Antarctica is cold.
Like, balls cold.
The Almiri don’t seem to be feeling it, obvi. Alan and the rest of them have their thermals unzipped and their heads uncovered. Heck, their cheeks aren’t even rosy. Cole, now that he’s finally been uncuffed, has his thermal tied around his neck, and despite the fact that he’s wearing nothing more than a T-shirt underneath, his arms show no sign of goose-pimpling.
Meanwhile, I can’t hear myself think over the chattering of my own teeth. I’ve got my thermal zipped up to my chin and my hood pulled down tightly, but every centimeter of skin that’s exposed to the air burns with cold. I snuggle Olivia tightly against my chest. She’s well-protected in her little papoose, but I think the shock of the cold has taken some of the fight out of her lungs. Silver linings, and all that.
Alan and his cohorts shuttle us off the train and down a flight of stairs toward the small depot that sits at the end of the mag-rail line that must serve as the staging area for the transfer of goods and prisoners headed to the Cape Crozier facility. It’s not much more than a station house and a long, low-lying extension that I’m assuming is a kennel for the dogs. The stairs are icy slick, and I have to catch myself more than once on my way down, navigating the rail with one hand and balancing Olivia with the other. No fewer than three times Ducky tries to offer me his hand, but I shake him off.
“I’m okay, I swear,” I say. “Just need to take it slow.”
I’m on the second-to-bottom step, though, when I lose it for real, and I know—in that way you do when the ground just slips out from under you completely—that no amount of scrambling is going to stop my fall. I let out a startled yelp, because I don’t have time for anything louder, but it’s too late. Me and my baby are ice pancake—
“Gotcha,” Cole says.
I look up at him, stunned. Sure enough, I’m lying, almost horizontally, in Cole’s arms. Olivia is fine too, curled up at my chest, none the wiser for my clumsiness.
“Uh, thanks,” I say.
Cole is grinning. Seeing as he was in front of me on the steps, he must have done some pretty epic ice-dancing moves to spin around quickly enough to catch me. I’m kind of sad I missed it.
“Doesn’t the hero get a kiss, at least?” Cole asks.
I grin back. “Of course.” I’m moving in for the kiss when I feel the tug at my side. Looking down, I see Ducky’s fingers gripped tight around the side of my thermal. Clearly he was doing his best to rescue me too, but all he got for his efforts was a handful of pocket lint. When he sees me looking at him, he clears his throat and tugs his hand away.
“You okay, dearheart?” Dad asks from the top of the steps.
My eyes dart from Ducky to my father. “Uh, yeah,” I say, although I’m still feeling a little dazed. “Just fine.” I straighten up and give Cole a quick peck, which obviously disappoints him.
There are three large sleds waiting for us at the staging area. One has space free for passengers, while the other two are already packed high with huge crates and sacks. Supplies for the prison, I suppose.
I pile onto the first sled, and Cole squeezes up close beside me. “She looks cold,” he says, peering down at Olivia. Which, okay, is not exactly trending news, but still, at least he’s working on the whole “observant” thing. Actually, Olivia still seems too shocked by the temperature to cry. She’s just rapid-baby-blinking in this way that’s, like, disconcerting, to say the least. “Here,” Cole continues, undoing the thermal from around his neck. “This might help.” He drapes the thermal around Olivia and over my shoulders, so that it warms both of us.
“Thanks,” I say, a little surprised. Here I thought Cole was going to jingle the jacket in her face to distract her from the chill. “That was good,” I tell him, smiling. I give him a teasing elbow to the side. “What’d you do, read a baby book or something?”
Cole is very clearly pleased with himself. But: “She’s still blinking all weird,” he says. I glance down. Olivia is, in fact, still “blinking all weird,” her cheeks scrunched up as her lids rapid-fire open-closed-open-closed. “What is that, like, Morse Code?” Cole continues. “You think she’s trying to tell us something?”
“Her hood,” Ducky says as he slides into the seat behind us. “Pull down her hood.”
I oblige and tug down on the little baby lid so that it comes down to her nose. Instantly Olivia seems calmer. She lets out a satisfied baby sigh and wraps herself more comfortably into my curves. Within seconds she is asleep.
