Scary Horror Stories by Dr. NoSleep - [Part 1] I Run a Bar at the Edge of the Arctic—Our Guests Share Secrets That Rewrite History

Episode Date: October 8, 2025

At a lonely bar on the edge of the Arctic, where endless night and whispered secrets rule, a stranger’s arrival unravels a web of lies so dark it threatens to rewrite history itself. Check out our brand new horror-themed coffee here! Go to ⁠⁠NoSleepCoffee.com⁠⁠ and get 20% off fresh roasted coffee delivered straight to your door. Just use promo code NOSLEEP20 at checkout for 20% off your first order! Already caught up? You’re missing out on hours of exclusive stories available only on Patreon: ⁠patreon.com/drnosleep⁠ Author: Jake Bible Check out the author's latest Kindle Unlimited release: https://www.amazon.com/Stone-Cold-Bastards-Jake-Bible-ebook/dp/B0FTHHJ3G1 * * * CONTENT DISCLAIMER: This episode contains explicit content not limited to intense themes, strong language, and depictions of violence intended for adults. Parental guidance is strongly advised for children under the age of 18. Listener discretion is advised.  #drnosleep #scarystories #horrorstories #doctornosleep #horrorpodcast #horror Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

No Sleep Coffee is finally here, horror-themed, same-day roasted coffee delivered fresh to your door, whether you need a bold morning kick or fuel to stay awake through my creepiest stories. This coffee keeps you going. Go to no sleepcoffee.com and use code No Sleep 20 for 20% off your first order. The dogs howl and yip, waking me from my deep sleep, as they tell me and know uncertain terms that they are ready for breakfast. I slide my legs out from under the warmth of three comforters I always sleep under.

When the soles of my feet miss my slippers and hit the cold concrete, I want to scream at the top of my lungs, but I don't. This is my life. Some call it penance. But we all have to play our part, so I call it what it is. Duty. Trying my best not to whimper and whine like a husky pup, I get dressed and slide into my slippers, skipping their shower since I took one last night before I went to bed. When you work a bar for 16 hours a day, it's best to wash that shit off before sliding between the sheets. Slippering my way out of the bar's back room, which doubles as my bedroom, I walk into the kitchen and start the coffee. Thick, black, mean. That's how we drink coffee up here on the edge of the Arctic. There's no time

or room for weak coffee in these parts. I throw some bread in the toaster, then fetch the giant tub of margarine out of the reach-in. I find the even more giant tub of peanut butter and set both on the stainless steel table as I wait for the toast to ding. The bar's commercial kitchen isn't big, but it isn't small. Probably a decent size for a small cafe, but it sure as hell is clean. Gopher doesn't stop until every spot of grease and smear of ketchup is obliterated. The man stays at least an hour after me each night, making his bedtime close to five or six in the the morning. I get to lay my head down around four if things go smooth. Taking a deep breath, letting the aroma of coffee fill my lungs, I go to the side door and look out the window at

the absolute darkness that stares back at me. January in the Arctic isn't for people who have seasonal affective disorder. Where we are, there's no sign of the sun for a solid three months straight. You might catch a sliver on the horizon now and again, but you have to be out in the landscape to see that. I'm never out in the landscape. This bar is my life, my entire world. Ding goes the toast, and I walk back to the counter to slather the pieces in margarine and peanut butter. In the mood for something sweet on the toast, so I hunt around for the honey. No honey. I mumble and slipper my way out into the bar itself. 15 feet of dented, dinged, burned, stained, mahogany bar top

slices a path in front of me as I come out of the kitchen. On the far wall are 20 booths, all of them four tops. We have 12 high tops that can fit two people comfortably, four people if you squeeze in. Six regular four tops are in front of the very small stage, where we do karaoke and open mic nights. I try to make up any excuse possible not to do either of those, but the people want what they want.

