SHATTER: Epoch’s End Book 2: (A Post-Apocalyptic Survival Thriller Series) (Epoch's End)

by Mike Kraus

  “We will,” she assures him. “We’ll make sure the kids are bundled good.”

  The captain nods and walks away, leaving Nathan and his family to hastily finish their meals. Once done, they slip on their coats, gloves, and scarves with eager excitement and leave the dining room, heading up the stairs to the observation deck. Up top, they move to the starboard rail along with another two-dozen people trying to see the whales and Nathan passes around the binoculars, giving deference to the kids.

  “This is so cool,” Adda whispers, awe-struck as the ship slides past the whale pod. Fifty yards from the animals, Nathan stops worrying about the binoculars and leans over the rail, smiling as the gray backs roll on right beneath them. Joan clutches his arm and pulls herself close and he glances down, seeing her face buried deep behind her scarf.

  “It’s getting super cold out,” she says.

  “Cozy.”

  “No, I’m serious.” The look in Joan’s eyes gives him pause. “I’m thinking about going back to the room.”

  Nathan starts to reply when a ponderous humpback breaches the water, body half-lifted out of the sea before it slams down hard. Adda hoots, and Logan claps delightedly while Joan’s eyes go wide at the massive splash, a smile stretching on her lips. Still, she clutches Nathan’s arm even harder before Adda shouts that there’re dolphins, too. He grins as the sea mammals streak like silver bullets through the water, maneuvering around and between the larger humpbacks while his son circles to his mother’s side, pointing back toward the bow of the ship.

  “Are those what I think they are?”

  Nathan follows his son’s outstretched arm, jaw dropping at the dark dorsal fins cutting through the water. “I can’t believe it. Those are killer whales. Actual killer whales.”

  “Wow, they’re moving pretty fast,” Logan comments.

  “Aye, they are,” a gruff voice says. “And that’s not a natural occurrence.”

  Nathan jerks his attention back to see Captain Mains standing just behind them, arms crossed as he stares down at the cavorting sea mammals.

  “What do you mean? Aren’t all the tours like this?”

  “We might get a pod of dolphins or whales,” the captain’s words are chosen deliberately, and there’s a hint of confusion to them, too, “but it’s usually a more casual affair. Sometimes they play across the bow of the ship, dipping and breaching left and right. Putting on a show for the tourists. Not like this though. Not like this.” He shakes his head, expression turning grim.

  “What’s different?”

  Mains steps closer to the rail, one hand raised to frame the animals water. “We never get schools like this all together, all different species. And look at their direction.”

  “Moving south, fast.”

  “That’s right. Almost like they're in a panic of sorts.”

  Nathan chuckles. “They just look beautiful to me.”

  “I wouldn’t expect you to know what I mean,” Mains scoffs gruffly. “You’re not out here every day.”

  “No, I believe you. You’re the guy with the experience.”

  “That I am,” the captain lets out a ragged sigh.

  Nathan glances at the thermometer hanging near the stairwell going down. It showed 2°C, 35.6°F earlier that morning, but it now reads as -3°C, 26.6F. While the Thibedeaus are no strangers to the cold, it’s a bit on the cool side for the end of summer, even for Greenland, and especially for the late morning. Nathan dismisses the fluctuation and hugs Joan, determined to enjoy the show despite the dropping temperature.

  Captain Mains turns from the rail and walks toward the stairwell, descending to the floor below, his lanky legs carrying him quickly along the hallway toward the front of the ship where he enters the bridge. Approaching the observation window that runs around the entire deck, he stands beside Krucknick and Tart where they keep the ship motoring alongside the whales. He stares through the glass, eyes scanning the foamy, choppy waves, lifting a pair of binoculars from where they hang around his neck to gaze southward.

  “Temperature’s dropping, captain,” Tart says quietly from where he stands at the steering column.

  “Aye. I’ve seen it,” Mains replies. “It’s not completely out of the ordinary.”

  “Think it has something to do with the Prime Minister’s announcement?”

