by JE Gurley
Anson had said nothing since arriving. He had fired two shots from his rifle but no one had come forward to investigate his signal. From the looks of the destruction, Marino doubted anyone was alive. Even in late August, the temperature hovered around ten below zero Celsius. No one could last long in such temperatures without adequate shelter. He didn’t hold out much hope for any of his friends. Finally, Anson began walking toward one of the few intact buildings, the weather station.
“Where are you going?” Marino asked, following.
“Maybe someone’s still alive, but afraid to come out. Besides, if we want out of here, we need to know what the weather report is.”
“Please tell me you can fly that thing,” he said to Anson, pointing to the hulking Hercules.
Anson looked at the plane a moment before answering. “I think I can get it airborne.”
Marino’s hopes of flying out faded, but he smiled at his friend. “Great! I hope it comes with parachutes.”
The weather station’s anemometer still spun and the door was closed, but no smoke rose from the chimney. Inside, everything was in good order, as if it occupants had simply walked out, closing the door behind them. There was no power, but the sun peeking just above the horizon provided sufficient light. A cold camp stove sat in the middle of the floor with empty cocoa pouches and protein bar wrappers scattered around it.
“Someone lived here long enough to seek shelter,” Marino noted.
Anson nodded, but said nothing. He searched through piles of paper on the desk until he found the latest weather report.
“Clear for the next seven days with a warm front moving in from the north the day after that with winds gusting to 35 knots,” he read. “We’ll have to be out of here before it arrives.” He checked the date on the report. “Damn, this is six days old.”
Marino nodded. So far, he didn’t see anything that would keep them here if the Hercules could fly and if Anson could get it off the ground as he had claimed. “I’m packed,” he replied.
Back outside, Anson eyed the remains of the fuel pumps and tank farm. “If that Herc isn’t fueled and ready to go, we’re staying. We don’t have a ground crew.”
Marino held out his cigarette lighter. “I’ve got fuel in my Zippo. How far will that get us?”
Anson chuckled. “Keep the Zippo. It might be our only heat source soon. The Khark’s tanks are almost dry.”
“You would think someone survived.”
“Maybe they did, but tried to reach one of the other bases, like Billings.”
Marino winced. Anson had been forced to shoot Billings when they found his wrecked snowmobile on the road to Vostok base. Billings had turned into one of the zombies, and he was almost frozen solid.
“Where do we go?” he asked.
“Melbourne’s the nearest city with a good airport, but if things are bad there, we would be in for it. Tasmania’s too remote.” After some thought, Anson said, “We could try Adelaide.”
Marino didn’t much like the idea of a city full of zombies, but they didn’t have an alternative. He knew a small airport would never accommodate the big Hercules. “Sounds like a plan to me,” he said, trying to sound upbeat. He hesitated a moment before asking, “Tell me the truth – what do you think our chances are?”
Anson turned to face him. Marino could see Anson’s tightly clenched jaw, as if he were fighting back what he truly wanted to say. “We’ve got a good chance of making it through. Someone’s bound to be left alive – the army, a navy ship at sea, somebody.”
Anson’s glib answer didn’t satisfy Marino. He considered himself a realist. The odds were definitely against them. First, they had to get the big lumbering C-130 into the air without the help of a ground crew. Then Anson, a novice pilot at best, and unfamiliar with the complex controls of the Hercules, had to fly it to Australia through a storm. Marino was skeptical. Maybe it was from living in the Arizona desert where survivor types congregated to wait out the apocalypse. As crazy as they seemed, they were usually equipped for the job. He and Anson had nothing. He wondered if the survivor types felt vindicated now.
“This place gives me the creeps. Let’s get out of here.”
Anson nodded, “Let’s see if that bird will fly.”