It isn't a little joint. Can't be when the whole facility comes here for their rest and relaxation. But it's homie in its own way. Honey, honey, honey, I muttered to myself as I look behind the bar. Finding it by the simple syrup and other sweeteners, I returned to the kitchen. My toast is gone. A trail of smeared peanut butter and margarine leads to the back door. A back door that was locked only seconds before.

before and is now cracked open, letting the sub-zero air in. My ankles almost freeze instantly. I hurry to the door and close it, looking out the frosted window at the darkness. I see nothing. But, to be honest, I'm not surprised. We have a Wolverine problem. The ornery buggers have adapted to life around the facility way faster than any of us thought. To be honest, I didn't think they'd stick around, but they have. I have no idea how one got into the kitchen without me hearing, but I don't really care. They're gone now. Jesus, can Wolverines pick locks with those long nails of theirs?

But then the facility specializes in frightening. I get to making more toast, and double checking that the door is locked and barred this time. I wait for the toast, not letting it out of my sight. The dogs howl. Damn it, I forgot to feed them. I head back to my room, find my boots, slide those on, grab my sweater and parka, throw those on, then head to the back corridor and the door that leads to the kennels.

As much as movies and television want you to think that Huskies live outside day and night, waking up covered in snow and happy to be almost frozen solid, they are, after all, dogs. If you offer them a warm bed and plenty of food and water, they'll move inside in a heartbeat. Hey guys, I say, and the barking increase. to an almost ear-splitting decibel. I grab the bucket of food and scoop, and give all 12 two scoops, slipping it through the bars and into their empty bowls.

While they eat, I fill their water bowls and make sure no one has pissed their bed. Nope, all good. The scent of brewing coffee wafts into the kennels, and I sigh at the thought of a mug of steaming Joe. When they're done, I grab a switch on the wall and throw it, opening the backs of each kennel so the dogs can go out and do their business, and hang out in the sub-zero temps.

They may love coming in for the night. Not that you can tell right now if it even is night, but they are still huskies. They'll spend most of the day lounging in snow drifts and barking attitude at anyone who walks by. With the dogs taken care of, I'm back in the kitchen as fast as possible, praying I don't have to make a third batch of toast.

But my toast is ready, and hasn't been stolen by Wolverines. That's nice. I pour a massive mug of coffee, then grab my toast. Slather, slather, slather, slather. Scarf, scarf, scarf. Gulp, gulp. Breakfast done. I switch out the boots I'm still wearing for warm sneakers, and then head out to the bar. I inventory the shelves and refill them from the stock in the back. Realistically, we have enough to ply the entire facility with booze for genera. Okay, maybe not that long, but I'll probably retire before we run out of vodka, that's for sure. Slice some lemons and limes, refill the cherries and olives, make sure I have all the sprigs of herbs I need,

and prep is pretty much done. I glance at the huge Mickey Mouse clock hanging over the bar's front door and nod. 11.m. I still have 45 minutes before we open. Not bad. I hunt down a fresh container of Mixed nuts and go around the bar, filling the complimentary bowls with snacks. Salty mouths drink more. Not that anyone pays for drinks or food here. No, the den is a facility establishment, strictly on the house. Once finished filling bowls with nuts, I head over to our old-time popcorn maker and get a batch started. It takes six batches to fill the glass case, and even once full, it barely satisfies our custom.

Why mixed nuts and popcorn? Salter your mouths, drink more. Plus popcorn helps Phil's bellies a little. You gotta balance out the alcohol somehow. Yeah, sure, we have a full kitchen. And gopher is one hell of a cook. But people are weird when it comes to food. They'll shovel mouthfuls of communal snacks into their pie holes,

then worry about the calories and the actual pie we serve. Never try to figure out the psychology of the service industry customer, especially a facility resident, or you'll go stark raving mad. I see some smudges I didn't catch the night before and grab my cleaning spray and rag so I can clean the tables properly now that I'm not dead tired after a hellish workday. Then I do a little light mopping and make sure the bathrooms have full rolls of TP and the soaps and paper towels are stocked. As I come out of the ladies' room, I hear the sound of the small radio in the kitchen being

tuned to the only radio station we get up here. It's some random AM country station out of Oklahoma. Don't ask me how that signal makes it to the Arctic. Some mysteries are best left unexplained. Hey, gopher. I say as I pushed the door open and walk into the kitchen. Gofer replies. That's about the extent of his vocabulary. Every once in a while I'll get a but those are rare. Damn Wolverines took my first attempt at breakfast. I say as the a large man, and he is large, starts pulling out ingredients to prep for the late lunch, early dinner rush we usually get around three or so. Mmm.