  “More likely it’s just us being paranoid, Tart. Someone tells us there’s going to be a dangerous drop in temperature in the Northern Hemisphere, and we quake in our shoes every time we lose a degree.”

  “I don’t mean we should quake, sir.”

  “I know what you mean.” The captain’s voice takes on an ominous tone. “The temperature drops aren’t what scares me. It’s the way the whales are moving that does. They shouldn’t be in such an agitated state. The killers aren’t even hunting. They’re just swimming scared. Now, if you ask me, that’s a direct relation to the anomaly our glorious government officials are speaking of.”

  Tart nods, seeming satisfied the captain at least partially agrees with him.

  “And there’s something else.” Mains narrows his eyes behind the binocular lenses.

  “What’s that, sir?”

  “Krucknick take the wheel. Tart, with me.”

  They make the switch, and the deck officer follows the captain out to the bridge wing on the port side below the tourists. Mains strolls past the ship’s remote control panel and stands at the rail. He raises his binoculars and scans the coastline farther south, heart skipping as he watches the ice sheets floating toward them. Larger, squarish chunks bob among them, appearing to have broken off the shelves.

  “What do you make of the ice?” Mains hands the binoculars to his deck officer. “To the south, if you please.”

  Tart takes the lenses and raises them to his eyes, scanning as directed, his eyes widening as he confirms what the captain sees. “Aye. Those are sheets of ice. Blocks, even.”

  “There’s no considerable current,” Mains whispers. “So, they’re sitting there, floating, waiting for us to cut through them. How long until we reach the inlet for Kangerlussuq?”

  “A few hours if we steam fast.”

  “No, I’ll not hit that ice running full steam.” Mains shakes his head. “Our hull might be built for ice, but I’ll not take that chance. Half speed, Tart. Hold course.”

  “The tourists aren’t going to like it.”

  “I don’t care. Once they see the ice flow we’re about to hit, they’ll understand.” Tart stands there for a full thirty seconds, unmoving as the wind gently buffets him, its scent as sterile as cold steel until the captain looks over at him. “Is there any reason you’re not seeing to my orders, Tart?”

  The deck officer winces into the sunlight glinting off the waters, and finally Tart acknowledges the order. “No, sir. Half speed. Hold course.”

  He turns on his heel to see it done and the captain lifts the binoculars to his eyes once more, glaring at the ice blocks with his cold, gray eyes, a color that almost matches the chill of the sea.

  ***

  An hour later, Nathan lays across the bed in their quarters, warming up as he watches the small TV positioned on the wall next to the windows, following the repeated news feeds that are reporting events along the US and Canadian coastlines. The anomaly. The flooding. And, in some cases, chaos as refugees flee inland in a confused rush of humanity.

  He surfs between three stations, two from the United States and one from Canada, wincing at the sweeping views of coastal destruction from Hurricane Kate from when she bombarded her way up the Eastern Seaboard. Beachfront homes in Nags Head lay demolished in piles of wood, shingles, and garbage, siding of every color lays in the mix, peppered with furniture and mattresses. Boats have been dragged off their moorings only to be shoved through shopfronts and homes, hulls crushed like matchsticks. It’s a stew of debris that keeps Nathan shaking his head for a full ten minutes. His jaw drops open when he sees a helicopter view showing the tide receding to reveal cars, trucks, an
d RVs half-buried in wet sand, the juxtaposition both startling and confusing to the eye, causing his brain to hurt.

  More disturbing are the reports of floods plaguing cities along the Atlantic Coast and eyewitness testimonies from reporters following the mass evacuation of people inland. From Myrtle Beach to Miami, lines of cars, trucks, and motorcycles clog the highways. Broken down vehicles cause choke points and one helicopter view shows a two-mile-long line of people trekking from Quebec City to Montreal with suitcases in their hands.

  Adding to the ominous tone is the speech given by the American president, followed by similar remarks by the Canada’s own Prime Minister. They warn that the freshwater surge from the anomaly is causing temperatures to drop slowly, all across the Northern Hemisphere, and it will only get worse over the next few months. It had all started a week ago, but the Thibedeaus were too preoccupied with their vacation to notice. The cruise cost three times as much as a standard trip to Florida, and Nathan had wanted to get his money’s worth but by the time they’d arrived in Qausuittuq by charter plane and boarded the Ocean Explorer, the damage was done.

