Artifact, page 1
ARTIFACT
By Jeremy Robinson
Description:
In an isolated Alaskan town, the local sheriff uncovers a secret lab where generative A.I. and bioprinting have unleashed grotesque, living anomalies—and now, something monstrous is loose.
Sheriff Colton Graves prefers the quiet life in Raven’s Rest, Alaska, a remote town accessible only by tunnel and home to a hardy mix of locals and secrets buried in the ice. But when a camel wanders down Main Street—its head grotesquely sprouting a dozen eyes—Colton knows his quiet days are over. The bizarre incident leads him to NovaGen, a nearby research facility constructed inside a Cold War bunker, buried in the mountains above town. There, a trail of blood and eerie silence hints at something far more sinister than an escaped animal experiment.
With his deputies—the sharp-witted Tali and rookie Ethan—Colton recruits a few trusted locals, including the unshakable Marit, Tali’s sister, the intimidating ‘Grizz’ Norval, and Edgar ‘Old Red’ Rydell, an aging man plagued by demons from when he worked at the bunker during its covert cold war days.
Together, they investigate the abandoned lab. What begins as a search for missing scientists soon reveals chilling evidence: pools of blood without bodies, cryptic warnings left behind, a bloody six-fingered handprint, and the revelation of a new technology: a generative A.I. capable of printing living organisms. As they descend deeper into the lab, it becomes clear that the answers they seek may come at a terrifying cost—and that what was made in the dark may not be content to stay there.
New York Times and #1 Audible bestselling author, Jeremy Robinson, reclaims his title as one of the best Michael Crichton successors, with this harrowing blend of suspense, science, and survival. ARTIFACT takes readers into a frozen abyss where innovation and nightmare collide.
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Table of Contents
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Epilogue
AUTHOR’S NOTE
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ALSO BY JEREMY ROBINSON
ARTIFACT
JEREMY ROBINSON
For the late, great Michael Crichton.
I’m not as brilliant as you, but I hope to
capture a little of your magic in this one.
1
Nothing wakes a man up faster than sitting down on a toilet bowl, overfilled with thirty-ish degree well water, baptizing his nethers in the name of the Father, Son, and—
“Holy shit!” I leap up off the toilet, boxers around my ankles. A quick dab of toilet paper dries me up, but the electric cold radiates through my body, sharp sonar waves pinging off my skin’s inner wall. Goose bumps prick to life on my forearms and thighs. A shiver transforms me into James Brown for a moment.
A song comes to mind, and I can’t help but belt it out with altered lyrics. “I feel cold! Na-na-na-na-na-na-na.”
It’s my own fault. I like it nippy when I sleep. Not hard to accomplish when it’s negative fifteen outside. Raven’s Rest, Alaska, situated on the coast of Prince William Sound, is separated from the outside world by a single, three mile long tunnel through the mountains. During the winter, it’s the only way in or out of town. This isn’t a place any normal person would want to be this side of September, and today is… Well, I don’t know what day it is. But I’m sure it’s February.
Pretty sure. Winter passes by in a cold, boring blur. Not quite perpetual darkness. We get six hours of dark blue sky…but no direct sunlight. Come winter, we have three big sellers in this town: alcohol, anti-depressants, and daylight therapy lamps.
But only one of them can ruin my day. Or make it interesting. Guess that depends on your perspective. Are drunk people amusing? Most of the time. The few that aren’t can muck up your day—the whole week, if you don’t get in the first punch.
“Okay,” I say to myself, shuffling to the light switch and flicking it on. Eyes clenched mostly shut, I return to the toilet and look down. “Huh…” I need to put the heat on. There’s a chunk of ice, floating like a turd, in my bowl. No way it’s gonna flush.
Which means, I also need to make the ‘twinkle tinkle run.’ That’s what my deputy, Tali Nuluk, calls it. There’s only one bathroom at the station, and if someone is taking their pretty time, or there’s a plumbing issue, you’re headed outside, where your tinkle…will twinkle as it freezes on impact or drifts away as steam, which is rancid any way you try to paint it.
And yeah, I’m at the station. Sleep here most nights, because ‘the Tower’ makes me claustrophobic, among other things. Most year-rounders live there. A ten story apartment building filled top to bottom with people, all of whom know I’m the guy to come see when trouble rears its abominable head. I get a lot of knocks on the door, usually for nothing.
Doreen Parker once came to me because she and her husband had an argument over how many tablespoons were in a stick of butter. They were amazed when I showed them the measurements on the wax paper wrapping. Neither of them was right. Neither of them was close.
Tali tells me I’m avoiding my grief. That I need to move back in and deal with what’s there. Not the neighbors. My wife’s things. Her clothes. Her tea sets. Her smell.
Way I see it, the only thing the Tower has over the sheriff’s station is shallow toilet water. And thawed toilet water. And yeah, Tali is right, but winter isn’t a good time to have another breakdown. The dead will still be buried when the snow melts.