Came in through the back door and took the toast right off my plate. Hmm. I'm telling you, those things are getting smarter by the day. Hmm. One day they'll have our jobs. Mmm. I should have let the dogs out first. The Wolverines would have stayed away.

Mm-hmm. Just as he finishes his eloquent reply, and almost in answer to my statement, the dogs explode into warning barks outside. Gofer and I look at each other, both concerned. Normally, the dogs are pretty chill during the day. They're never silent, because they're huskies, but it's certainly not normal for them to be letting loose with the bang and barking we're hearing now. I'll check it out, I say.

Hmm. I snag a large flashlight and the thick parka we keep by the kitchen. back door. Slip the parka on, switch back to my heavy boots, then turn the flashlight on, and step outside into a balmy negative 8 degrees. Last week, it hit negative 36. That was a slow day in the bar. You get below negative 20, and folks tend not to leave the facility housing, no matter how much they want a beer or gin and tonic. Outside, I swing the beam around, but don't see anything immediately. The dogs are still going wild, though, and I followed the sound. until I've made my way to the front of the bar,

where I see a familiar range rover idling in the snow-covered parking lot, the vehicle completely surrounded by Huskies. Dogs, get! I shout. Half look over at me, still barking, while the other half keep their attention on the range rover. Damn it, I said get! All dogs pay attention this time, and slowly back away from the vehicle. Then they each give me a dirty look,

and hurry back to their snow beds around back. I wave to whoever is inside the range rover. It's impossible to tell since the windows, even the windshield, are tinted. But I have a pretty good idea of who it is. The vehicle continues to idle. I wave again. You can come on in if you want. I shout.

We opened in an hour, but no need to sit out here until then. No acknowledgement of any kind. Suit yourself! I shout. Then head to check on the dogs. They're fine. And back to the kitchen. Rangerover's sitting in the parking lot.

I say to Gopher as I hang up the parka and put the flashlight away. I told them to come in, but didn't even get a headlight flash and answer. Hmm. If it's who I think it is, she's a day early. Hmm. Probably nothing. The smell of onions caramelizing in a large skillet makes my mouth water. I'll have to have Gopher whip me up a burger with onions and Swiss later. Maybe some bacon too.

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That's Shopify.com slash DNS. Those onions going on the special? Mm. Nice. You aren't worried about her being early? And a shrug. Yeah, you're right. She probably just made good time.

Mm. Glad you agree. I grab a handful of homemade potato chips from the bin by the friar and walk back out to the bar. I'm double-checking what I already double-checked when a voice from the corner booth almost makes me choke on the chips still in my mouth. Sorry, you said I could come in, a woman says. She's too shadowed for me to get much of a look. So I go and flip on all the houselights early. Usually, that's the last thing I do before I unlock the front door.

Nice trick. How'd you get in? I ask, glancing at the door. You aren't a Wolverine, are you? I laugh. She doesn't. That was a joke. The door was unlocked, she says dryly.

No, it wasn't. Yes, it was. Go check. Well, yeah, I'm sure it's unlocked now. You're inside and not outside. Then what's the problem? It should have been locked. It wasn't.

We've established that. Maybe whoever closed up last night forgot to lock it. I close every night. and I never forget to lock it. Then I realize the issue. Damn Wolverines. I'm sorry, but what's with the Wolverines? Damn Wolverines.

