by JE Gurley
“Anyplace sounds good to me,” Marino said, “Just as long as I don’t have to look at any more ice for awhile.”
****
Gradually, the racing dark clouds gave way to towering banks of black thunderstorms. Illuminated from within by brilliant flashes of white lightning, the clouds took on an unearthly appearance, like amorphous, pulsating creatures reaching out whip-like tendrils for them. In a sense it was. They could not go over the top and didn’t have the fuel to bypass the storm front. Instead, they would have to pass through its deadly throbbing heart.
“It looks ominous.”
Marino glanced at Basky. These were the first words their passenger had spoken in hours. His green eyes seemed less glazed than earlier, but it was clear he was fading fast. He leaned into the restraining web of the seat harness as if too exhausted to sit straight. Marino tried unsuccessfully not to stare at Basky’s black frostbitten fingers. Basky followed his gaze.
“Looks bad, doesn’t it?” When Marino didn’t respond, he continued. “I imagine I’ll lose them. Maybe my feet, too. Won’t be much good then, will I?” Basky barked out a sad chuckle, halfway between a sob and cry for help.
“If we get you to a hospital in time . . .” Marino’s voice trailed off. He knew he wasn’t fooling Basky. The man was a seasoned Antarctic traveler. He had seen frost bite before.
“I was talking about the storm earlier. It looks ominous.”
“Yeah, we’re in for some rough weather.”
Anson spoke up. “This monster is one of the best flying ships in the business. We’ll manage all right.”
Marino hoped Anson was right. Already, the wind gusts were buffeting the plane mercilessly, making it hop and bounce like a frog on a griddle. In spite of the chill in the cabin, beads of sweat ran down Anson’s face, as he fought the controls. Marino wished there was more he could do to help, but Anson was too busy to walk him through anything.
In one particularly rough patch of turbulence, the big Hercules shuddered like a dog shedding water. Marino heard numerous loud snaps and rattles and prayed it wasn’t rivets popping out of the plane. As they fought to dig into the thick air, the pitch of the turboprops changed. The thunderhead looked alarmingly close, appearing every bit as solid and as dangerous as an ebony mountaintop. Marino knew the plane could not pass through it. He wanted badly to seize controls from Anson and turn the plane around, head back the way they had come. He knew it was too late for that. They knew what awaited them back in Antarctica. As strange as it seemed, the unknown was the better choice.
“. . . Like a cheap bloody B movie,” Basky was saying. Marino listened as he rambled on. Marino wasn’t sure if Basky even knew if Marino was there. His eyes were staring ahead as if seeing something Marino could not. “Vicious beasts. Looking at me as if they could recognize me, but didn’t care, driven by some demon to rend and tear flesh. Moans sounded like echoes from hell. All it took was a scratch or a bite then, poof! You died and became one of them.” Basky chuckled. “Procreation without sex. Couldn’t be good for them.” He went into a spasm of coughing. When it died down, he resumed his monologue, “I was so scared. I could have helped them, the ones who survived, but I couldn’t open the door. I heard them begging outside, wanting in. Craig wanted to open the door, but I wouldn’t let him. We were safe. Then, they began yelling and screaming. I heard those God-awful moans.” He closed his eyes and shook his head. A string of spittle ran down his chin. “I killed them.” He went silent.
Marino felt sorry for Basky. He wasn’t sure what he would have done under the same circumstances. Maybe he would have shut the others out, too. The urge for survival is a strong one, stronger in some, than in others. It wasn’t cowardice, or at least not all cowardice. The danger was real enough. The question was one most people never faced in their cozy little worlds – what would you do to survive? He imagined many people, were facing that choice now.
Another thought struck him, one he was surprised had come him earlier – why the motorcycle with a sidecar? It could carry only two people and there were three of them. Wouldn’t a fuel-efficient automobile or truck serve them better? It was as if Anson had already written Basky off.
“We’ve got a problem.”
Anson’s voice was calm but Marino heard in it the underlying concern, not quite panic, but close enough. “What’s wrong?”
“The wings are icing up. The de-icers aren’t working properly.”
