Hell is where you hang your hat

Yesterday I hid out behind the fuel dump at 18:57:09 and watched as at least twenty men, two helicopters, and a pile of scientific equipment sprung out of nowhere. Some of the men were offloading more equipment from the helicopter, others in heated discussions, and a couple of men stood quietly and alert, guarding the entrance to the station. Weaving in and out the crowd was a pack of pure white huskies. I ducked down behind the 55 gallon drums and checked my watch. 18:58:01. I slid up and peered back over the top of the barrels. Suddenly one of the dogs raised his head and barked. The guards spun around. They shouted, drew their sidearms, and fired. A ball of fire engulfed me.

I woke up in the snow later, I don't know when, my head ringing, and the stench of scorched hair in my nose. I put my hands to my face and checked for blood or missing parts. But aside from a raging headache, I seemed to be intact. I glanced at the fuel barrels. No damage. No evidence of a fire.

I stood up, brushed off the snow, and stumbled inside.

It appears that the McMurdo team had a similar plan. My existence was a threat, and I had to be eliminated. But they had acted too late. A fraction of a second longer and I would be dead. I won't make that mistake.

It is currently 14:00 NZST. Station151 is now ringed with explosives. In less than five hours I will commit mass murder.