As in the largest member of the Weasel family, those Wolverines? In a way, they moved in a year or so back, and had been nothing but a pain in the ass. The sons of bitches can pick locks. Took my breakfast this morning. They probably unlocked the front door, too. Nothing but agents of chaos,

those damn wolverines. There's silence for a few beats then. Are you messing with me? I wish I was. But we've got a real Wolverine problem here, and the facility isn't helping do anything about it. Oh, you're serious. As serious as a Wolverine concentrating on a lock

so they can steal my toast and peanut butter. I don't know what that means. Stick around long enough, and you will. With the lights on, I can see her clearly now. I'd forgotten what a beautiful woman she is, all long, dark hair framing an ivory-chiseled face. If the nose were a hair longer, then her looks would be considered severe. Instead, she's elegant, refined, classy. Care for a drink? I ask. We're not open yet, but I did invite you in, so I'd be a shitty

host if I let you go thirsty. Do you have any wine? Of course. I have a great cabernet if you want red, or a lovely chin and blanc if you like white. No Pinot Noir? Sorry. Our wine offerings are limited. I used to carry more, but it would all go funky. I finally found a couple that can survive the temp extremes that bottles endure on their trek up this way. Way too much hot to cold to cold to hot to warm to freezing. You get the picture. I shrug. Plus, this is more of beer and booze kind of clientele around here. The facility. I cocked my head and raise an eyebrow.

You know about the facility? You just mentioned it. I did? You did. It doesn't matter. It's why I'm up here. I'm a reporter. And I've been trying to track this place down for years. A reporter, you say?

I didn't think your lot still existed. We're a dying breed, that's for sure. AI writes everything these days. Not here. I still handwrite all of our specials. I laugh. She doesn't. Sorry, just lightening the mood.

Did it get heavy? We were talking about the do. demise of your profession. You were. I was talking about the facility. What do you know about it? Wow. Get him right to the point. How about you move up to the bar and I get you that wine? It'll be easier to talk. I was hoping to stay back here and observe your customers as they come in. Oh, right. Keep a little anonymity. So you can scope out who you think might dish out some dirt on the facility. I get it. Is there dirt to dish on the facility? Plenty. Then I think I'll stick to my plan and sit back here.

Ha ha, but that's not gonna work. Folks will clock you the second they step through the door. First, we don't get many visitors up around these parts. So that Ranger Rover being out in the open, will get their attention instantly. Second, everyone knows everyone else. So you're gonna stick out like a sore thumb, regardless of the heads up, your Rangerover will already have given them.

Tight-knit group here, eh? No strangers. Is that so? Yep. I pat the bar. Have a seat. The wine is on the house. Red or white.

How's your old-fashioned? It doesn't have any wine in it. I'm going to pass on the wine. I didn't exactly sell it, did I? She shakes her head. One old-fashioned coming up. I get to mixing her drink as she walks over to the bar. While mixing drinks is part of what I do here, it's not the most important part.

No. That would be keeping an eye on folks. When you live in an extreme spot like the edge of the Arctic, you watch for signs of folks starting to lose it or starting to maybe think thoughts they shouldn't. You can see it on their faces when the idea of punching the dude across from them flits through their minds. But with this woman, I'm not trying to make sure she isn't losing it.

No, I'm trying to make sure she finds it. She's not tall, that's for sure. Maybe 5'3, but that's pushing it. The woman walks with confidence, even dressed in an expensive-looking snow suit with an even more expensive-looking parka over it. She moves with grace and ease. So, how long have you been a reporter? I ask, as I set the old-fashioned down on a coaster and slide it in front of a bar stool.

She takes the stool next to it and grabs her drink. I smirk at her show of independence. To her, she doesn't know me from Adam. It isn't going to let me run things, obviously. A while, she answers and sips her drink. Oh, that's good. You know how to mix a drink, sir. It's my job.

I answered yours. Your turn to answer mine. How long have you been a bartender? Tender. That's not a time frame. Oh, I mean I'm not a bartender. I'm a tender. You say that like it was an uppercase tea to it.

I shrug. Tenders are important around here. The sign's off, T. The man says as he hurries into the bar, stomping snow from his boots. Damn it, Billy! Knock the snow off outside! You don't have any of the lights turned on outside. So how am I going to see it and knock them off?

The lights aren't on, because we aren't open yet. Door was unlocked. That's what I told him, the reporter says. She gives him a wave. I'm Annie. Then Billy sees the woman. He looks at me. I shake my head.

