Blood and Ice

by Robert Masello

  “Geez,” Osmond said, holding his wet cap in his hands now. “I'm really sorry. I never knew something like that could happen.” He looked around at the others to see if he was in serious trouble.

  “It's all right, mate,” Calloway said. “If it's no good to the beakers, it's still fine for the bouillabaisse.”

  “Not this one,” Darryl said. “I can still thaw it out and drain the blood.”

  “The blood,” Calloway said, dubiously. “That's what you want?”

  “That blood, my friend, contains secrets the world will be very glad to have one day.”

  Calloway tapped Osmond on the sleeve, as if to say ‘Let's leave the loonies to their crazy experiments,’ and they skulked off toward the door. “I'm sure you're right about that, Doc,” he said, then they ducked out into a blast of howling wind and whirling snow.

  Darryl picked up a pair of tongs, lifted the icefish out by its tail, and laid it on the counter. It was so hard it actually wobbled in place.

  “Now I can see why you don't exactly put out the welcome mat to the lab,” Michael said.

  “And why I wanted that lock,” Darryl replied. But then, picking up a scalpel, he plunged right back into his work as if Michael wasn't even there. A minute or two later, Michael pulled on all his gear and went out into the teeth of the gathering storm.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  December 15

  The gale, rather than passing through, seemed to have settled down over the base, and Murphy's lockdown order, to Michael's frustration, was still in effect. No one was leaving the compound for any reason. “Wherever those bodies are, they're frozen stiff,” Murphy told him, “and the dogs, well, they know how to survive.”

  Michael had to take his word on that.

  Word of Danzig's death had of course cast a dismal pall over the base, and the memorial service, held in the rec hall, was crowded. The Ping-Pong table was folded up and pushed out into the corridor, and an assortment of desk chairs was wheeled in to join the sofas, but there still weren't enough for everyone to sit on. The rest of the grunts and beakers simply sat around on the threadbare wall-to-wall carpeting, their arms wrapped around their knees, as Murphy stood up in front of the blank plasma-screen TV He was wearing, in acknowledgment of the occasion, a dark necktie over his denim shirt.

  “I know a lot of you knew Erik a lot better than I did, so I want to leave time for all of you to say something.”

  Michael had almost forgotten that Danzig had a first name; in the fratlike atmosphere of the base, most everyone went by a last name, or a nickname.

  “But personally, I never knew a guy who was more up for anything, anytime-except for maybe Lawson.”

  There was some low laughter, and Lawson, who was sitting against the wall with Michael and Charlotte and Darryl, smiled shyly.

  “And those dogs-man, did he love those dogs.” He lowered his head and shook it sadly. “Whatever went wrong there, whatever happened to make Kodiak go off like that-a brain tumor, a fever-the weird thing is, I know that, even now, Danzig-Erik- would have understood it. Those dogs loved him as much as he loved them.” He ran a hand over his own head. “And that's why we are going to find the other dogs. I promise you-we're going to find them for him.”

  “When?” one of the grunts called out.

  “Soon as it's safe,” Murphy replied. “And when we know that the other dogs aren't affected in the same way.”

  The threat of contagion hadn't actually occurred to Michael. What if the other huskies had contracted something from Kodiak? What if they'd all become killers?

  Murphy looked down at some notes he had in his hand. “I don't know how much a lot of you knew about Danzig's life out in the real world, but for the record he was married to a great woman- Maria-who's a county coroner.” The immediate irony of that stopped him for a second. “She's living down in Florida.”

  Miami Beach, Michael remembered.

  “I've spoken to her a couple of times now, and told her everything she needed to know, and she said she wanted me to give her blessing to everyone down here-especially Franklin, Calloway and Uncle Barney, for all the grits and gravy-and thank you all for your friendship. She said he was never happier than when he was down here, on the back of the sled, with the temperature thirty below.” He glanced nervously at the papers again. “And oh yeah, she wanted me to say a special thanks to Dr. Charlotte Barnes, for trying so hard to save his life-”

  All eyes turned toward Charlotte, whose chin was resting atop her folded arms. She gave a small nod.

