I want to punch his throat and rip out his airways.
A hard shove sends me to my knees. The stupid suture tears, yet again. My ruck is yanked from my shoulders, my face slammed in the dirt, my hands tied behind my back, as pistol and knife are taken from me. There’s no more effective way to strip a sniper naked than to take away her rifle and her partner. And only now does it hit me: Runner’s mother and sister had been taken by the BSA and he’d been unable to do anything about it. He hid in a cow carcass. Today, history repeats itself for him. I couldn’t have been more ignorant. Why did I not see it in his empty expression, the paleness of his eyes, the grim set mouth? Why did I not find the right words to make this easier for him?
Suddenly, I realise he didn’t promise me to stay alive. Something breaks inside my head; I can even hear it — must be sanity.
A bitter laugh erupts from my mouth. I never learned how to comfort people, how to feel for them and with them. Nothing about me has changed in the past months. Only now, I’m an effective killer.
‘Erik…. There’s something I need to tell you.’ Come closer. Come closer! I’ll take you away with me.
‘Blindfold her.’ A deep, rasping command. It’s the first time I hear my father speak. Strawberry flavours tickle the root of my tongue. A grating sensation — much like rows of small seeds and tiny hairs on a smooth berry — spreads on my palate. It mixes with the metallic taste of danger. I gag.
A bag is slipped over my head and tied around my neck. I’m in my own small bubble. I can poison only myself. He’s taken my last defence from me.
Bristling fury surges through me and I do find the right words then, and let them out in a cold growl. ‘Motherfucking son of a bitch!’
The kick to my injured side comes as a relief. This pain I can handle.
The cloth bag is coarse. Small specks of light shine through it. The rope cuts into my wrists, my injured side rubs on the helicopter’s metal floor and my ears are assaulted with the roaring of motor and wings cutting air. A perpetual series of images flicker across my retinae: my hand on Runner’s chest, the explosion, the noise, the cloud, my hand on Runner’s chest.
I’m numbed by the fear of his death, by hopelessness, by my own failure to be or do the right thing at the right moment. My eyes seem to already forget the beauty of his smile; my tongue cannot recall the taste of his kiss. I try hard to summon images and flavours; I need to see and taste him. So much. Just once. Just this once.
My hand on his chest, his heartbeat within, his hand covering mine and him asking, ‘Are we holding each other hostage?’ — that’s all my mind shows me of him, over and over again. Even when I open my eyes and try to squint through the holes in the fabric that covers my face, I can still see our hands, his broad chest, his dark-brown shirt.
My words and memories begin to lose their flavours. My mouth seems to fill with ash.
I feel the stirring of something new. Somewhere behind my navel, a knot forms. It’s cold and hard. Comforting in a way. And deadly precise.
———
They have plundered the world, stripping naked the land in their hunger… they are driven by greed, if their enemy be rich; by ambition, if poor… They ravage, they slaughter, they seize by false pretences, and all of this they hail as the construction of empire. And when in their wake nothing remains but a desert, they call that peace.
Tacitus, The Agricola and the Germania
Preview of Book Three: Ice
When you lay down a law, see that it is not disobeyed; if it is disobeyed the offender must be put to death.
The Art of War, Sun Tzu
I’m about to die. I have mixed feelings about that, but no time to elaborate. The crunching noise is sickening — something’s broken. A sudden impact jerks me forward and I hit my head hard on the yoke, tilting the nose of the aircraft towards the sheer rock wall before me. I yank the machine up, blinking blood and sunlight from my eyes.
Snowy mountains shimmer through the clouds. The small aircraft tumbles and hollers, muting the wild knocking of my heart against my ribs. An orchestra of terror. The crest is racing closer — a black shard cutting through soft white clouds. I growl, clench my teeth, and fight with the stubborn machine.
A piercing noise and I’m thrown forward again, barely missing the yoke this time. I pull the aircraft back up until blue sky is all I see. I want to remain up here, but I can’t.
Both control screens flash warnings in capital red letters, telling me nothing I don’t already know. I push the nose of the machine down to bring its wings level with the horizon, and make sure it’s somewhat in line with the previous course.
I’m skidding along a blanket of white. One last glance, then I leave the cockpit and enter the cabin. At once, the machine starts to fishtail.
I hurry the parachute onto my back and pull the buckles tight. My large ruck goes upside down against my front, its straps around my belly and thighs. My rifle sticks halfway out and I’m sure I’ll bonk my head against the stock on my way down. But a headache would be the least of my problems.
Taking a deep breath and ordering myself not to piss my pants, I open the hatch. At first, it requires some force, but then the door is ripped from my grip and bangs against the side of the plane. Cold wind rushes in, and the fishtailing goes from tolerable to violent. The machine dips into the cloud cover.
Okay, time to take a nice comfy leap into a bed of white sheep’s wool.
Ugh, I’ve never been good at bullshitting myself.
I shut my eyes, grab both sides of the doorframe, and propel myself out of the machine with a cry.