He looks at the woman. swallows and smiles. Uh, hello, Annie. I'm Billy Squirrel. Squirrel? Interesting last name. Billy shoots a quick frown my way, but lets the comment go. We're on thin ice, and he knows it.

I alerted everyone to the fact that she was coming back, but she's a day early, so... And what's your last name, pretty lady? Billy says as he saunters over to the bar. Well, it sure his shit isn't pretty, nor lady. Annie replies. No offense meant. Billy says and pats the bar. Whiskey with a pickle bag.

Gopher! Gonna need some pickle juice up here! I shout when I opened the small bar fridge and realize I missed that ingredient. And Worcestershire! You make a lot of Bloody Marys, do you? Annie asks me. Must be hard to get fresh celery all the way up here.

Nah, we grow it in the facility, Billy says. Annie is a reporter, Billy, I say. So? So. We don't tell everything about the facility to reporters, do we? Annie laughs. Uh-oh. Is growing celery the big secret?

Billy doesn't say a thing in response. The facility's business isn't for strangers, I say in shrug. Company policy. That's the policy with most companies I've found, Annie says. I spent three years deep undercover with a private equity firm. Turns out, they were financing half the civil wars and third world countries across the globe. Oh? What happened to that company? Did you take them down with a blistering expose?

Something like that, she says, and sips from her old-fashioned. Dang, this really is good. What's the secret? Tender magic. Okay, okay. What's with this tender thing? Is that a company policy, too? The bartender has to have a special name? Just my name and my job. Yeah, right. How long you're here for? Billy blurts out way too loudly. Tie it down a little, Billy.

I pour his whiskey as Gopher comes out of the kitchen with a mason jar of pickle juice and a large bottle of Worcestershire sauce. Thanks, Gopher. Hmm. Cofor? Squirrel? When do fox and hound get here? Don't forget about frog and toad.

I laugh. And the damn wolverines, Billy says with a sigh. They're getting worse, tea. I know. Gotta do something soon. Like what? They're wolverines. At least they aren't spoiling all the food.

They could piss all over the entire kitchen if they want. They got into the kitchen? This morning, took my breakfast. Little buggers. Not so little, though, are they? Annie says. Largest of the weasel family. As you said before, I pour a shot of pickle juice and hand it to Billy.

Here you go. Throw it on my tab. He sips his whiskey, then shoots the juice. Ah, tasty. The door opens. Hey T, the lights aren't on, Jamie Fox says. Because we aren't... Nah, screw it, I say and leave the bar.

Excuse me a second. Jamie, a lovely woman in her 50s, shrugs off her parka, and hangs it on one of the many pegs set against the front wall. She pats my shoulder as I move past her to switch on the front lights, then the bar's sign. The den is now open for business, I say. Officially, that is. Who's this? Jamie asks, eyeing Annie, then whispers to me as I pass by her on the way back to the bar. She's early.

I know, I whisper back. This is Annie, Billy says. She's a reporter. Annie, meet Jamie Fox. Fox? Jesus, I was kidding. Annie says, clearing her throat. Wait, your first name is Jamie?

Like the actor? Spelled differently, Jamie says. Still eyeing Annie. Then she turns to look at me. as I take my place behind the bar again. A reporter, huh? Yep, I say, pouring a pint of pale ale for Jamie, knowing her regular order by heart.

Does the facility know she's here? Oh, I am sure they do. I hand Jamie her glass. Then I smile at Annie. Don't worry about the facility. You're going to be just fine. Not exactly liking the sound of that, she says. Smart girl.

Jamie smirks. Then takes her beer to. one of the booths against the back wall. Yikes. Ily waits for me to refill his whiskey and his pickle juice shot before he leaves the bar and joins Jamie. Is this a problem? Should I have cleared my visit with someone at the facility? Annie asks me. It's usually a good idea, I say. Helps avoid unforeseen accidents. If they're unforeseen, then how can they be avoided? Dusha. Am I in danger? Around here? Always. It's not a warm and fuzzy environment.

No, I mean from the people who run the facility. Them? No, they won't touch a hair on your head, I promise. Not sure I should trust the word of a bartender. Tender, I knocked the bar. This is the bar, I'm the tender. Tender, got it. I won't make that mistake again.

