by Karen Dionne
“Obviously she doesn’t know the water’s contaminated. I only just found that out myself.”
“You’ve got to stop her,” Ben said.
“You think?” Ross pointed to Ben’s machine. Ben slid forward. Zo wrapped her arms around his waist, and Ross piled on behind.
The iceberg began to rumble, a low vibration that seemed to come from its very core. Zo’s crevasse opened wider.
“It’s breaking up!” she yelled. “Go, go, go! Now!”
Ben gunned the engine. Nothing happened. He cut back on the throttle until the machine caught traction. Gradually, they picked up speed, flying over the refreezing river that was as smooth as a hockey rink.
At last he saw a thin, dark line in the distance where the berg dropped away and the ice met sky.
“Slow down!” Zo yelled. “You’re going too fast. You’ll drive right off the edge!”
Ben hit the brake. The machine continued. “I can’t! There’s no traction!”
He shut off the engine, but the momentum carried them on without slowing.
“Jump!” Ross yelled.
They leaped. Ben slammed into the ice, tucked and rolled, cut his hands, banged his shoulders, came to a stop and crawled to his knees in time to see the snowmobile power over the edge. It hung for a moment, then plunged out of sight.
The rumbling grew louder. They ran for the stairs as the ground shook. Ben stopped at the top and looked down, shuddering at the shattered snowmobile that lay three steps up from the bottom.
The steps from the bottom. The stairs were intact.
“Hurry!” he cried, and jumped. He landed hard, twisted his ankle. Got to his feet, ran to the edge, and jumped again, flexing his knees to absorb the impact. The next step was too high. He slithered off on his belly. Dropped. Ran to the next ledge, and jumped again. Down and down, faster and faster as ice chunks rained down around him.
At last, he reached the bottom. Zo and Ross hit the ground moments after. Together, they sprinted across the gangplank and onto the ship.
Chapter 60
Crew members hurried them across a deck littered with ice. Ben looked back at the berg. A piece as big as a piano broke off the lip and rolled down the stairs. Larger chunks followed as the cliff edge disintegrated.
“Anyone else?” the captain cried as they fell through the door.
“No one,” Ben said.
“My God,” Susan said from behind him. Her face was white. “What about Donald?”
Ben shook his head.
The crew fastened the gangplank in place and dogged down the door. As the captain raced for the bridge, an explosion rocked the air, greater than any they had heard, a sonic boom of epic proportions.
Ben rubbed the condensation off the porthole glass. A massive crack ran down the middle of the stairs as though they had been cleaved by an ax. The iceberg grated and groaned.
“Hold on!” someone yelled. “This is going to be bad!” Ben grabbed the rail as the iceberg split in two. The halves leaned in toward each other, balanced for a long moment, and then slowly slid away until they crashed in opposite directions into the sea.
Spray hit the porthole as if shot from a fire hose. The lights went out. Someone screamed as the ship canted at a terrifying angle. It seemed to lift, then plunged down with a sickening thump. It rose, dropped, rose again and dropped again.
“Almighty God,” Ben heard someone pray. “You bestowed the singular help of Blessed Peter on those in peril from the sea—”
He closed his eyes. “By the help of his prayers,” he whispered as he lost his footing and tightened his grip on the rail, “may the light of your grace shine forth in all the storms of this life and enable us to find the harbor of our everlasting salvation.” In the darkness, he heard sobs.
At last, the bucking slowed. The lights came on. The sailors cheered.
“Holy crap,” Zo said.
“Just when you think things can’t get any worse,” Ben said, and winked.
She shook her head. “I don’t know about you guys, but I’ve had enough. If you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll go check on my husband.”
“By all means.” Ben turned to a crewman. “And I believe my friend would like to use the phone.”
Epilogue
Los Angeles, California—Five Months Later
Sarah Maki pushed her plate to one side and propped her elbows on her dining room table, staring at The Iceman while the grown-ups talked. She could hardly believe he was really here, at her very own table, eating the dinner that she and Cassie and her mom had made: spaghetti and meatballs (her favorite), garlic bread (Cassie’s idea) a salad, (her mom’s contribution), with Ben & Jerry’s for dessert.
“WaterLife’s a good organization,” The Iceman was saying. “POP-approved.” He smiled like he was making a joke. The Iceman had nice teeth. And a dimple. Sarah loved dimples. Beside her, Cassie poked her arm and grinned.
Her dad laughed. “We’re a great fit. The big relief organizations don’t serve rural villages with ongoing water shortages, but these communities represent the greatest need. WaterLife picks up the ones that fall through the cracks. I’m leaving next week to engineer a four-thousand-liter reservoir in Cameroon.”
“Nizhóní. Excellent. One well supplying clean water to a community can make a hell of a difference.”
Sarah’s mom frowned. Sarah grinned. Her mom didn’t like it when people swore. The Iceman looked at Sarah and winked.
“Sarah, Cassie, will you girls help me in the kitchen?” her mom asked.
“In a minute,” Sarah said. “I have to go to the bathroom.”
She went out into the hall and sat down on the bench beside the front door. Snatches of conversation: “microbe couldn’t survive in salt water”; “working at the University of Utah now”; “research”; “new drug”; “diabetes.” Boring grown-up talk.
There were footsteps on the other side of the door. The mail fell through the slot. She picked up a big, square, blue envelope, the kind that meant an invitation or a card. It was addressed to her dad.
She carried the envelope into the dining room. “This is for you.”
“Thanks.” He smiled. Her dad had a nice smile, too.
She scooched onto his knee. “Go on. Open it. See what it says.”
He slid his bread knife under the flap. “It’s a birth announcement,” he said. “From Zo and Elliot. Seems Zo had a baby boy.”
Sarah knew all about Zo from her dad’s stories. Her dad was a real hero. He’d saved The Iceman. She’d helped, too, after The Iceman accidentally sent his SOS e-mail to Mr. McMurtry instead of McMurdo Station. The Iceman told her so himself.
“What’d they name him?” she asked.
Sarah’s dad passed the card across the table. The Iceman read it. At first he looked embarrassed. Then he grinned.
“They named him Ross.”
Author’s Note
While the microwave technology as depicted in this novel is only loosely based on fact, the world’s water crisis is real. So is the WaterLife Foundation, a U.S.-based nonprofit dedicated to providing clean, safe, affordable water and sanitation for children and families in disadvantaged communities around the world.
To learn more about how you can get involved, go to www.waterlife.org.
Suggested reading: Blue Gold: The Fight to Stop the Corporate Theft of the World’s Water, by Maude Bar-low and Tony Clarke
About the Author
After dropping out of the University of Michigan, Detroit native Karen Dionne moved to Michigan’s Upper Peninsula wilderness with her husband and daughter as part of the back-to-the-land movement. For the next thirty winters, her indoor pursuits included stained glass, weaving, and constructing N-scale model train layouts. Her stories have appeared in Bathtub Gin, The Adirondack Review, Futures Mysterious Anthology Magazine, and Thought Magazine, where her entry won first place in their spring 2003 writing competition. She worked as Senior Fiction Editor for NFG, a print literary journal
out of Toronto, before founding Backspace, an Internet-based writers organization with over 750 members in a dozen countries. She is a member of Sisters in Crime, Mystery Writers of America, and International Thriller Writers, where she serves on the membership committee and website staff. She and her husband live in Detroit’s northern suburbs.
