaking off the loose snow, his boots making a soft crunching sound as he turned away from the fence line. The willow branch was forgotten. He tucked his chin further into his parka, the fur tickling his nose, and started walking back towards the cluster of buildings. The snow seemed to climb higher with every step, the effort making his legs ache. His breath puffed out in thick clouds, momentarily obscuring his view. He liked the quiet of the snow, usually. It made the world feel cleaner, simpler. But today, the quiet felt too big, too empty, like a cupboard door left open in the dark.

The community hall was mostly empty. A few younger kids were tumbling over faded mats at one end, their giggles thin and reedy. The air inside was warm, almost too warm, and smelled faintly of dust and stale coffee from the thermos Sergeant Murray left on his desk. Frank found Irene already at their table, a long, scarred surface pushed against the wall, covered in scattered bits of coloured paper, blunt scissors, and a jar of dried-up glue sticks. She was meticulously flattening a discarded cereal box, her small tongue caught between her teeth.

"That sound," Frank said, pulling off his mittens and blowing on his numb fingers. They were already turning red, little purple lines tracing the frostbite scars from last winter. He didn't wait for her to ask what sound. Irene always knew what he meant, even when he didn't say all the words.

Irene didn't look up, her brow furrowed in concentration. "Yeah. Heard it." She pressed the cereal box smooth with the heel of her hand. "From the south tower. Near the big satellite dish." She finally lifted her eyes, her gaze sharp, even for a child, like she saw things others missed. "Wasn't supposed to be working today. The sign said." She nodded towards a crumpled, hand-drawn schedule tacked to a corkboard near the door, listing maintenance for various base facilities. 'South Tower - Power Down' was scrawled next to today's date in a shaky hand.

Frank grunted, pulling out a wobbly plastic chair. He sat down heavily, the legs scraping on the linoleum floor. He picked up a piece of metallic wrapping paper, crinkled and iridescent. It had probably once held some birthday gift for a child who had long since moved away. "Sounded like… a big tin can getting stomped." He smoothed the paper, the shiny surface distorting the light from the fluorescent tubes overhead. Everything on the base was old, used, repurposed. Like them, maybe.

Irene pushed a small, empty box towards him. "Help me. For the town." Her voice was soft, barely a whisper over the faint cries of the younger children. The 'town' was their project: a miniature replica of the small, isolated town just outside the base, made entirely from recycled materials found around Fort Resolute. It was their way of understanding a world they only saw in glimpses, through the dusty windows of the base bus during supply runs. A world that felt as remote and fictional as a picture book.

Frank took the box. It was a milk carton, washed out but still faintly smelling of sour milk. He started carefully cutting along the seams, his fingers stiff from the cold and the awkwardness of the blunt scissors. The cutting felt deliberate, each snip a small victory against the stubborn cardboard. His mother, a medic on the base, had told him once about the importance of precision. 'Lives depend on it,' she'd said. Frank wasn't saving lives, just building tiny houses for a pretend town, but he still tried to be precise. It was a comfort, a small point of control in a world that felt very big and very out of control.

"Dad’s still gone," Irene said suddenly, her voice flat. She was now drawing a tiny window on another piece of cardboard with a dried-up marker, the lines thin and grey, barely visible. Her father was in 'training exercises' somewhere far north, beyond the last power lines, beyond the last radio signal. He had been gone for two months now, and Frank knew Irene counted the days like she counted the buttons on her favourite coat.

Frank nodded, not looking at her. He knew. His own father, a supply officer, was due back next week from a similar 'exercise.' The adults used the phrase like a shield, a polite way of saying 'gone, might be in danger, don't ask too many questions.' But the kids knew. They always knew. They could feel the tension humming in the mess hall when new orders came in, see the weary lines around their parents' eyes. They heard the silences that stretched too long.

"The new trucks," Irene continued, her voice still quiet, but her eyes were fixed on the far wall, as if watching something beyond it. "They're black. And they don't have base numbers." She pressed her marker harder against the cardboard, a tiny, almost imperceptible tear forming in the paper. "Saw one this morning, pulling out. Too big for the roads. And too quiet." She didn't elaborate. She didn't need to. They both knew the official base vehicles were always marked, always rumbling. These silent, black trucks were a recent, unsettling addition, noticed by the sharp eyes of children who had little else to observe.

Frank felt a shiver run down his spine, a different kind of cold. The hum under the ground, the shriek from the tower, the quiet black trucks. Little pieces that didn’t fit, like puzzle pieces from different boxes. He looked at the milk carton in his hands, then at the scattered bits of construction paper, the glitter that always got everywhere. He imagined the town they were building, not as a replica, but as a miniature shield, a small place they could control, where no black trucks drove silently, where no towers shrieked without reason.

He started drawing a door on his milk carton, making it tall and narrow, like the entrance to a very old, very secret shop. He added a tiny, almost invisible knob. He pressed too hard, and the marker skipped, leaving a scratch across the cardboard. It wasn't perfect. Nothing ever was.

The Unseen Drill

Sergeant Murray entered the hall, his boots crunching on the tiny pebbles of grit tracked in from outside. He was a gruff man with kind eyes, but today his face was tight, his usual smile absent. He carried a clipboard, clutched tight in one hand. The younger kids stopped their tumbling, sensing the shift in the air. The hall went silent, except for the distant, persistent hum.

