Terminal Freeze

by Lincoln Child

  “The scientific team brought along three high-powered rifles,” said a voice. Ekberg glanced toward it. It was Gerard Sully, the climatologist. He was leaning against the rear wall by the steam trays, one hand nervously drumming on the steel railing. He was very pale.

  Wolff glanced around the room. “We’ll need to make sure anyone on the move travels as part of an armed group.”

  Gonzalez grunted. “Even that may not be enough.”

  “Well, what else can we do?” Wolff countered. “We can’t just cower behind locked doors.”

  “You can use my truck,” came another voice.

  Everyone glanced toward it. It was Carradine, sitting in a plastic chair tipped back on its rear legs. Ekberg hadn’t noticed him before; she wasn’t sure if he’d been there the entire time, listening, or if he’d come in during the conversation.

  “It’s like I offered before,” he continued. “My rig’s the only thing that can get people out in a storm like this.”

  Wolff sighed in irritation. “We’ve been over this. It’s not safe.”

  “Oh?” Carradine replied. “And staying here is?”

  “You couldn’t fit everybody inside.”

  “I could fit them in Ms. Davis’s trailer.” The trucker lowered his voice. “It’s not like she needs it anymore.”

  “He’s right,” Gonzalez said. “You’ve got—what, thirty-three, thirty-four crew? With the scientific team that’s still less than forty. Everybody will fit inside that trailer.”

  “What if they get lost?” Wolff asked.

  “I never get lost,” replied Carradine. “GPS, baby.”

  “Or break down? Or have a flat?”

  “Ice-road truckers always carry spares and redundant equipment. And even if I can’t fix it—well, that’s what God invented CB radio for.”

  “It’s simply too dangerous,” said Wolff. “I said no earlier, and I’m saying no now.”

  “The situation has changed,” Gonzalez growled.

  Wolff turned to him. “How so?”

  “Because this time I’m overruling you.”

  Wolff’s look darkened. “You—”

  “What we’re dealing with goes beyond any and all conditions mandated for your stay. Your documentary has gone down the tubes. Three people are dead. There’s no reason to compound the tragedy.” He turned to Carradine. “How long will it take you to ready the rig?”

  The trucker stood up. “Half an hour, tops.”

  Gonzalez glanced toward Marcelin. “I want you to escort Mr. Carradine here to his truck. Don’t take any chances, fall back here at the first hint of any trouble.”

  Marcelin nodded.

  “Then I want you and Phillips to start evacuating the film crew. We’ll use this mess as the staging area. Bring them in half a dozen at a time. Carefully, do it by the book.”

  “Yes, sir.” Marcelin unshouldered the M16, nodded to Carradine. The trucker stood up, pulling a large handgun out of his waistband as he did so. Stepping to the door, Marcelin opened it, did a quick scan of the corridor beyond, then slipped out. Carradine followed and the door closed tightly behind him.

  Gonzalez reached into one of the deep pockets of his fatigues and pulled out two radios. He tossed one to Wolff, the other to Sully. “You can contact me with these. I’ve preset the emergency frequency.” He stood up, grabbed his own M16. “Lock up behind me. I’ll be back in five minutes.”

  “Where are you going?” Wolff asked.

  “To the armory. I’ll be needing more firepower.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m going hunting.”

  After the door shut behind Gonzalez, Wolff walked over and locked it. He stood a moment in silence, facing the closed door. Then, quite abruptly, he turned and walked to the center of the room. “Well?” he said to nobody in particular.

  “I can’t leave.” It was Sully, the climatologist, who spoke. His voice shook slightly. “I’m the expedition leader. I can’t just leave all our experiments here. Besides—Evan’s missing.”

  Ekberg started at this. “Missing? But I was just talking to him, not two hours ago.”

  Sully nodded grimly. “He hasn’t been seen since. He’s not in his lab. And he’s not in his quarters.”

  “He’ll be back,” said Logan.

  Everyone turned toward the academician.

  “Excuse me?” Sully asked.

  “He borrowed the Sno-Cat.”

  “In a blizzard?” Ekberg asked. “Where did he go?”

  “The Tunit village, to the north.”

  “Why?” Sully demanded.

  Logan glanced around at his inquisitors. “To get answers. Look, let’s find Faraday and talk about it. In your lab.”

  Sully sighed, shook his head. “All right. Once Gonzalez gets back here with the firepower.”

  “And when he does get back here, he may have something to say about your little plans.” Wolff glanced around. “The rest of you?”

  “Are you kidding?” It was Hulce. “I’m out of here.” There was a murmured chorus of assent from around the room.

  Wolff looked at Conti. “Emilio?”

  Conti didn’t reply. Since asking about the creature, he had remained silent, his gaze far away.

  “Emilio?” Wolff asked again.

  As Ekberg watched, Conti became slowly aware he was being addressed. “Excuse me?”