  “-and Michael Wilde.”

  Michael was caught off guard.

  “Seems he'd been telling her a lot about you, Michael, something about how you were gonna make him famous.”

  “I'll still do my best,” Michael said, just loudly enough for all to hear.

  “He told Maria there were going to be photographs of him and the dogs-the last dogs, I don't need to remind anyone, that you'll ever see down here-in that magazine of yours, Eco-World.”

  It was Eco-Travel, but Michael wasn't about to correct him. “There will be,” Michael said, appropriating the editor's prerogative. In fact, he'd try to persuade Gillespie to put a shot of Danzig and the sled dogs on the cover sometime. It was the least he could do.

  While Murphy offered up a few more details about Danzig's life-apparently, he'd worked a million different jobs, from beekeeper to dog catcher to mortuary chauffeur (“that's how he met Maria”)-Michael just kept his head down and thought his own thoughts. For one thing, he meant to get Maria's home address before he left the base; he still had Danzig's walrus-tooth necklace, and he wanted to mail it back to her as soon as he was back in civilization. Maybe with a print of a shot he'd taken of her husband, in all his glory, sledding through a snowstorm.

  He also knew he should be calling the Nelsons’ house back in Tacoma; he wanted to hear how the move had gone and whether Kristin had shown any sign at all of being aware that she was back in her old house. He pretty much knew what the answer would be- and he knew that it would be Karen who'd tell him-but still he felt that it was his duty to keep checking in. And he wondered how long that would continue; from what he knew of comas and vegetative states, Kristin could go on indefinitely.

  Uncle Barney, sitting a few feet away, blew his nose loudly into a red handkerchief. Murphy was telling a story about some colossal meal Danzig had consumed.

  Calloway stood up next and told a long, funny anecdote about once trying to cram Danzig into a regulation-size diving suit, and Betty and Tina talked about how helpful Danzig had been one day when they were trying to unload some ice cores in a driving storm. Michael could hear the blizzard that was raging, whistling around the narrow windows and the corrugated steel walls of the module they were all sitting in. It could abate in an hour, or it could go on for another solid week. At pole, he had learned, all bets were off.

  After everyone had spoken, Murphy haltingly led them in a recitation of the Lord's Prayer, and when a few moments of silence had passed, Franklin sat at the piano in the corner, and played a rousing version of the old Bob Seger hit, “Old Time Rock ‘n’ Roll.” It was one of Danzig's favorite songs, and Franklin was able to give it a suitably gritty rendition. A lot of the others joined in on the lines, “Today's music ain't got the same soul, I like that old time rock ‘n’ roll!” And when the music died down, Uncle Barney announced that, in Danzig's honor, hot grits and gravy were being served in the commons.

  On the way out, Murphy waved Michael and Lawson over to one side and said, “You guys see Ackerley anywhere?”

  Even when Spook was in the room, it was easy to miss him; he was that quiet and self-effacing. But Michael had to say no.

  “Probably talking to his plants,” Lawson said, “and lost all track of time.”

  Murphy nodded in agreement, but said, “You mind going to see if he's okay? I just tried him on the intercom but he's not picking up.”

  Although Michael had hoped to join Charlotte and
Darryl in the commons-he'd spent the whole day making notes in his room and had pretty much forgotten to eat-he could hardly say no.

  “Don't worry,” Murphy said, “I'll be sure to save you some grits.” He turned to Lawson. “But how's your leg? You up to it?”

  Lawson, who'd dropped the ski gear on his ankle, said, “It's fine-no problem at all. Use it or lose it.”

  To Michael, he always sounded a little like a coach on the sidelines of a big game.

  “Might want to use some poles,” Murphy said, and Lawson agreed. “Wind's gusting at eighty miles per hour.”