After hiking up my boxers, I stumble through the dark station, bare feet stinging as they slap on the cold linoleum floor. I open the front door—yeah, the front. No one is awake at this hour and only a madman would be out. I gasp wide awake as the freezing air wraps around me and caresses every pore.
Takes a moment for my nervous system to adjust and my lungs to start working again. The inside of my nose freezes when I breathe in and thaws when I breathe out. Won’t be long before all the moisture leaks out and forms a glacier on my mustache. My skin is already starting to burn, so I need to make this quick. Tali’s going to be cranky about the yellow snow, but it will be covered soon enough. Not a day passes without a fresh coat.
I scan the area as I piss, confirming that the town’s sheriff—me—won’t have to write himself up for indecent exposure.
Main Street is dark. I can see the silhouettes of buildings across the road, backlit by the Tower’s outdoor flood lights. But most of the town is a spectral dream, present but unseen.
The crunch of snow to my left spins me around, creating a yellow trail at the bottom of the two concrete steps. Another crunch follows. Then another. Someone is walking down Main Street.
Or something.
I shuffle through the possibilities.
Bear? No. Hibernating, unless it’s desperate for food, or has rabies. In either case, it would be charging me already.
Human? Unlikely. Unless drunk. But the gait is steady and quick.
Moose is the most likely culprit. Had three spend a few hours in town a few days back, just hanging around.
Drained and on guard, I give myself a little shake, tuck my business away, and then reach my hand over to the exterior light switch. I feel naked without my sidearm…but since I’m already just about actually in the buff, I light up the night.
The whole town—across the street, anyway—comes into view.
Along with my visitor.
“What in God’s name?” I gasp, once again feeling the spirit of James Brown in my bones. “How the hell did you get here?”
My visitor doesn’t answer. Doesn’t even look at me. It just hurries on past.
Because it can’t speak.
Because…
Because it’s a camel.
2
I stumble back a step, blinking as the air crystalizes the moisture on my eyes. But it’s still there. I’m hallucinating. Have to be.
“Hey!” I shout at the camel.
It snorts and stumbles to a stop, as surprised by me as I am by it.
It’s seven feet tall—eight at the single hump. Must weigh in around 1,300 pounds, give or take. The out of place animal side-eyes me. Afraid? Suspicious? I can read a dog’s body language from a half mile, but I don’t speak camel. Also, its eye is bulging, round, and bloodshot. Almost cartoon-like. Looks close to bursting. The creature’s tail snaps back and forth, agitated. I would be, too, if I were out for a stroll in this weather.
With the camel standing still, I can hear the gentle ticking of snow landing on the ground. Only other sound is the camel’s breathing. Labored. Tired.
“Where did you come from?” I whisper, trying to mentally recreate a puzzle with no pieces.
Doesn’t really matter. Don’t think this is the cold-weather variety of camel. “You’re going to die out there.”
Doesn’t seem to care. I’d like to help it, but I have nowhere to put something that big. And if I don’t close this door or put on some clothes, I’m going to be in a world of hurt. My whole body is burning already. Going to take some time for the pain to fade.
Now that he’s standing still, I can see the frozen froth around his mouth. Something’s wrong with this creature. Best guess, one of the Ivanoff boys shipped it in before the first snow and kept it hidden in one of the barns over at Glacier View all this time. Not sure what the purpose would be, but the Ivanoff family is known for its eccentric…hobbies.
And while they sound like a bunch of Russians, they’re actually pure blood Chugach Sugpiaq, aka Alutiiq, whose ancestors were baptized by the Orthodox Church. Just one of the lingering effects of Russian colonization during the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries—before Uncle Sam got the whole of Alaska for two cents an acre. Seven-point-two million. In today’s dollars, that’s about one hundred fifty million for a parcel of land larger than France, Germany, and Spain combined.
The camel stomps its foot and the broad fleshy heel bends out to support its weight, another reminder of just how incongruous the beast is. Those feet were made for sand, not snow.
I stand there, frozen, unsure of what to do or say.
The camel makes the first move. It’s a simple gesture—turning its head to look me dead in the eyes. Maybe a final connection with something living before it keels over.
But what I expect to see and what I actually see are as far apart as a dream about oil-wrestling Salma Hayek and a nightmare of a singing Teletubby harvesting my organs.
This nightmare is real, breathing, and staring at me through the one eye on its right side, and what looks to be a dozen or more eyeballs bulging out of the opposite side of its face. They look like engorged ticks, moving as one, locking onto me, each one of them functional.
I stumble back. “Oh my God.”
My legs hitch, and I fall onto my ass, unable to look away from the thing.
“What the fuck are you?”
The camel bellows, the agonizing sound of it tearing through me, making me feel nothing but compassion for the creature, despite its disfigurement. Then it sprays froth at me and lurches away. I watch until the beast fades from the floodlight’s glow.
Takes about ten seconds for the shock to wear off and for my mind to fully feel the effects of the cold.