“What does that mean?”
“We’re getting heavier, using more fuel and losing altitude. We might not make land.”
Marino’s heart began to beat faster and his lips went dry. Fear was rearing its ugly head. Is this how Basky felt? “What do we do?”
Anson nodded toward the cargo area. “We have to lose the tractor. Should’ve left the bloody thing behind. I wasn’t thinking.”
“How?”
“There’s a control panel on the rear compartment wall. It controls the clamshell doors and ramp. One of the buttons operates the conveyor. The tractor isn’t secured. It will slide back and drop off the ramp. Unhook the Ural first, and remove everything we might need from the tractor – extra petrol cans, first aid kit, tool chest.” Anson looked at him. “Do it quickly.”
Marino nodded, not trusting his voice. Opening up the rear of the plane and facing all that empty space would be difficult for him. His fear of heights was manageable inside the cockpit, but back there . . . He hoped he didn’t panic and kill them all.
The roar of the freezing wind as the clamshell doors opened was deafening. It tried to suck him out of the back of the Hercules. He had removed everything he thought they might need from the Kharkovchanka and stacked it against the wall. It made him dizzy watching the big tractor moving backwards on the conveyor, with the open sky as a backdrop. He tried closing his eyes, but that only increased his nausea. The swaying of the plane didn’t help matters much.
Just before the Russian snow tractor went over the edge of the ramp, the conveyor ground to a halt with a sickening sound of sheared metal. Marino stopped and restarted the conveyor to no avail. He examined the conveyor beneath the tractor and saw the problem. A loose chain dangling from the underside of the tractor had wedged into the rollers of the conveyor. He located a pry bar, removed his Stetson, slid under the tractor, and pounded the roller. It would not budge.
To try to relieve the pressure on the roller, he reversed the conveyor. It moved a few centimeters before stopping. At least it made it easier to get at the end of the chain. He pounded it with all his might, relieved to see it move slightly. Trying the controls again, the tractor moved a few meters and stopped again. The chain had snagged again. Disgusted at the amount of time the simple job was taking, Marino climbed into the tractor, cranked the engine and moved it slowly forward. He heard the transmission gears grinding as it fought to break the chain. Finally, with a loud snap, the chain broke, and the tractor began to roll backwards toward the brink.
In a moment of panic, Marino struggled with the door handle, before realizing he was moving it the wrong way. He opened the door, jumped down to the tread skirt, and onto the deck. He failed to see the mirror as it slammed into his side, sending him reeling to the end of the ramp. Uselessly, he clawed for purchase at the deck, and felt his legs slip over the edge into nothingness. He managed to grab the end of a restraining strap, just as the Kharkovchanka treads brushed his side and tumbled into space. The strap continued to play out as he slipped farther off the edge of the ramp. Fighting panic, Marino climbed the strap, hand over hand, hoping the strap held at the other end. He exhaled his pent up breath as his legs found purchase on the lip of the ramp. He crawled to the control panel, shut down the conveyor, and closed the ramp and rear cargo doors. Only then did he retrieve his Stetson. Grateful to be alive, he reclined against the cold bulkhead until his rubbery legs would support him again.
Back in the pilot’s cabin, Anson glanced at him. “Any problems?”
Marino shook his head. “P
iece of cake.”
“We’re gaining altitude. I’m going to try for the edge of the storm and see if I can find warmer air. Looks like we might make it after all.”
Anson’s look of hopefulness morphed to one of stark terror, as one of the outboard props began to sputter and stop spinning. Seconds later, a second engine did likewise. The Hercules immediately began to nosedive toward the ocean.
“Damn! Fuel lines are frozen. We may be in for it.”
Marino looked at the bundle on the wall marked ‘Emergency Life Raft’ and sighed.