And don't worry, the facility isn't going to be a problem unless you make one for them. I'm here for a story as all, not for any trouble. Well, we have lots of stories. I leaned close to her. Jamie back there? Just after she moved up here to work at the facility, she was given a huge assignment. From what I heard, she's the reason the Unabomers were caught.

Don't you mean the Unabomber? Ted Kaczynski, right? Ted? Nah, he was a patsy. She helped catch the real outfit behind it all. Outfit? Are you saying there was more than one bomber? I know, right?

I think the whole Unabomber moniker was a red herring. There was an entire network of the psychos out there. Um, okay. I'm not kidding. I laugh at the look on her face. You don't know much about the facility, do you? I know some. No, you don't.

Otherwise, you wouldn't have come here the way you did. How do you mean? Obvious. Out in the open. You drove right in and headed straight for the only social spot for 300 miles. If you knew more about the facility, you would have been a little more stealthy. I watched the conflict unfold on her face. How much does she tell me she knows?

How much does she pretend to know? How much can she get out of me before I realize she's pumping me for info? Too late on that last one. Not that it matters. She can have all the information she wants as far as I care. She changes the subject. Okay, Tender, what's your real name? I told you.

No, you didn't. Yeah, I did. Tender. That's my name. Tender. But that's also your job. Keeps things simple, don't you think? She frowns.

Any other questions? A million. Shoot. She watches me, waits for me to show that I'm kidding. But when I don't, she shrugs and asks, What exactly does the facility do? Straight to the main entree. Skipping the appetizer.

What would be the appetizer? Maybe ask a little history. How long the facility has been here? Who it employs? That sort of stuff. Work up to the big question of what do they do? I found that if you don't get to the most important questions immediately, you may not have time later.

Ah, you've been a war correspondent. In a way... I chuckle. Okay. The facility helps keep things in order. Things? What sort of things? Oh, you know.

Things like national stability. protection of the general population, manipulating other nation states, training the next generation, and removing obstacles that prevent them from accomplishing any of that. I chuckle again and start mixing her another old-fashioned. She just stares at me. When I set the fresh glass in front of her, I tap her half-full glass and say, Drink up, you'll need it. I, uh, yeah, she says and finishes her first drink.

What do I owe you? Oh, me? Oh no. It's on the house. I can't take free drinks. Kind of ruins the whole impartiality thing. Might look like a bribe. My old fashions are good, but not bribery good.

And I don't have a till or a way to process credit cards. So even if you did want to pay, I have no way to accept the payment. Sorry. Then this is the last drink. If you say so, she downs half of the new old fashioned, then takes a deep breath. All right, enough stalling. stalling. Who's stalling? I'm not stalling. No, I am. You kind of threw me for a loop with that answer. We weren't expecting quite so much candor, were you? The front door opens, and a gang of

eight walks in. Raccoons in the house, one of them shouts, and they all hurry toward the back two booths, snagging bowls of mixed nuts off the middle tables as they go. Those are for everyone, guys! I yell. The men and women laugh at me. A couple toss handfuls of mixed nuts in my direction. Seriously? Not cool, you damn trash pandas. I get a few booze and jeers at my comment. Then I smell something nasty. Shit, the popcorn! I race to the machine and stare at the smoke coming out of the kettle.

Raccoons? Annie asks me as she comes up behind me. Oh, that looks like a mess. Can you hand me that trash can there? I point behind me at the large trash can set next to the end of the bar. She grabs it and hands it to me. Thanks. I get to work dumping the burnt popcorn.

Is that supposed to do that? she asks. No, but it does sometimes. I wiped the burnt grease from inside the kettle. This thing is as old as this bar. Been here since the facility opened. A real antique. Yep. So, how long has the facility been open?

Oh, just after the Cold War started. So around what? 1948? Certainly not 1848. And we haven't hit 2448 yet, so yeah. Yeah, 19 would be the number. That's a long time of manipulating other nation states. And maintaining national stability, I will say that the training came later.