A wheeled boarding ladder was still in position at the forward door. Marino followed Anson up the ladder. The Lockheed Hercules C-130's configuration allowed for both passengers and cargo. Two rows of seats lined the front of the plane, leaving a cavernous open cargo area in the rear. A hydraulic ramp and rear clamshell doors allowed for the loading of vehicles as large as the Haaglund or even a Kharkovchanka. With its four, powerful 4500-horsepower Allison Turboprop engines, the Herc could reach speeds of 320 knots and cruise for 3800 kilometers. To Marino, standing at the foot of the ladder looking up, the big Herc C-130 looked like a giant, and he wondered how the hell Anson was going to get something that big into the air.
“I’ll check the cabin,” Anson said, as Marino prowled around the back stowing their supplies.
“What the hell?” Anson called out a moment later.
Marino grabbed the AK-47 and rushed to the pilot’s cabin. Instead of a zombie, as he had feared, a man clad in a fur parka lay on his side on a pile of blankets on the floor. Anson threw back the man’s hood while Marino stood and covered him with the automatic rifle.
“It’s Roger Basky,” he said as he recognized the prone figure. He checked Basky’s pulse. “He’s alive, barely.”
“Is he . . .?”
“No, I don’t see any bite marks, but he’s damn near frozen to death.”
“I’ll light the portable heater we brought with us.”
While Marino returned to the cargo bay to retrieve the heater, Anson leaned Basky against the wall and gently slapped his face to bring him around. After a few minutes, Basky began to move. He opened his eyes and stared at Anson, uncomprehending at first; then he sat up straighter and stared at Anson.
“Anson,” he croaked, his voice just above a whisper. “Thank God. I thought everyone was dead.”
“How come you aren’t?”
“Craig Dylan and I took refuge in an office from the zombies.”
“Where’s Dylan?”
Basky choked back a sob. “He was bitten. He turned and I had to kill him.”
“What about Brett Springor?” If anyone knew what was going on, Springor, the base director would.
Basky shook his head. “I don’t know. I assumed he was the one blowing up the fuel depot and burning the vehicles. I don’t know why he missed the Herc.”
Anson tried to comfort him. “We’ll get out of here soon. I’ll fly us back home.”
Basky shook his head. “I don’t think there is a home to go back to. We heard nothing on the radio, all channels. The pilots brought death to us.”
Marino had returned with the heater and was leaning against the pilot’s seat listening. When he heard this, he removed his hand; then felt chagrined at his actions. He didn’t think zombism spread by touching a chair.
Basky noticed Marino’s reaction. “Not this plane, the De Havilland.
“How long have you been here?” Anson asked.
Basky closed his eyes to think. Anson had to shake him to bring him back around. “I was in the office two days, then the weather shack for awhile. I’ve been here in the Hercules since yesterday, I think. I used up all the fuel for the fire.”
“Are we ready to fly?” Marino asked Anson.
“I hope so. Whatever we do, we have to do it in a hurry. The weather’s warming up. If it gets above freezing, the runway will become a useless mess. I don’t know if I can get the Herc up.”
Marino lit the heater. Slowly, it began to warm the enclosed cabin. Basky migrated to the heater like a moth, shuddering from the cold.
“It feels good,” he said, trying to smile.
Marino dug through his pack, pulled out two tins of stew, and poured them into a pot. “I’ll heat this. We could all use a hot meal.”
While Marino cooked, Anson familiarized himself with the controls of the Herc. “I sat up here and watched the pilot on the way down here. I think I know what I’m doing.” He turned to Marino. “I’ll need your help. Flying this bugger will take both of us.”
Marino’s heart fluttered at that. He knew nothing about airplanes, wasn’t even sure how they stayed in the air. It had something to do with lift and drag, but he wasn’t certain. “Show me what to do,” he answered, feigning more confidence than he felt.
When the soup and hot chocolate were ready, Anson left the pilot’s seat and the three of them ate. Marino was worried about Basky’s right hand. Several of the fingers were black, the first sign of frostbite. His feet were probably in worse condition. He would almost certainly lose a few fingers and toes, if not a foot. He needed immediate medical attention, but there was none available. He hoped they could find a doctor in Melbourne.