I crane my neck to look at Ducky without disturbing the baby. “How did you . . . ?” I begin.
“The light off the snowdrifts,” he tells me. “Her developing eyes aren’t used to such brightness.” He crosses his arms over his chest and shrugs. “I read a book or something,” he tells us before staring off into the distance.
And that’s the last thing he says for the next two hours.
Before long we’re underway, shushing and whooshing on our high-tech puppy-powered toboggan hurtling toward our gloomy destination. The sled jostles slightly as we zoom across the ice, jingle-jangling in this way that’s fairly Christmas carol-y and would be lovely and romantic if not for the fact that, like, we’ve just been banished to imprisonment, perhaps for the rest of our lives, simply because my baby doesn’t have a dongle.
So, okay, yeah, our lives may be rapidly going to hell in a dog-pulled handbasket, but at least the view is spectacular. Honestly, I didn’t realize how beautiful ice could be before I came to this place. The dogs pull us down the makeshift path—which is just a slightly more trodden patch of snow, marked with neon-painted bamboo poles—and it’s just snow, snow, and more snow, as far as the eye can see. A desert of snow, really. But it’s not mundane, not in the slightest. Oh no. There are ice cliffs, soaring fifty feet or more into the sky, ice formations sprinkled here and there that look like giant mushrooms poking up out of the ground, hills and valleys and, puckered beside the path, cracks in the ice. Every once in a while we pass a patch that’s broken free from the rest of the ice mass, and the ice floes don’t drift gently out to sea like I’d imagine, but rather crash into each other with the force of the waves below them.
Far in the distance, there is a loud Crack-BOOM! of thunder, followed by another. Crack-BOOM!
The sky is crystal clear.
A shiver crawls up my spine, less from the pervasive chill and more from the eerie thought that that roar of thunder must’ve traveled for miles, and yet it sounds like it’s right on top of us. I guess it’s easy to make yourself heard when you’re surrounded by so much . . . nothing.
After an hour or so, Olivia takes up her wailing again. Full-throttle screaming that’s so loud, I’m startled when I look around and don’t see an avalanche forming. And even though I have a tiny bit of the blue gel left in my pocket, I’m afraid to use it up so soon. Who knows what food they’ll have for her at the prison? So I try singing again. (Alan, at the front of the sled, starts spasming like my voice is giving him a stroke, but he can just shove it.)
“I love you, a bushel and a peck.
A bushel and a peck, and a hug around the neck.
A hug around the neck, and . . .”
Olivia is having none of it. She’s screeching louder than ever. From the seat behind me, Dad leans his head over my shoulder. “Hold her closer,” he instructs. “Closer. So she can hear your heartbeat. Good. Now try again.”
I do as told, but Olivia won’t stop howling. I’m growing more and more shaken. Any second I’m going to be the one crying. I break the song off midlyric. “What am I doing wrong?” I ask over the rush of the wind. My voice is a quiver of nerves. “Why won’t she stop?”
Dad reaches out a hand, but it’s not Olivia’s head he pats soothingly—it’s mine. “Your baby feels what you’re feeling,” he tells me. “You’re anxious right now, worried, so she is too. The only way to calm her down is to be utterly calm yourself.”
“How am I supposed to be calm when she’s screaming at me?” I call back
to him.
Even over the wind, I can hear my dad chuckle. “Welcome to parenthood,” he tells me. And then, slightly more helpfully: “You’ve got to find your own inner peace, dearheart, and then give it to her. Channel it to her in your voice, your muscles, everything.”
“Wouldn’t it just be easier to get a vaccine or something?” I mutter. But I try again.
“I love you, a bushel and a peck.
A bushel and a peck, and a hug around the neck.”
And okay, no, I definitely don’t manage to channel my inner peace, but after a good twenty minutes of my terrible singing, Olivia finally tones the screaming down to a quiet sob. I think she just ran of steam, but hey, I’ll take it.
“Where are all the penguins?” Cole asks suddenly, leaning so far over the sled that I might worry for his safety, if not for the fact that he is, you know, a rapidly-healing super alien.
“Emperor penguins don’t surface until they mate,” Dad informs us. Apparently space elevators aren’t the only thing he boned up on in Useless Factoid School. “And they only mate in the dead of winter. Until then, they spend much of their time at sea.”
