Chapter 9
573 Words
75
“YOU’RE SUNK!”
75
“YOU’RE SUNK!”
by Cynthia Ward
“Cut!” The director tilted his head up, scanning for the source of the propeller drone. “I can’t believe how often airplane noise ruins our shots. We’re at the South Pole, for Christ’s sake.”
“The Antarctic Treaty means ‘no military bases,’ not ‘no planes,’“ said the set produc-tion assistant, who was returning from the makeshift parking lot. “That’s not the only problem, Chick.”
Chick Cabane turned to the woman.
“We upload tonight’s episode of Alive! in five hours, Mac, and we’ve just discovered a mystery ruin in the Antarctic ice. I don’t care if there’s a problem with a production cube.”
“There’s not a problem with the produc-tion cubes.” Mac shoved a ring of motor vehicle keys in a loose sock and stuffed it in a pocket of her parka, then took off her sunglasses and faced the director. “There’s a problem with the ruin.”
Malachite MacReady was a tall, wiry woman who nearly vanished in her parka and boots. Her fur-lined hood was pushed back for frequent cellphone deployment. Apart from her gray-threaded black hair, the only visible parts of her body were the black eyes and brown skin above a mask with the Alive! logo: a shipwreck, encircled by a life-preserver bearing the motto “Sink or Swim.”
“And just what is the problem with the ruin?” the director snapped.
“We don’t know what’s in it,” Mac re-plied.
“Finding out will make Alive! the biggest TV show in history.”
Chick Cabane communicated in super-latives, unwittingly informing everyone that this was his first prime-time gig. He’d worked on dozens of cable and streaming knockoffs of popular reality TV shows—ev-
erything from yatch-flipping money-p**n Float Your Boat to sleazy marriage-buster Conjugation Station. From its first season, Alive! had consistently topped the ratings of the venerable Survivor, but Chick Ca-bane clearly viewed the runaway hit as just another stepping-stone on the path to A-list feature film director.
Chick focused on the aircraft spoiling the extreme-wilderness ambiance.
“Take ten, everyone,” he said. “That’ll get the plane out of range. When we resume, the cast digs out the shack.”
He returned his attention to Mac and re-moved his sunglasses, revealing pale skin like the negative of a raccoon’s mask. The rest of his face was burned a bright red. Chick Cabane couldn’t be bothered to wear a mask, scarf, or other face covering.
Most crew members followed Chick’s lead. The cast followed their contract. Nick-named “outcasts,” cast members were ob-ligated to reveal their faces, whatever the weather.
Chick’s pale eyes almost disappeared in crow’s feet as he squinted at Mac against the glare of sun, snow, and ice.
“Get over here,” he rasped.
Mac approached the director, not hesitat-ing when his laser-beam glare heated to ice-melt. Though a newcomer in the entertain-ment business, she’d spent twenty years in the U.S. Army, with multiple tours of duty in hot spots. As threats went, an angry direc-tor ranked several notches below a cranky wasp.
“Chick, seriously,” she said quietly. “If there’s no record of this place—”
“The ruined cabin’s obviously part of some old explorer base, built and abandoned early in the twentieth century,” Chick said
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