“Ahh!” I shout, hopping to my feet. I snap the interior lights on and then hop-run back to the cell I’ve made my home away from home. “Fuck me.”
With shaking hands, I pull on my pants and a shirt. I’m trying to move quickly, but it’s not just my hands trembling, it’s my arms and legs, too. I sit on the cot to make sure I don’t fall over. Then I pull on my wool socks, a sweater, and my brown sheriff’s jacket. “Fuck me.”
I rub my hands together and then on my pants, but the friction isn’t nearly enough to cut through the biting cold. “Fuck me.”
The heat. I need to turn the heat up. I pull my boots on and stand without tying them. Wouldn’t be possible if I tried. On my way out of the cell, I pull my black beanie over my head and ears. Fully clothed, I walk through the station more confidently than I did before, even hidden by the dark with no one watching. Takes five strides to reach the thermostat, which I, for some godforsaken reason, have twisted all the way to the left, set at the chilly temperature of ‘off.’
I twist it to the right, stopping at seventy degrees. Will be a miracle if the office reaches that temperature before spring.
A gust of wind turns me around. Left the door open. I don’t blame myself. The memory of that camel is still gnawing away at me, and it’s not something I can let go. Not only is it a mystery, and a crime—I think—but it’s by far the most interesting thing that’s going to happen in this town for the next decade or so. Can’t just let it wander off into the night.
I pull out my iPhone, swipe it on, and let my face unlock it. Takes three tries to open the phone app. Typing is impossible. “S-Siri,” I say, teeth chattering. Despite sounding like Max Headroom, the swirling ball of light forms at the bottom of the screen. “C-call Tali.”
“Calling Tali,” the phone says.
I place the device to my ear and listen to it ringing. I’ve heard that the first few rings of a cellphone are fake; the phone on the other end isn’t ringing. The call is still connecting. That’s why no one ever picks up on the first or second ring of a cell phone call.
Tali answers just as the third ring starts, meaning her arm snapped out in the dark, she grabbed her phone, and then tapped the answer button before she was fully awake. Reflexes like a cat, that woman. Wouldn’t think so by looking at her. She’s five-four with thick thighs. Won’t be winning any fifty yard dashes, but her hands are lightning wrapped in human skin.
“Here. I’m here.” she says, trying not to sound groggy.
“Station,” I say. “Now.”
“What’s wrong?” Sounds fully awake now. Guessing she’s already on her feet.
“Wouldn’t believe me if I told you.” I turn on the coffee maker, already prepped for my morning cup. “And rustle up Ethan on your way. He won’t want to miss this.”
“Colton,” she says, “What is going on? Tell me right now or I’m going back to bed.”
I sigh. “Fine. There is a thirteen-eyed giant animal loose in town.”
The other end of the line goes silent for a moment. Probably debating whether I’ve been drinking or I’m pulling a prank. Takes her ten seconds to realize I don’t do either. “On my way.”
3
I pour three coffees into to-go cups, one with cream and sugar (mine), one with extra cream and extra sugar (Tali’s), and one black. I don’t know how Ethan stands the stuff. I do not make good coffee. Tali’s been begging me to get one of those pod things. Makes good coffee every time, she says. Her sister, Marit, owner of The Roost, a bar just down the street, has one. Tali said she cried the first time she tried it. Some kind of Blueberry Cobbler coffee. Sounds like a crock of moose pellets to me.
The door swings open, letting in a cold burst of air and snow. Looks to be coming down heavier now. Not great. We’ll need to get out there before the tracks are covered.
Ethan follows Tali in and closes the door behind him. Both are wearing parkas, snowpants, and boots, ready for the Arctic north.
“I thought we were in a rush,” Ethan says, looking at me, and then turning to Tali. “You said we were in a rush.”
I’m confused by the response. Deputy Ethan Ishida is a rookie who stands out in Raven’s Rest on account of him being the first and only person of Japanese descent to ever live in and/or visit town. He has never once expressed annoyance or questioned me. Not sure that he is now, either.
Tali confirms that when she asks, “Why aren’t you dressed?”
I look down at my jeans and brown sheriff’s jacket. “What?”
“You’re going to freeze your ass cheeks solid dressed like that.” She takes on a motherly tone and adds, “Go put on your snow pants and parka. We have them for a reason.”
“No one takes me seriously when I wear them,” I grumble.
“No one will take you seriously if you get frostbite and lose your fingers. Say goodbye to that legendary right hook of yours. Every fight you ever get in will just be a slap fest.” She smiles. “Actually, you know what. Never mind. That would be hysterical to watch.”
I turn to Ethan, hoping for some backup.
He shakes his head. “I think you’re supposed to be the good example for me, sir. Not the other way around.”
“Fine,” I say, grimacing. I head to the breakroom, which we also use as Ethan’s office, storage, and the locker room. There’s a refrigerator, four tall lockers, a round table, four chairs, and a filing cabinet. Boxes line the walls. Nothing important. Really just a glorified lost and found for the town.