Wind rips at my cheeks and eyelids. The wet clouds are as cold as ice.
I try not to think of an impending death by being smashed to smithereens. Doesn’t work, though.
My heart is hollering. Or maybe it’s stopped by now. I can’t really tell.
I break through the cloud cover and see Earth racing toward me. Below me, everything is white. Only a black, dotted line of naked trees and a few dark, windswept rocks are spinning like crazy. Like arms of a clock telling me my time is running out.
The storm of my quick descent roars in my ears. I’m dizzy, trying to balance my limbs in thin air, trying to slow the tumbling of my body. At some point I’m supposed to release the parachute. Not sure when, though. I’ve never jumped from an aircraft.
For a short moment I wonder if I’m free. I think I am, now. Even before I touch the ground, before I reach civilisation, before I can be sure I’ve survived all this. Two years of Hell behind me. It feels unreal. Just like flying.
I grin, and the wind gushes into my mouth and through my teeth until they hurt.
My breath is a series of groans in too quick succession. I should try and stop hyperventilating. There’s a uniform mass of white below and a uniform mass of white above. No idea how close or far away the ground is.
With a rush of panic my survival instinct kicks in as the single line of trees begins to show faint details of branches and shadows of piled up snow. I stop thinking and start reacting. I kick my heels and move out my arms and hands stretching flat against the pushing air. My tumbling ceases and I pull the release. The parachute jerks me away from death. I hit my head on the stock of my rifle.
Squealing like a pig that meets the slaughterer, I hold on to my ruck and watch the ground approach. Just as I think that I’m too fast, the ground hits me, hard. Pain shoots up my legs and hips, and I roll and plough through the deep snow. The parachute drags me and, finally, brings me to a halt.
Gasping, I look up at the clouds. I’m invisible. I bark a single, croaky laugh.
I move my legs and instantly, pain sets my right ankle on fire. It almost makes me regret I pulled the release at all. I must have pulled it too late, but then, if I’d done it only a few seconds earlier, the parachute wouldn’t have opened because I was still spinning like a maple seed in a hurricane.
I roll onto my side, scrape snow out of my mouth, ears, and collar. I m
ust have lost my wool hat. When I brush snow from my hair it comes off slightly rusty. It doesn’t worry me; it’s not my own blood.
My body feels stiff and ice cold; I need to move. I strip off my gloves, unstrap my ruck and the parachute and peel myself out of all that equipment. Snow is falling thickly, but at least there’s no wind. Bit by bit, I pull in the parachute. It’s heavy; fresh snow weighs it down and more is falling onto it. It takes about ten, fifteen minutes just to get the thing bunched up next to me.
My fingers brush over my pant leg, gingerly probing the muscles of my calf, ankle, and foot. My ankle hurts like shit when I touch it. There’s no blood on my pants or boots, which means the fractured bone didn’t break the skin. But there’ll be internal bleeding that’ll cause painful swelling in about twenty-four hours. Depending on the severity of the injury, I might be unable to walk.
I twist my neck to assess the distance to the nearby trees. More than a hundred metres. Okay, I’ll crawl, or scoot on my butt — backwards like some stupid crab. Without a good stick to serve as a crutch, I won’t get far. But I don’t even know how far precisely I need to walk to reach my destination. All I know is the direction: south, southeast. More or less.
I pull the knife from its sheath and cut the parachute into shreds. My breath is cloudy. There’s a layer of fresh snow on my pants, boots, and the ruck. Wrapping my ankle tightly in strips of fabric produces more pain. I’m angry at my leg, it’ll kill me if I let it. To croak today is not on my list anymore.
With my ruck serving as support, half dragging it, half leaning on it, I make it to the group of trees in a bit more than half an hour. Or in what feels like half an hour. I’m soaked in sweat when I lean against the first trunk. As soon as I stop moving, cold creeps in with icy fingers.
I find a dead branch that looks the right length and thickness, break it off and clamp it under my armpit to test its stability. It doesn’t creak when I put the combined weight of my ruck and myself on it. I sit back down, pull my snow goggles out of my pack and snap them on my face.
Even with the injury and not knowing where precisely I am, my situation isn’t hopeless. Actually, it’s quite all right, everything considered. I have all my possessions — my ruck, clothes, cookware, provisions, plus a bunch of small and useful things, and most important of all: my knife, pistol, and ammo. Even my rifle. I need to get used to its weight and feel again. And I have to push away the memories it evokes.
A laugh bursts from my chest. There are so many memories that need to be pushed away, I should get my brain washed.
One last glance at the compass, then I stand and hobble away from the Carpathian Mountains.
———
Snow is coming down; large and heavy flakes. Four days of snail’s pace limping didn’t get me far. My provisions have been eaten, the little oil in my petroleum burner is gone. Eating snow to replenish liquids would kill me in a day or two. So that’s it, basically.
