There's no sign of the trio that sat out across the Arctic landscape ten days ago now.

No tracks, no gear, nothing.

Two days into our search, and we have yet to see a single indication that the men were ever here.

But there is some good news.

I haven't heard the voices at all yet today.

Of course, the day is still young.

The blinding Arctic desert stretches out in all directions.

The landscape constantly changing as wind moves the snow around.

Like sand dunes in the Sahara.

It's summer here in Antarctica, and the sun doesn't set. We all wear our

protective goggles, keeping snow blindness at bay. It's a warm day today, only two degrees Fahrenheit.

Burton is currently in the lead, trudging through the snow, making holes for us to step in. Shearguard is behind him.

Then it's me, followed by Gunther taking up the rear. After two days of travel, we can finally

see the anomaly. Its bulk pokes over the horizon when the wind isn't blowing enough snow into the

air to obscure it. I can't help but stare at it.

Its numerous and massive tentacles seem to move slowly,

as if swayed by gentle currents of water.

But I know it only appears that way to me.

The creature is so massive and distant

that my mind has trouble comprehending the true speed

at which those

tentacles are moving. And they don't seem to be moving for any purpose. As far as I can tell,

...