  He recalls Joan’s complaint about the cold just a short time ago, the figures on the observation deck thermometer sticking in his mind. It all coincides with what the authorities said would happen, only the reality seems more drastic, and panic taps out an icy message up his spine. He sends a text to the house sitter back in Ottawa to get a report on their two dogs and cat but the message doesn’t go through, and he sets his phone on the bed as worry nags at him until Joan steps out of the shower. She stands with a towel wrapped around her chest and another bundling her hair, glancing at the screen before rolling her eyes.

  “Can we turn something else on? The news is so depressing.”

  “I’m afraid there isn’t much else.” Nathan lowers the volume and fixes her with a frown. “They’re evacuating Quebec City.”

  She bends and enters the room, her eyes on the screen, words rushed, dismissive attitude completely gone. “Are you serious?”

  “Dead serious. I’ll bet Montreal is going to be overrun.”

  The woman shifts her attention between the television and her husband. “Ottawa is less than a hundred miles away, and we live on the east side.”

  “Directly in line of anyone moving west.”

  Joan’s eyes grow wide with worry. “You should text Samantha.”

  “I already have.” Nathan raised his phone and dropped it on the mattress. “Like Logan said. The internet is terrible here. It’ll probably take an hour to get through.”

  “Did you try email, too?”

  “I did,” Nathan nods. His wife’s worry only makes his grow that much more.

  She stares at the line of refugees on the screen. “Those poor people.”

  “And you were right about the cold.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It was getting colder outside this morning.” He sits up. “Normally, at this time of year, it’s a brisk four or five degrees Celsius. I mean, I checked that repeatedly before we came. I planned the trip for a time when the weather wouldn’t be so bad.”

  “What is it now?”

  “Minus seven.”

  “That’s a huge drop,” Joan admits as she moves to the window to peer out.

  When Nathan planned the trip, he bumped them to deluxe accommodations, so their room has a big square window rather than a tiny portal. Joan gazes out at the passing sea and the increasingly gray sky.

  “I wonder if the captain’s decision to slow down has anything to do with the flooding and weather?” Nathan muses out loud. “I mean, if someone had ordered ships back to port, we’d be going faster.” He pauses as a horrifying thought strikes him. “Unless Kangerlussuaq is flooded, too. That could mean--”

  “I know the reason he slowed down,” Joan’s voice is quiet as she leans her towel-covered forehead against the window. “You’ve got to see this, Nathan.”

  He hops off the bed and pads over in his socks, leaning in next to his wife, absorbing the warmth radiating off her skin, captivated by what’s in the water.

  “What in the hell...?” His words trail off as his eyes rake over the thick slabs of ice floating past them. Their forms are monstrous, jutting meters out of the water, their submerged forms barely visible but still present, visible occasionally as a streak of grey or white beneath the waves.

  “This ship can handle that, right?” Joan suddenly sounds worried.

  “It can break through ice,” Nathan assures her. “I mean, it’s not an official ice-breaker, but it has a modified hull to protect against stuff like this specifically for trips like the one we’re on.”

  “That’s good,” Joan says with a shiver, turning toward the bathroom. “I’m going to put some clothes on. It’s chilly in here.”

  Nathan nods and watches the ice drift past for another ten minutes as his wife’s blow-dryer works on her hair before she exits the bathroom, throws off her towel and puts on a pair of leggings and a long sleeve shirt before adding jeans and winter vest. Due to the supposed mild temperatures for this time of year, his family hasn’t brought extra long johns or serious winter attire. He tilts his head and listens to the rattling ventilation system circulate air through the ship. The Ocean Explorer is a great boat, but it’s old – very old – and doubt nags at the back of his mind yet again.