“But it is the winter,” Cole replies. “It’s like”—he does the math, which based on the look on his face, is fairly painful—“December sixth. Unless we were drugged without realizing.” He scrunches his nose. “Could we have been held for six whole months?”
“We’re at the South Pole,” I inform him, and goodness, all that singing must have really tuckered me out, because there is not even a trace of snarkiness in my voice. I bob Olivia at my chest and let out a sigh of pure exhaustion. “The Antarctic winter starts in, like, June.”
“Wait,” Cole says, like his mind has been totally blown. “So this is summer? But there’s snow in it.”
Somewhere out across the ice there is another crack of thunder. Crack-BOOM!
I look at Cole and smile wistfully. He smiles back. His teeth are so perfect. I hope Olivia gets his teeth and not mine. Some other things, however . . . I mean, I love the lug, I really think I do.
I just hope being a moron isn’t hereditary.
• • •
It might seem weird to get so excited at the sight of a prison camp looming in the distance, but when you’ve been sledding along into nothingness for hours, anything is welcome. Even Alan lets out what I can only assume is a grunt of relief. I have a feeling the guy will be volunteering for kitchen duty pronto when he gets back. Dude does not like to travel.
The prison camp comes into better focus as the dogs trot closer. And not that I exactly knew what to expect when I heard we were being shipped off here, but this . . . wasn’t it.
The building is a log cabin. As in, Abraham Lincoln log cabin. It’s big, but not huge-big, maybe like medium-big. (At least, that’s how I imagine the famed poet Robert Frost would have described it in his ever-eloquent verse, “Two Roads Converged on a Medium-Big Cabin.”) And it doesn’t look very prison-y. There are no bars on the windows, no visible locks on the doors. A few huskies similar to the ones currently mushing our sled are hanging out by the front entrance, but they don’t look to be at all threatening. That’s the vibe I get from the way they’re busy sniffing each other’s crotches, anyway.
“I guess they figure there’s nowhere for us to try to escape to,” Ducky says, piping up for the first time since the depot.
My Bestie. The cheery one.
I shrug Ducky’s foul mood off and take in my surroundings slowly, cataloging every path, every window, every tiny crack in the cabin’s wall. And I am absolutely positive my father is doing the same.
“Here we are,” Alan announces when our driver brings the dogs to a stop. “Your new home away from home.”
“Who do we call for turndown service?” I mutter, but no one pays me any mind.
We are greeted by a tall handsome fellow with a weather-beaten face, close-cropped hair, thin lips, and brooding eyes. You can tell just by looking at him that he’s not much of a talker. He walks over to the sleds, limping ever-so-slightly, favoring his left leg, and rather than greeting any of us, he bends down to one knee to pet our dogs. As soon as they get a whiff of him, the pups all stop their playfighting with one another and sit back on their haunches and begin wagging their tails frantically, ears relaxed in doggy glee as they wait, anxiously but obediently, for their turn for a scratching. Clearly they’re gaga for the guy.
“You Oates?” Alan hollers at him. The man nods, one sharp jerk of his head. “I got some cargo for you,” Alan continues, motioning our way. I notice the distinct change in his tone when addressing Oates. With us, he’s mostly formal, a little short. But with this guy Oates, there’s a disdainful edge that’s unmistakable.
The man Oates doesn’t reply, just heads to the back of one of the sleds, where he unstraps a few boxes of who-knows-what. Meanwhile, we “cargo” stand shivering in our thermal suits, not quite sure what to do with ourselves. I mean, no one really ever told me if it’s proper protocol to offer to help your new prison guard unload supplies or . . . what.
“If you wouldn’t mind hurrying,” Alan says, more to his watch than to the man. “I’d like to get back to the Fountain before that thunderstorm catches up with us.”
For the first time, Oates raises his eyes in Alan’s direction. I notice the leather hilt of a handgun at Oates’s hip. “That’s not thunder,” he says. His words come out slowly but precise, with a definite British accent.