  They suited up and grabbed some ski poles from the equipment locker, and while the others poured into the brightly lighted commons, they turned the other way, up a long bleak concourse where the wind was whipping up little cyclones of ice and snow and sending them whirling, like tops, back and forth from one side to the other. Some gusts were so strong that Michael was blown back against a wall or half-buried fence, and had to wait to push off again until the wind had died down. Not that it ever stopped. There were times, in Antarctica, when you wished for nothing more than stillness, a temporary truce with the elements, a chance to stand still and catch your breath and look up at the sky. The sky could be so beautiful-so blue and pristine it looked like the most perfect thing imaginable, an enameled bowl fired to a hard blue glaze-and at other times, like now, it was simply a smudged bucket, a dull broad glare that was impossible to distinguish from the endless continent of empty ice it glowered over.

  The ski poles were a good idea; Michael doubted he could have stayed upright without them. Lawson, with his sore ankle, would surely have been toppled. In fact, Michael made it a point to stay a couple of yards behind Lawson, just in case he went over and started to roll. Once the wind caught you and knocked you down on an icy patch, you could roll like a bowling ball until you hit some kind of obstruction; Michael had seen a beaker named Penske, a meteorologist, rolling past the Administration module one morning until he collided with the flagpole and hung on to it for dear life.

  Michael rubbed one mitten across his goggles to clear away some of the snow, and for a second he wondered if he could make his fortune by marketing goggles at the South Pole that had their own windshield wipers. He'd have liked to call out to Lawson, to ask him if the leg was really okay or if he wanted to turn back, but he knew that the wind would blow the words right back into his mouth-and the temperature was so low you could crack your teeth if you kept your mouth open too long.

  They made their way past the glaciology lab-Michael glanced inside for Ollie, but if the bird had learned anything so far, it was to stay inside the crate on a night like this-and the marine biology lab, and the climatology lab, until Michael saw Lawson heading off to the left, toward a big, rusted-out trailer squatting on its cinder blocks like an old red rooster. Bright light shone out through its narrow window panels.

  Lawson stopped to rub his ankle under the rough wooden trellis that framed the ramp, and motioned for Michael to go on ahead. The door was a steel plate-dented, scratched, and covered with the faded remnants of Phish decals-and Michael banged on it with his fist. Then, having given warning, he shoved it open and went inside.

  His goggles immediately fogged up, and he had to slip them back on top of his head. He parted some thick plastic curtains, threw his hood back, and found himself standing in a sea of metal shelves and cabinets, all at least six feet high, and crammed with samples of indigenous moss and lichens. There were little white labels, inscribed in a spidery hand, on each shelf or drawer. Fluorescent lights flickered in the ceiling, and from somewhere among the impenetrable racks he heard the tinny sound of cheap speakers playing an endless jam.

  And he also heard something else-a low, wet, snurfling sound. When Lawson came through the door, Michael instinctively motioned for him to keep silent. Lawson looked puzzled, but Michael gestured for him to stay where he was, by the door, and then, still carrying his ski poles, he started to thread his way through the maze of cabinets. Could it be another one of the dogs, Michael wondered? Or more than one? Should he back off and call the chief for reinforcements? But what if Ackerley was in big trouble and needed help right now?

  The music was getting louder, but so was the strange lapping sound. Like somebody slurping soup. Or cereal. Was that all it was? Ackerley, deaf to the world, eating a bowl of cornflakes and rocking out? Michael found himself wedged between two towering cabinets, one marked GLACIAL MORAINE, SW QUADRANT, and the other reading SPECIMENS, STROMVIKEN SITE. But there was a chewing sound, too, so maybe it wasn't cereal. More like a stew maybe. Why would you eat some microwaved crap in a lab trailer when Uncle Barney was serving up hot grits at the memorial dinner?

  He peered through some of the shelves and saw a long lab counter, not so different from Darryl's, with a couple of sinks, a microscope, some bottles of chemicals. But no one was sitting on the lab stool. And now that he looked again, he saw that a couple of potted plants were upended, and one of them had smashed onto the floor. An iPod was cradled on a shelf between its own tiny speakers. Michael stepped out of the shelves and closer to the lab table. The eating noises were coming from the other side, from down near the floor, and as he moved around the corner, he saw the tips of two rubber boots, their clasps undone, sticking out. He gripped the ski poles harder.