After the meal, Anson and Marino left Basky dozing by the heater and went to scour the base for survivors. Only three buildings remained partially or entirely unscathed. The weather station was empty and Basky claimed the office building where he sought refuge in was empty. That left only a partially buried warehouse now used only to store junk. A makeshift steel plate bolted to the door served to secure it.
“There can’t be anyone inside here,” Marino observed, eyeing the locked door.
“Let’s open it anyway,” Anson urged.
Marino wondered why the Australian was being so cryptic. He shrugged and set to work. With a crescent wrench and hands cold even through the mittens, Marino clumsily struggled to remove the bolts holding it in place. Finally, after many knuckle scraping minutes, they were free.
“After you,” he said to Anson, standing aside to let the older Australian enter.
There were no lights inside the cavernous interior, and the feeble beams of their torches provided scant illumination. Rusted metal pumps, pipes, parts of vehicles, broken skis, wooden crates, and mysterious objects covered by decaying tarpaulins filled the room, leaving only narrow aisles with which to navigate the cramped quarters.
“What are you after?” Marino asked.
“It’s somewhere around here,” Anson said, as he pulled aside boxes and searched behind pieces of plywood.
“What?”
“This,” Anson said with triumph as he pulled aside the tarp covering an object beside a wall. Dust billowed in a cloud from the tarp, obscuring Marino’s view, making him sneeze repeatedly. By the time he had recovered, Anson was running his gloved hand lovingly over the handlebars of a large, black motorcycle.
“A motorcycle?” Marino burst out. “Where the hell do you think we’re going?”
Anson smiled. “Not just a motorcycle. This is a 2006 Russian Ural Tourist with sidecar. It has a 750cc OHV air-cooled 4-cylinder, twin carburetor engine, electric start, disc brakes and gets about 35 miles per gallon of petrol. It’s slow and steady, rather than a racing bike, but it is reliable.”
“Why do you want a motorcycle?”
“Has it occurred to you that petrol might be difficult to find, or that the roads might be near impassable. This Ural can solve both these problems.”
Marino could see the wisdom in Anson’s words. “Whose is it?”
Anson smiled and thumbed his chest. “Mine. I bought it from a Russian geologist last year. I haven’t had a chance to ride it much down here, but I planned on taking it back with me when I left.”
“Does it run?”
A hurt expression crossed Anson’s face. “Of course! But we have no petrol.” He rolled the motorcycle outside. “Help me lift the front wheels onto the rear of the tractor,” he said.
Together, he and Marino secured the bike to the rear of the Kharkovchanka, then drove to the runway and parked it beside the Hercules to make transferring supplies from the Russian tractor easier. While Marino ferried supplies, Anson unhooked the Ural and checked the battery. It was dead. He rummaged through a storage compartment in the Hercules and found a trickle charger and small diesel generator.
“We should have enough power to start her up in a couple of hours,” Anson announced. He looked at the darkening sky. “I don’t much like the look of the clouds.” Marino followed his gaze. Ominous gray-white clouds scuttled across the sky. Though the breeze was warm, Marino knew it was a shallow front from the northwest and behind it; freezing katabatic winds off the Antarctic Plateau would pour in bringing colder weather and likely snow and sleet.
“Can we beat it,” Marino asked.
“If we get off the ground, but we’ve got to fly through it. We can look forward to some rough weather.”
“The alternative isn’t too appealing,” Marino commented dryly.
While they waited for the Ural’s battery to charge, Basky described his ordeal and the morbid events at Casey.