He returns to his knots, and in short order he has removed the entire load from the sled. He looks straight at us and makes one quick motion with his arm, summoning us. We fall into line, and in turn he hands a box each to Dad, Cole, and Ducky, who, being the weakest of the bunch, grunts under the strain as he takes it. Oates lifts the fourth and last crate from the sled and turns as if to hand it to me, then stops cold when he sees the cargo I’ve already got cooing in my arms. It’s a long moment with him just staring, frozen in place. He doesn’t look shocked, or angry, or annoyed. Which bothers me some, ’cause I don’t like unreadable types, as a rule.
“So the child is staying?” he asks finally.
“At least until we hear back about that Vassar scholarship,” I say, crossing my fingers in what I hope translates as an indignant bit of sarcasm.
Another sharp nod. “I see.” And that, as far as I can tell, is the end of it. Oates grips the box easily in his hands and turns his attention to Alan, offering him the box to carry. Only Alan is already climbing back onto the sled with our other captors.
“You should come inside and rest for a spell,” Oates tells him.
But Alan is busy rousing the dogs. The guy could not be more ready to get out of here. And to be honest, I’m not too put out by the idea myself. “If it’s all the same, I’d rather not,” he says, his voice clearly implying that by “if it’s all the same” he means “Is there an option to stick a live scorpion in my pants instead?” “There is quite a bit of”—he glances at Ducky—“cleanup to attend to on the Fountain.”
Ducky whispers in my ear so I’m the only one who can hear him muttering. “Advanced alien civilization, but they never heard of Dramamine?”
Oates puts down his box and saunters, gimp-style, to the front of Alan’s sled. The dogs sit perfectly still and watch him keenly—as if Oates had given them an unspoken command. “Your dogs will need to be swapped out with fresh ones for the trip back,” he tells Alan. “Please, come rest inside.” It is not a suggestion.
Alan clears his throat. “Your concern for the well-being of inferior creatures is duly noted,” he replies coolly with just that faint hint of contempt. The remark garners a few snickers from Alan’s fellow guards. “But nevertheless we shall be underway.” And he doesn’t wait for a response but instead turns back to the dogs.
Which is probably why he doesn’t see it coming.
The punch, that is.
Before any of us know what’s happened, Oates has dropped his crate and flown over the front of the sled, lan
ding a real doozy of a haymaker to Alan’s face. Alan careens off his seat, crashing butt-first into the snow. But before he or any of the other Almiri can respond, Oates leaps on top of him, his left forearm pressing down firmly on Alan’s throat, and in one fluid motion, looses the pistol from his belt with his right hand and trains it directly between Alan’s eyes. The pistol is old-fashioned, long and smooth, with an honest-to-God firing hammer. Like, for gunpowder and everything.
“Listen, brat,” Oates says, his voice still quiet and steely calm. “You may think you know a thing or two, but from where I stand, you’ve been around about as long as a sneeze. Dogs are living creatures, like you and me, and so they are deserving of your respect and care.” His lock on Alan must be solid, ’cause I’ve never seen an Almiri look so helpless before. Oates flicks the pistol in a slight upward motion for emphasis. “Wouldn’t you agree?”
Alan nods weakly, letting out a squeaking noise I can only imagine is an affirmation.
“Good,” Oates says.
And then he pulls the trigger.
“Pop.”
I flinch backward and close my eyes, but Oates’s verbal “pop” is the closest thing to a shot that we get. When I open my eyes, I see Oates standing up off Alan, his pistol by his side. Dangling by a long string from the barrel of the gun is a small, smooth wooden ball.
“A toy gun?” I ask, confused.
Oates holsters his “weapon” and turns back to the box he dropped in the snow. There is not a smidgen of recognition on his face that he has just made a dude nearly wet himself with a popgun. “A little levity helps to keep spirits light around here,” is all he says as he heads toward the cabin, nodding for us to follow. “I’ll send out a man to help you unharness those dogs.”
Alan rises up off the ground and brushes the snow and ice from his thermal. “Don’t think I won’t tell Byron about this,” he calls to Oates’s back.
“See that you do, boy,” Oates replies. He steps into the cabin without another word.
I turn to Ducky, who gives me a shrug.
“I guess, as wardens go, it could be worse,” he says.
A Stranger Thing (The Ever-Expanding Universe) Page 5