10
Aug. 30, Coober Pedy, Australia
Alex didn’t bother trying to fall back to sleep. He smoked cigarettes and watched Gore until dawn. He wasn’t sure why the cartridge clip in Gore’s shirt pocket bothered him so much. Maybe Gore had forgotten about the loaded clip, though that seemed unlikely. The man didn’t strike him as that scatterbrained. The clip and his admission that he had spent time in jail for assault shed new light on Gore in Alex’s eyes. Handguns were hard to come by. The Glock Gore carried would have cost few weeks’ wages. It was also the model weapon that some police were issued. He was uncertain just how far Gore could be trusted.
The way Gore seemed to come onto Nicole also troubled him. Perhaps it was no more than a man admiring a pretty woman. He was sure he might have glanced at her in that manner himself, but Gore was blatantly obvious about it, wanted Nicole to know he was checking her out, relishing how uncomfortable he made her. He had known men like that in Afghanistan; some were mates of his. They treated the female civilians like pieces of meat, leering, chatting them up. It had embarrassed him then, even more so when he had returned home and saw the same behavior around town.
He thought back on him and Jiselle, when they had first met. It had been at a city event, a picnic. She was wearing a thin, pale blue summer dress with nothing but panties beneath it. The dress clung provocatively to her sweaty body, outlining her curves. She had shown no embarrassment at his obvious attraction, but he had when she caught him staring. A few laughs, a few words had turned into dinner, and then regular dates. Six months later, they were married. The first year had been great, the second good, but by the time he had returned from his second tour of duty, both of them had moved on in their minds. They stayed together, reluctant to call it quits but the sniping and fighting had made them both miserable.
Then the wreck . . .
Nicole began to stir. He watched her yawn and stretch, tightening the material of her thin t-shirt over her breasts.
God! He was as bad as Gore.
“Good morning,” he called out.
She opened her eyes and then squinted to focus on him. The sun was rising behind him, blinding her.
“Oh, hello Alex,” she replied, finally recognizing him.
“Sleep well?”
“Yes, no nightmares.”
Alex arched an eyebrow at this revelation. So, he wasn’t the only one beset by bad dreams.
“Where’s Mr. Gore?”
Mr. Gore? Does she call him Mister and me Alex because she respects him more?
“Here I am,” Gore said, walking into the room smiling broadly at Nicole. “Best night’s sleep I’ve had in weeks.” He nodded at Alex. “I have some tins of ham in my pack and some powdered eggs if anyone’s hungry?”
“I’m famished,” Nicole answered.
She began to prepare breakfast as Gore retrieved his backpack. Alex was amused that Nicole was softly humming a song as she worked.
“After breakfast, would you try to show me on a map where you found the smashed boxcars?”
Gore looked puzzled. “I can, but why are you interested? It’s a long haul for fresh veggies when tinned goods are so much closer.”
“I wasn’t thinking so much about the fresh produce, although canning some might be a good idea. I’m wondering what else might be on the train.”
Gore’s mouth opened and closed. “Ah, I see. Thinking ahead. I never thought to explore while I was there. Maybe you and I both can go back in my van. Load up.”
Alex wasn’t sure he wanted to make the trip with Gore but the van idea was a good one.
“I’m not staying here alone,” Nicole piped up.
Gore smiled and looked at Alex. “Good. We’ll make it a picnic.”
Alex relented reluctantly. He didn’t believe it would be anything like a picnic. “Okay. We all go, but we take two vehicles. So we can bring back more,” he added quickly but his idea of separate vehicles was not simply to haul more goods. He didn’t trust Gore and didn’t wish to place himself in Gore’s hands.
“Sure. More stuff,” Gore agreed.
After a hurried breakfast, they prepared to leave. Alex’s rope chair apparatus intrigued Gore, carefully inspecting the ropes and pulley assembly.
“Very ingenious,” he said. “You’ve made yourself quite a nice cozy hide out here. It’s almost impregnable. With food, water, and ammunition, one man could hold this place against an army.”
Nicole said, “Army? Why would you want to hold out if the army comes? It would mean things are getting back to normal.”
“Not all armies are bent on bringing things back to normal,” Gore answered cryptically. “I see you’ve got a short wave. Any news?”
“Nothing for weeks,” he admitted, “but the solar flares have been bad.”
“Yeah, that must be it.”