"Alright, kids," Sergeant Murray said, his voice a little strained, like he was trying to push something heavy. "Listen up. We've got an unscheduled drill. Perimeter lockdown. Code Black." His eyes scanned the room, lingering for a fraction of a second too long on Frank and Irene. Code Black. It meant serious. It meant stay inside, away from windows, don't talk to anyone you don't know.

Irene looked at Frank, her eyes wide, holding his gaze. They both knew Code Black wasn't for practice. Not really. Practice was Code Green, or sometimes Code Yellow. Code Black meant something was actually happening, or about to happen. Something the adults weren't talking about, but which hung in the air like the scent of woodsmoke, sharp and pervasive.

"Everyone to the designated safe rooms," Sergeant Murray continued, his voice regaining some of its usual authority, but the tension in his shoulders was palpable. He pointed towards a thick steel door at the back of the hall. "Now. Let's move it, people. Quickly and quietly."

The younger children started to whimper, their earlier giggles forgotten. Their faces contorted, some close to tears. Frank felt a cold knot in his stomach. He didn't want to go into the safe room. It was a windowless box, smelling of stale air and fear. He looked at their unfinished town on the table, the scattered paper and dull scissors. It felt wrong to leave it, unfinished, vulnerable. Like leaving a small, defenceless thing exposed to the elements.

Irene, however, was already gathering their small collection of cardboard houses. Her movements were swift, efficient. She stacked them neatly, tucking the tiny milk carton building Frank had made under her arm. She didn’t say anything, just looked at him with an urgency that left no room for argument. Her small act of preserving their created world was a quiet, steadying force.

Frank nodded, pushing his chair back. The scrape echoed in the sudden silence of the room. He felt a weird, heavy pressure behind his eyes. He followed Irene and the other children towards the steel door, the hum from the floorboards feeling louder now, a vibration against his soles that seemed to claw its way up his legs. He kept his eyes fixed on the back of Irene’s coat, a familiar patch of faded blue in a world that was suddenly too grey, too uncertain. He could feel the cold breath of the draft from the perimeter door even inside the supposedly warm building.

The safe room was cramped. Children huddled in corners, some silently crying into their knees. Sergeant Murray stood by the thick door, listening, his face a mask of worry. Frank sat on the floor next to Irene, his knees drawn up, the milk carton house still clutched in her hands, pressed against her chest like a small, fragile heart. The silence inside was thick, broken only by sniffles and the steady, rhythmic breathing of the trapped children.

He heard a faint tapping. Irene was tapping a small rhythm on the side of the cardboard house, a quiet, almost inaudible beat. Frank reached out and touched the side of the box. The cardboard was rough under his fingertips. He felt the coldness from outside, the way the hum seemed to press in on the walls, making his ears ache. He wondered about the black trucks, where they went, what they carried. He wondered what was making the shriek, and why the south tower wasn't supposed to be working. His mind wandered, associative and messy, skipping from the black trucks to the taste of his mother's burnt toast this morning, then to a memory of a bird, last summer, tangled in fishing line near the lake, still fluttering, too small to escape.

He closed his eyes. The light from the single bulb hanging from the ceiling was too bright, too stark. He could still feel the hum, though. Always the hum. It was like a second heartbeat, but not his own, a pulse from something much bigger, much colder, buried deep under the snow-covered ground.

They were let out hours later. The sky was turning a bruised purple, the light fading fast. The air outside bit at Frank's face, sharper than before. Sergeant Murray just waved them off, his movements stiff, his face still unreadable. He told them to go straight home. Frank saw him talking low, too low, to another officer by the gate, their figures silhouetted against the dimming light.

Irene went home, her small shoulders hunched, the milk carton house still held tight. Frank watched her go, a small, dark shape disappearing into the deepening twilight. He found himself walking back towards the west perimeter, drawn by an unspoken curiosity, a need to see. The snow was untouched, pristine, unbroken. No footprints but his own. The metallic shriek was gone. The hum was still there, though, vibrating through the cold air, a faint, high-frequency tremble that made the hairs on his arms stand up.

He walked past the fence line, crunching through the fresh snow, his gaze fixed on the dense line of spruce trees that marked the edge of the forest. The wind was picking up, stirring the top layer of snow into ghostly wisps. He saw it then. A bird. A small chickadee, its usual bright, energetic movements absent. It was fluttering erratically, low to the ground, bumping into the branches, almost blindly. It seemed disoriented, its black eyes glassy, its small head cocked at an unnatural angle. It bumped against a snow-laden branch, then fell, landing awkwardly in a drift, its tiny wings twitching once, twice, then still.

Frank stood very still, his own breath catching in his throat. He looked from the bird to the faint green glow now barely visible from a small vent on the side of one of the distant, dark supply buildings – the same part of the base he’d heard the shriek from earlier. The glow pulsed, almost imperceptibly, against the deepening gloom. He felt a chill that had nothing to do with the wind. The chickadee, small and broken, lay still in the snow, a dark speck against the overwhelming white. He knew, with the hollow certainty only a child possesses when faced with the inexplicable, that something was very wrong here, under all this snow, under the quiet hum, under the watchful, colourless sky.