The Last Vikings

#BeSpontaneous

I leaned back on the heat-pulsing pine wall of the sauna, feeling blissfully hot; but also just on the wrong side of drunk, dizzy and light headed.

I'd thought Ruben was kidding, at first, saying we take a sauna. Why the hell would he suggest that, after what we'd just heard?

After what had just happened?

"A sauna? Is that a joke?"

"Au contraire, Scotch." Ruben replied, in a terrible French accent. "That story had more fuckin' plot holes than Lost. Don't you wanna go take a look-see ourselves, see what we can turn up?"

"I suppose," I said, doubtfully. "But I don't actually want to, y'know, take a sauna."

Ruben shrugged. "I don't know how else we could get away with poking round in there. Plus it's contained and private. Good place to talk, away from the Social Media fuckin' demigorgon and her insane demands."

He pursed his lips. "And it's warm. I promise not to let you run out naked into the night, if you'll do the same for me."

I nodded slowly. He kind of had a point about the sauna being the best place for talking.

The ice bedrooms were way too cold to spend much time in, unless you were wrapped up completely in the specially provided sleeping bags and reindeer skins. And a full body—including face—cocooning didn't make for particularly good conversation. Plus they only had curtains for doors, which didn't offer much privacy.

Other than that, there was the crowded ice bar and restaurant, the lobby, or the snow-packed (and heated) portacabin where we all had lockers to keep our stuff.

All these were full of influencers, talking loudly and whooshing round busily.

So crazy as it sounded, the Sauna was a good option. Ruben had a point.

"What if someone's in there?" I asked.

He raised an eyebrow. "I have my ways."

We trudged over to the locker room, Ruben managing to walk without tripping despite having his face buried in his iPhone the whole time.

That was another good thing about the sauna. You couldn't take electronics in there. Which meant I wouldn't feel like the third wheel, despite there being only two of us.

"Fuckin' hell," he groaned, eyes still on his screen. "It's the Insta-bitch. She's on my back wanting to know why I haven't posted any shots from the Pole yet. Can I do this first, before she comes looking for us?"

"Sure," I said.

We stepped into the pine-clad warmth of the locker room. It was crowded with steaming influencers warming up, changing coats or charging their phones and iPads.

I settled at the bench that ran down the centre and watched as Ruben fished in his pockets for his locker key.

My own phone was dead, and I was glad. I wasn't looking forward to explaining to Suzie that I had missed the ottercopter to the penguin expedition, and produced zilch aspirational photos as a result.

But I found a dead body, Suzie. We were drinking hot chocolate with him just yesterday.

It still didn't seem real.