  The eating sound became a rending sound, like flesh being torn, and when he got all the way around, he saw first the broad expanse of a flannel shirt, stretched across the shoulders of a big man, huddled over a body on the floor, and busy at work. If he hadn't known better, Michael would have thought, in that first instant, that it was Danzig.

  Who was dead.

  He raised one of the sharp-tipped ski poles and shouted, for want of anything better to say, “Hey! You! Stop what-”

  But he got no further. The huddled man's head whipped around, startled, the beard so matted with blood it looked like it had been coated with a bright red paintbrush. His eyes were red-rimmed, too, and blinking furiously. Michael was so stunned he fell back, and the man leapt up at him, snarling. One of the poles went flying, clattering against a cabinet, and Lawson hollered, “What's going on?” and started crashing through the labyrinth.

  The man clutched at Michael's collar, almost as if seeking something- his help? — and his breath reeked of blood and decay. But worst of all, it was Danzig-dead and frozen Danzig, with his throat torn out by the dog-whose fingers were ripping at the fabric of Michael's coat. Michael staggered back against another set of shelves, and the whole rack toppled over, taking him and Danzig down onto the floor amid a hail of dirt and seeds. Michael banged him in the face with the handle of the pole, wishing he could somehow get the sharp end into action. Danzig's face hovered above his own, his teeth stained with blood. His eyes were black with rage and-though Michael would only have time to think of it later-a bottomless grief, too.

  Another pole suddenly flashed past Michael's head and gouged a hole in Danzig's shoulder. The man reared back, then jumped at Lawson. But his boots skidded on the loose seedpods, and he had to scramble to get up again. Michael quickly rolled over and stumbled to his own feet. Danzig had shoved Lawson, not all that steady to begin with, out of the way; he was sprawled on the floor, waving his ski poles wildly.

  But instead of continuing his attack, Danzig stumbled away and went barging through the shelves with his arms swinging like an ape's, pulling one rack after another down onto the floor behind him. Sod and seeds and gravel flew everywhere, and by the time Michael had clambered over the detritus and made it through the plastic curtains and out to the door, the only thing he could see was a slick of blood on the ramp and a dark shape staggering blindly through the trellis and on into the maelstrom outside.

  December 15, 10:30 p.m.

  “What the hell are you talking about?” Murphy said, once Michael and Lawson had cornered him in the kitchen. Uncle Barney was just out of earshot, frying up one final skillet of grits. “Danzig is dead, for Christ's sake!”
>
  “He's not,” Michael repeated, keeping his head and his voice low. “That's what we're trying to tell you.”

  “You saw him, too?” Murphy said to Lawson, looking for confirmation of the impossible.

  “I saw him, too.” Lawson glanced at Michael, as if urging him to continue.

  “And he's killed Ackerley” Michael said.

  Murphy looked as if he was about to swallow his own tongue. The blood drained from his face.

  “We found Ackerley in his lab,” Michael said, “already dead, and Danzig was mauling the body. In fact, he's out there somewhere right now.”

  Murphy leaned back against a freezer, plainly unable to process what he was being told-and Michael couldn't blame him. If he hadn't seen it with his own eyes-if he hadn't been attacked himself-he wouldn't have believed it either.

  “So, he's not in the body bag,” Murphy said, thinking out loud, “and he's not in the core bin where we put him.”

  “No,” Lawson said, “he's not.”

  “And Ackerley's dead, too,” Murphy repeated, as if simply to let the terrible information sink in.

  “That's right,” Michael said. “We should go after him-now- before he gets too far.”

  “But if he's gone stark raving mad,” Murphy said, as if clutching at a ray of hope, “he'll just freeze to death out there.”

  Michael didn't know what to say to that. It sounded perfectly reasonable-of course a crazy man, without even a hat on, would surely die either from exposure or from falling into a crevasse-but at the same time he wasn't sure of it at all. Nothing made sense anymore. He had been with Danzig in the infirmary; he'd watched as Charlotte recorded his time of death. Whatever was running around out there on the ice wasn't necessarily Danzig at all. Michael didn't know what to call it.