  “Can you be ready to leave in half an hour?”

  Conti blinked, frowned. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  “Didn’t you hear Gonzalez? He’s ordering everyone to head south in Carradine’s truck.”

  The producer gave his head a little birdlike shake. “I have a documentary to finish.”

  Wolff’s eyes narrowed in disbelief. “Excuse me? There is no more documentary.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong.” And Conti smiled faintly, as if at some private joke.

  “Emilio, Ashleigh is dead. And in about half an hour, your entire staff will be heading in the direction of Fairbanks.”

  “Yes,” Conti murmured. “It’s all up to me now.”

  Wolff raised one arm in an exasperated gesture. “Didn’t you hear? You’ve got no crew!”

  “I’ll do it myself. The old way, the classic way. Like Georges Méliès, Edwin Porter, Alice Guy Blaché. Fortnum will be leaving with the rest of them; I know he will.” And he glanced toward Ekberg.

  Ekberg understood the significance of that glance; understood what he was asking of her. Despite what she had told Marshall in the Operations Center, despite her uncompromising commitment to both Conti and her career, she felt a cold thrust of fear at the mere thought. Nevertheless, she returned his look and—holding his gaze—nodded slowly.

  36

  The old shaman gestured to a pile of caribou skins on the far side of the fire. “Sit,” he said.

  Marshall, painfully aware that time was of the essence, also understood this encounter—whatever it might produce—could not be hurried. He sat down.

  “How did you know I was coming?” he asked.

  “In the same manner I knew you were angering the ancient ones. My spirit guide told me.”

  The shaman picked up the scatter of items before him, placed them in a small leather pouch, drew the drawstring tight.

  “The others—where did they go?”

  Usuguk stretched his palm northward. “To our brothers along the sea.”

  “Another Tunit camp?” Marshall asked.

  Usuguk shook his head. “Inuit. We are the last of our kind.”

  “There are no other Tunits?”

  “None.”

  Marshall looked over the fire at the old shaman. So it’s true, then. “When will they return?”

  “Perhaps never. Life is much easier beside the sea. It has been difficult to keep them here since their mothers and fathers died.”

  Marshall sat for a moment, collecting his thoughts. It was hard to believe that this sad little encampment was the last vestige of an entire N
ative American tribe. It was galling to think that his own arrival at the glacier might be partly responsible for scattering it, even temporarily.

  “Those markings you made, outside the base,” he said at last. “What were they for?”

  “A warding of protection. To compel the kurrshuq to spare you.” The shaman returned Marshall’s gaze. “Your presence here means the warding was unsuccessful.”

  Marshall hesitated again. He had come all this way, yet he did not know exactly how to begin—or even what to ask. He took a deep breath. “Listen, Usuguk. I know we have already caused you anxiety and difficulty, and I am very sorry for that. It was never our intent.”

  The Tunit said nothing.

  “Now we are in trouble. Serious, serious trouble. And I have come here in hopes that you can help.”

  Still, Usuguk did not reply. His expression was stolid, almost taciturn.

  “The mountain,” Marshall continued. “The one you told us was evil. We found something there, as we were doing our experiments. A creature bigger than a polar bear, encased in ice. We…we cut it from the ice. Now it’s missing.”

  As Marshall said this, the shaman’s expression changed. A look of something close to shock blossomed over the weathered features.

  “We don’t know exactly what it is. I can only tell you that it has caused injury. It has caused death.”

  The look of shock subsided, replaced by the same mix of fear and sorrow Marshall recalled from their first meeting. “Why do you come to me?” the Tunit asked.

  “There was a scientific expedition at the base, fifty years ago. It met with tragedy. Most of the scientists died. But we recovered one of their journals. It contained the following words: ‘The Tunits have the answer.’”

  Usuguk sat motionless, staring into the fire. Marshall waited, uncertain whether to speak or keep silent. After about a minute, the shaman reached over, rummaged slowly through an assortment of ritual objects, and grasped the bone handle of what appeared to be some kind of drum: a narrow hoop about a foot in diameter, leather stretched tightly across it. Slowly he began tapping it against the palm of his other hand, flipping the instrument with each beat, back and forth, back and forth. He accompanied the rhythm with a chant, quiet at first, then louder, the sound filling the snowhouse like the smoke of the fire. At last, after several minutes, the chant subsided. The shaman’s face was once more at peace. Putting the drum aside, he unstrung the leather pouch, dipped in his hand, and took out two greasy pellets of a soft material, one blue, the other red. He carefully dropped them into the fire, one after the other. Bi-colored smoke roiled upward, blending to violet at its edges.

  “Tashayat kompok,” he murmured, examining the smoke. “As you will it.” Marshall did not think the shaman was speaking to him.

  Marshall repressed the urge to glance at his watch. “Do you know what the scientist meant?” he asked. “About the Tunits having the answer?”