While Alex fueled both vehicles from a large petrol tank he had moved inside the factory, Nicole and Gore unloaded Gore’s van. Alex watched them laughing together and felt the stirrings of jealousy. She smiled more around Gore than she had him. He wondered if it was because he had made it no secret he wanted her to move on. Maybe she was coming on to Gore to get him to take her with him, safety in numbers, and all that.
If she wanted to leave, he didn’t mind. He realized he was no joy to be around. Nevertheless, he didn’t trust Gore, something in Gore’s smile. It was too ready, too practiced, as if he stood in front of a mirror and judged just the right angle to tilt his head, just the correct amount of teeth to show, the proper amount of sincerity. Alex shook his head. Maybe he was all wrong about Gore. Maybe Gore was just a survivor like him eager for companionship.
11
Aug. 29, 2013 ‘Resurrection City’ Oates Land, Antarctica
John Gilford trudged through the hard packed snow to lay out yet another red plastic sheet as a rescue marker. The wind had blown away the first two, but Gilford was nothing if not persistent. After all, his doggedness had won him his job as Dr. Cromby’s assistant four years earlier out of a field of seventeen equally qualified candidates, a position he now regretted he had not rejected. Now, everyone on the small research base prophetically code named ‘Resurrection City’ was dead except him.
Cromby had been one of the last to go. Sealed in his office for five days against the rampages of the walking dead, Gilford had heard the muffled gunshot next door that had ended the life of the director of Project Resurrection. Cromby had taken the easy way out. Gilford considered himself a survivor. He had never contemplated suicide during his twenty-eight day ordeal.
Word of the hole in General Scott’s hazard suit had spread like wildfire throughout the base. Panic had set in. Gilford had located several large tanks of bottled air, commandeered a case of bottled water, and cans of food with the intention of locking himself in his office. Men had tried to stop him, men whose faces no longer bore the annoyed expressions of men trapped on a small isolated base in the Antarctic. They now reflected the horrors of the situation they now faced, men becoming animals. He had fought his way through them. His mind refused to dwell on the things he had done to survive. He had sealed the doors, windows and air ducts of his office with duct tape and threatened to shoot anyone trying to enter. He wasn’t certain the virus was airborne, but he suspected it was.
The sounds of carnage, even filtered by the thick wooden door, still rang in his ears – the screams of the dying, the begging voices of people he knew,
the eerie howls of the resurrected, the tramping of feet. At some point, he didn’t remember when, the power had failed. Alone, in the freezing silent darkness, starving, his mind had begun playing tricks on him, trying to coax him out into the light and imagined heat and comfort of the common dining room. He had fought against the urge with snatches of remembered poetry, snippets of novels he had read, even verses of old popular songs.
Finally, after days of silence, he had unsealed his door and stepped into the ice-rimmed hallway. Bodies in different stages of decomposition littered the floor. He recognized most. He resisted the impulse to open Cromby’s office door, play witness to his boss’s final hour. When he did not succumb to the P-51 virus, Gilbert realized the extreme cold had rendered it inactive but had not killed it. He was safe to move around outside.
Once, a large plane had flown overhead but with no power, he could not radio for help. Resorting to spreading out red markers on the snow, he patiently waited for a rescue he now suspected would never come. If the initial source of infection outbreak had been General Scott, the general had almost assuredly carried it back to the United States before any symptoms of the nanites virus had appeared. Washington probably fell quickly, if not mercifully, if the base was any indication of the rapid rate of infection.
As he placed large chunks of ice and salvaged machinery on the sheet to weight it down against the mounting icy wind, he thought of a scene from Ice Station Zebra starring Rock Hudson and began to laugh. Ice Station Zombie, he mused. That’s what this place is now. I’m surrounded by Ice Station Zombies. He laughed until tears rolled down his cheeks and froze into salty icicles on his cheeks. He sat down in the snow and held his belly as laughter erupted from him like smoke and ash from Mt. Erebus to the northwest. The sound, unnatural to the Antarctic, carried across the flat, frozen plain before disappearing in the howling wind.