  ***

  As the hours pass, Captain Mains maneuvers the Ocean Explorer through the worst of the ice patches, expertly navigating between the iceberg-sized chunks with Tart and Krucknick’s help. They smack smaller slabs aside and punch through larger ones, knocking the pieces about with crunchy impacts that vibrate the hull. A dozen passengers come up to the observation deck to see what’s causing the noise and soon those who hadn’t known about the ice flow are chattering nervously about it.

  Three men come to the bridge to check on the status of the ship and ask what the captain’s plan is. The friendly one named Nathan is especially concerned and a little agitated. He says their cabin is excruciatingly cold, approaching freezing temperatures inside. This doesn’t surprise the captain, considering it’s close to -15°C, 5F outside and Mains assures the men that they’re still on track to make Kangerlussuaq by the following morning. He leaves off the fact that the town isn’t responding to radio calls since it’s not uncommon to have spotty signals, but not so close to shore. The first niggling tick of dread climbs up his spine and wraps around his neck.

  “It’s only going to get colder, captain,” Tart says as if reading his mind.

  “I know. I’ve never seen a temperature swing like this. Let’s just hope we can enter the fjord to Kangerlussuaq.”

  “But they’re not responding. Could they have been flooded?”

  “Hard to tell. Maybe they weren’t ready for the cold. They could be having communication issues. It happens. No sense in panicking just yet.”

  As the ice thickens, he’s forced to plow over slushy chunks and snap through the flat, jagged disks of stubborn frost. It’s all-hands-on-deck as he keeps sailors manning the engine room, navigation, and pumps in case the unthinkable happens and the thick steel hull is compromised. An hour later there’s a break in the ice and Captain Mains tells Tart to give them full power. The diesel engine roars to life in the ship’s belly, driving them across the deceptively calm sea until more ice packs start to form. They bump and knock against them, sending gut-wrenching shudders up and down the Ocean Explorer’s sides.

  The captain orders them back to half speed and glares out the port side window, watching and waiting for the coastline to appear. He’s chilly beneath his heavy coat as the onboard heaters try to keep up with the mist-frozen air, the temperature having stabilized at -17°C, 1.4F. Frighteningly cold and more than enough to lock up the ship.

  “We’re almost there,” he tells anyone who will listen, and all eyes are on the big GPS screen that hangs above the glass as they approach the tip of the fjord leading up the long, narrow strait to Kangerlussuaq.
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  The hull grumbles and shakes as they make their way around the tip of the fjord. All they have to do is drive up through the calm waters until they reach Kangerlussuaq with its airfield perched up on the rocks. From there, he can release his passengers and let them be someone else’s responsibility. In the night, he can barely see the outline of the shore, their GPS and sonar acting as their eyes and ears. As they round the bend and head east toward the inlet, the ice packs tighten around them, big chunks pressing against the hull and squeezing with emotionless force. The ship slows, grinding through packs of hoarfrost as a crunching sound permeates the cabin.

  “Full power,” Captain Mains orders as it becomes a slog. He briefly considers turning away from the shore and seeking the open ocean where they can at least be free of the ice and sail farther south. Fuel is a consideration, though, as they only have three days’ worth of diesel in the tanks, so they must press on.

  Again, Tart reads his mind, voice strained as he speaks. “Let’s keep going toward shore.” The deck officer’s eyes dart around at the darkness. “We might not make Kangerlussuaq, but if we get stuck in the ice, we can wait for it to freeze and trek to the small town of Itivdleq on foot. It’s only three miles from our current position.”

  The captain turns, steps away from the window, and reluctantly throws open the door to the port wing, slamming the door shut behind him as he walks into the cutting wind, jerking his coat tighter and moving stiffly to the wing’s edge. It’s pitch dark out, but the exterior lights illuminate the endless ice field. It still has cracks and fissures that make it passable in the boat, but those are shrinking by the minute, their collapse actually discernable to the naked eye.

  His gaze turns northeast toward Itivdleq, hoping to see a glimmer of light through the pitch black. When nothing is visible, he moves to the mounted telescope and points it at the Greenland coastline. Even if rocks obscure his vision, he should still see the glow of Itivdleq’s lights. He looks for several momentsr but finds no trace of a living town. With a frustrated growl, he enters the bridge and notifies his men.