“It started as a normal day, cold crisp and clear, no foreshadowing of the horrors to come,” he began. “The De Havilland had landed the previous day with supplies and was scheduled to take out some of the last summer people. Both the pilot and co-pilot had colds, so Doc Wiggins made them wear masks. You know how he is about spreading germs – ‘Wash your hands several times a day, sneeze into your sleeve. If you feel sick, come see me immediately’. The next thing I heard, both men were dead. We had gotten word a few days earlier over the radio that most of New South Wales was suffering through an epidemic of some kind, but didn’t think much about it. Then we tried to contact Mawson, the De Havilland’s first stop, but we got no answer. Some of the guys, Allison, Meyers and few like them, moved out to the old dorm and locked themselves in, fearing a plague or something. Bloody lot of good it did them. Two men, Matthews and Anderson, took out one of the Sno-Cats to check on Mawson. I don’t know what became of them.
“At first, I couldn’t believe what was happening. All hell broke loose. Someone said that Doc Wiggins was dead and that one of the pilots had killed him. I thought he must have been drunk. Then I saw one of the pilots attack the cook, bite him on the neck and rip off his arm. I couldn’t believe my own eyes.” Basky began to sob. The others waited until he got control of his emotions and he resumed speaking. His voice became cold and calm, emotionless, as if he was repeating a story he had not witnessed.
“The cook, Will Guthries, you know him, big, brawny kind of bloke. He was standing there watching blood spew out of his shoulder with more blood spouting from his neck and he was screaming like a child. He just stood there. Then the pilot began to eat Guthries’ arm. I-I didn’t do anything. I ran and hid in the radio shack. Through the window, I saw two more zombies attacking men. One of the zombies was the cook. I knew then that it was some kind of disease, a plague, a zombie plague.
“I tried to reach a Sno-Cat, but there were zombies around the garage. I ran into Craig and we took refuge in the office building. One of the zombies had bitten Craig, but I didn’t know it at the time. Then the power went out and the temperature started dropping. We made a makeshift stove and burned furniture, but we had to keep quiet. The zombies prowled about in the hallway, trying to get in. They seemed to be attracted to noise. Later, I heard explosions. I figured Springor was blowing up the vehicles and planes, trying to keep anyone infected from leaving. He thinks like that, you know. Figured we were goners, so he tried to protect the other bases.
“Craig got sick. When he died, I cut off his head.” Basky chuckled. Marino feared Basky was getting close to the edge of sanity. His hands trembled from more than the cold and he had the glassy-eyed look of a display animal in a taxidermist’s shop. “I was freezing and ran out of food. I hoped the freezing temperatures would stop the zombies. I was right. They stopped moving. I guess they died. I found most of the base burned to the ground, all except the weather shack, so I hid there for a while, and then made my way here. I hoped someone would show up.”
Marino’s heart had pistoned in his chest as Basky described his horrifying ordeal. At least he had Anson’s steadying influence to ke
ep him grounded in reality. No wonder Basky was riding close to the edge. Alone, in a monumental crisis, the mind could do terrible things. Having to cut off someone’s head didn’t help. He doubted if Basky would ever be completely sane again. For that matter, Marino doubted whether he would either.
Something Basky had said stuck in the back of his mind, but he couldn’t remember what it was. Something about the temperature and zombies freezing.
“Oh my God!” he suddenly blurted.
Anson jumped. He noticed Marino’s ashen face. “What? What is it?”
“The temperature. It’s above freezing outside.”
Anson immediately grasped Marino’s meaning. “I’ll check.”
Marino followed him. His heart went cold when he saw a score of thawed zombies prowling around the Hercules attracted by the sound of the generator, which Anson had placed outside on the ground, because of the diesel exhaust fumes.
Marino picked up his AK and cursed aloud. “Son of a bitch!”
“What?”
“I left the extra ammo in the Khark.”
Anson glared at him. “We’re going to need it.”
Marino nodded. He handed Anson his rifle. “You keep them off me while I run for it.” The last thing he wanted to do was leave the safety of the Herc and wade into a throng of flesh eating zombies, but Anson was right. They would need the extra ammo, if not here, certainly, once they reached the mainland.