My ankle hurts so much I want to puke. I’ve been ass-scooting since this morning. It took ages to move only fifty metres. My pants are soaked, and caked with ice. I’m freezing. There’s absolutely nothing that looks familiar to me and I have no clue where I am. The maps crashed with the aircraft — in my hurry to get out of the machine, I forgot them and this mistake is going to kill me now. There’s nothing in sight that can help me pinpoint my precise location. A distant forest and I are the only non-white things sticking out of this snow desert.
I keep wondering what I was thinking when I ran from Erik and his men, and whether, at some point, I really believed I could make it.
I gaze up at the sky that has been overcast since I fell from it. Above the clouds are Erik’s satellites, their various UV/Vis and shortwave infrared sensors are unable to see me now. Up until a few days ago I’d hoped to make him believe that I’d crashed and burned in his aircraft, so he wouldn’t come looking for me. It doesn’t matter anymore.
With a sigh, I remove my snow goggles and lean back against a tree trunk. My knees are knocking against each other. The vibration sends waves of pain up and down my injured leg. I close my eyes and slow my breathing, thinking of the friends I’ve left behind and wondering what I have done to be the only one left alive. For a very long time, I believed I couldn’t bear the guilt.
Today, I don’t feel this weight. Now that I sit and stare into the white expanse, I begin to miss things that seemed irrelevant for so long. Strangely, the one thing I yearn for is autumn — the turning of the land, the blushing of the trees before they get naked. Funny, what one suddenly learns to appreciate when time has run out. Or maybe it’s just me not wanting to freeze, to be so hungry and utterly thirsty. Autumn was nice. Sun. Colours. Food in abundance.
When, gradually, my shivering subsides I know that the warmth my body seems to feel is the first messenger of my end. I don’t mind. It’s a kind way to go. I’ll fall asleep and, by tomorrow morning, I’ll be an icicle.
I think of Rajah, her kindness, her voluptuous body, her soft voice. ‘Sometimes, in my dreams, I’m holding you,’ I once told her, and she smiled, the baby at her breast cooed, and she reached out her hand — calloused, red, and a little swollen from too much work. I took it into mine and she pulled me closer to kiss my wrist. Our smiles and the touch of her lips to my skin were her death sentence. We had believed that, for one moment, no one was watching.
Weakness kills. I’ve learned that lesson.
I’m ready now.
I’m ready.
And so tired.
The yapping of excited dogs sounds from afar. I wake from my stupor. The thought of being torn apart by a pack of hungry wild dogs mobilises my last bit of energy. I slip a round into my rifle, and run my index finger over the cold trigger guard. The temperature is so low that the metal is sticky to the touch.
Breath clouds my view and my scope. I let the condensation clear, prop the weapon onto my healthy knee, and gaze through the finder. Two rows of six dogs each, a sled with a heavy load, a handler.
A tear skids down my cheek.
I lower my rifle, cry, ‘Over here!’ and wave.
The animals approach quickly. Their yapping mingles with hoarse huffs. Only a moment later, they come to a halt. Sighing, I close my eyes, revel in the noises they produce, the smacking of tongues and muzzles, the pattering of paws in snow. I try to taste the sounds, but my mouth is parched.
The pulse in my fingertips taps erratically. I can almost feel the warmth and softness of the furry animals.
I will not die. Not today.
I made it.
Get ICE here
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EXTRAS
(Click on the links to learn more)
Future wars and civil violence will often arise from scarcities of resources such as water, forests, fish…
Thomas Homer-Dixon, 1991, On the Threshold: Environmental Changes as Causes of Acute Conflict
Rising global temperatures, changing precipitation patterns, climbing sea levels and more extreme weather events will intensify the challenges of global instability, hunger, poverty and conflict.
US Defense Secretary Chuck Hagel, 2014.
Human security will be progressively threatened as the climate changes (robust evidence, high agreement).
IPCC, Climate Change 2014: Impacts, Adaptations, and Vulnerability
There is no doubt that impoverishment and human insecurity may arise as a result of climate change, if preventive measures are not undertaken. However, there is missing evidence that global warming directly increases conflict. (…) The causes of conflict are primarily political and economic, not climatic. Warlords
— who foster conflict — may exploit draught, flooding, starvation, agricultural or natural disasters in their strategies, like they did in Somalia and Darfur. But what will drive their fight is not the rain, the temperature, or the sea level — they will always fight for the same goals of power, territory, money, revenge, etc.
Dr. Vesselin Popovski, United Nations University
Acknowledgements
Magnus & Sabrina, for their invaluable help in making this story better. Rita, for her most hilarious AAAAAAHHHHs and NOOOOOOOOOs and the DON’T YOU DARE KILL MY MAN (I can’t give you a reply to this last one yet, though). Don Sander, for pointing out typos and logical nits; and Michael Bunker and Matthew H., for providing home-brewed profanity.
And, finally, Janis McDermott and Thomas Welch, for proof reading.
If there’s anything wrong with this book — it’s all my fault. I might have been drunk writing and editing it. Except the profanity, that’s all Michael’s and Matthew’s fault.
Fog: The Climate Fiction Saga Page 20