And first, this place was meant to be a hidden research facility. Then it morphed into much more. Research? What kind of research? I grin as I pushed the trash can to order. Can you put that back? Thanks. I start another batch of popcorn, then look around the bar.

Finally, I turn my grin on it. I think you know what kind of research or you wouldn't be here. I don't know what you mean. Really? You drove thousands of miles on what? A hunch? Nah, I doubt that. Okay. What if I have a suspicion, but just need confirmation? And you came up here for confirmation? All alone? You have no guide. You have no partner. And you have no way of communicating with your editor or boss or whoever it is you report to.

Pretty risky for just confirmation. What do you mean I have no way of communicating? She asks and pulls out her phone, showing it to me. Full service? Sure looks that way. How about you try making a call? She snorts, smirks, and dials. I don't bother to see who she's calling.

It won't matter. Her smirk falls away. I'm sorry. Who did you say this is? She listens, and I watched the worry spread across her face. I, uh, was trying to call my, um, never mind. Thank you. Who is that? I ask. All innocence and helpfulness. The facility's main desk. Really? Who would have guessed that would happen?

The popcorn pops, and I watch it closely. She remains silent next to me. Her eyes on her phone. Nice trick. She says as I dumped the kettle and get a new batch going. Tea, you're going to serve us or what? One of the raccoons, shouts from the back corner. I'm making popcorn. Yeah, well, we're thirsty. Maybe you should. shouldn't have eaten all those nuts so fast. Whatever. Oh, that reminds me. We need more nuts, T. Fine. How many pictures?

Six? Three stout, three pale. Coming up. I lean down, getting an Annie's line of sight. She's a little freaked out by being cut off from communicating with the outside world. She barely looks up at me. Thank you. Can you watch the corn for me? What? Oh, sure. When it stops popping, reach in and dump the kettle. I'll refill when I get back.

She nods. I go behind the bar and start filling pitchers. How many glasses? I asked the raccoons. Hey, duh. Just checking. Didn't want to assume everyone was drinking tonight. Someone needs to be alert,

so you all can walk back to the facility without getting lost in the tundra. They laugh and laugh and laugh. It's our thing. Raccoons don't get lost, no matter how many pitchers they drink. I glance over at Annie. She's fiddling with her phone like I figured you.

She would. Don't forget about the popcorn! I yell over at her as I deliver the first four pitchers, then return for the last two and the eight pint glasses. Annie doesn't even notice my yelling. So once the beer is delivered, I rushed to the popcorn and dump the kettle before it can burn. Thanks for staying on top of things.

She looks up from her phone. I'm cut off. Yeah, I know. I said as much. What is the facility hiding? Oh, you know, everything. I pointed the raccoons. Like those guys.

Best thieves on the planet. They can steal anything. Did you know that half the paintings in the Louvre or forgeries? The real ones are in the facility for safekeeping. I've confused the hell out of her, which was bound to happen today. And I think she's getting scared. Her eyes dart about the bar. Okay, so I'll let you in on a little something, I say,

trying on my warmest smile, hoping to calm things down a little before she has a full-on freak out. This was supposed to happen tomorrow, not to. today. I wasn't mentally prepared when the dogs woke me up. Everyone in this place has a secret to tell. Most have multiple secrets. Some secrets are pretty benign in the grand scope of things, while other secrets, well, they can change your entire perception of history. What? What does that mean? Billy, come over here. As Billy walks over, I get another batch of popcorn popping. What's up, T? Hey, Annie. Um, hi. Annie. Um, hi. Annie. Annie.

says. You keep saying my name like you know me. Um, I read some of your stuff. He says quickly. Really? Like what? He's full of crap, I interrupt. He doesn't have the attention span to read. You're not wrong there. Tell Annie about your grandfather. Norman Squirrel? Sure. He was the first of our line. The first squirrel and the first of us to be sent out on assignment. On assignment? Was he a reporter too? Annie asks. Grandpa Norm? Norm? Shit, no. But he was an amazing agent. Agent? Just tell the story, Billy.

I say as I watch popcorn cascade out of the kettle, waiting for my moment to dump it all and get the last batch going. You know who JFK was, right? Billy begins. He always asks that question when he starts the story.