  Usuguk said nothing. His eyes remained on the fire.

  “I know you’ve seen something of the world,” Marshall went on. “Your command of English says as much. If you can help, if you know anything about this, please tell me.”

  “It is not my place. You have brought this darkness upon yourself. I’ve already done what I could. I made a long journey—a sun, a moon, and a sun—to warn you. You paid no heed.”

  “If that is true, I apologize. But I think violent death is too high a price to pay for our ignorance.”

  Usuguk closed his eyes. “The circle you have begun is yours to complete. Even the Circle of Death can be beautiful.”

  “There was no beauty in Josh Peters’s death. If you know something, no matter how insignificant or unrelated it may seem—you owe it to us as fellow human beings to aid us.”

  “You are of the world,” Usuguk replied slowly. “I am of the spirit. I left that life behind long ago. I cannot go back.”

  Marshall sat, wondering what else there was left for him to say. At last he cleared his throat. “Let me tell you something. I once left a life behind, too. My best friend’s life.”

  Slowly, Usuguk opened his eyes.

  “It was twelve years ago. I was an Army Ranger, stationed in Somalia. My unit had been under fire for three days from rebel skirmishers. It was house to house, room by room. My friend was establishing a forward post. The orders were garbled; he got ahead of the detail. I saw him moving across a square. It was dark. I thought it was an enemy sniper. I shot him.” Marshall shrugged. “After that, I swore I’d never pick up a gun again.”

  Usuguk nodded slowly. Another silence settled over the snow-house, broken only by the crackling of the fire, the mournful cry of the blizzard outside.

  “It was not a frag,” the shaman said, opening his eyes.

  Marshall looked at him in surprise. “Were you in the service?”

  Usuguk ignored the question. “It was a mistake.”

  “My unit had never lost a soldier to friendly fire. I was ordered to lie, to cover it up. When I refused, my commanding officer arranged for me to get a dishonorable discharge. I—I had to break the news of my friend’s death to his wife.”

  Usuguk grunted quietly. Reaching into his medicine pouch, he pulled out several small artifacts. Smoothing the skins before him, he tossed the items onto them and scrutinized the way they fell. “You said you swore not to pick up a gun again. Such an oath is not to be taken lightly. And now? What will you do now?”

  Marshall took a deep breath. “If there’s something out there—something bent on killing all of us—I’ll do my very best to kill it first.”

  Usuguk looked into the fire. Then he turned his seamed and inscrutable face toward Marshall. “I will go with you,” he said. “But the only lives I take now are those necessary to sustain my own. My hunting days are over.”

  Marshall nodded. “Then I’ll hunt for both of us.”

  37

  Penny Barbour had wanted to take all the data critical to the expedition: a network image; the accessions and samples database; the online lab journals of her fellow scientists. In the end, she’d taken nothing. The two soldiers, Marcelin and Phillips—looking nervous despite their M16s—did not allow any time. Barbour, Chen, and the four others assigned to their group were instructed to change quickly into their warmest clothes and to grab some form of ID. They were assembled in the officers’ mess, their names checked off against a master list of everyone at the base, then they were escorted to the staging area. Phillips took point, Marcelin brought up the rear. They moved quickly and in complete silence through the corridors, halting at each intersection while Phillips reconnoitered. Reaching the central stairwell, they crept upward and crossed the entrance plaza—spectral in the nighttime half-light—to the weather chamber. The chamber was as crowded as the rest of the base had been empty: as they opened its door, a sea of tense faces turned quickly toward them.

  Gonzalez stood at the head of the group. He had a handcart full of weapons and ammunition—enough for a small army—and he was methodically checking each in turn. He nodded to the soldiers, then racked the slide of the handgun he’d been inspecting, holstered it.

  “This is the last of them?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir,” Marcelin replied. He passed the list of names to the sergeant, who inspected it, grunted his approval, and put it aside.

  Gonzalez glanced at his watch. “Carradine will be ready to load in five minutes.” He turned toward the group. “All right, everybody—listen up. I want you to don your weather gear now. We’re issuing extra gloves, scarves, and balaclavas—you’ll find them in this box. When I give the signal, we’ll head outside. You are all to follow me and make directly for the trailer. Maintain silence at all times. Any questions?”

  Nobody spoke.

  “Then get busy.”

  There was a squeal of metal against metal as three dozen lockers were opened almost simultaneously. Opening hers, Barbour shrugged into her parka, draped a scarf around her neck, then grabbed a balaclava from a l
arge carton in the middle of the room and fitted it over her ears. She pushed an extra scarf into one pocket and a pair of gloves into the other.

  “I have a question,” a gruff voice said. It was the foreman of the roustabouts, Creel. He alone had not put on a parka, and was against the wall, burly arms crossed.

  Gonzalez eyed the man, nodded.

  “Just what is it you’re planning to do after the truck leaves?”

  “We’re planning to put a stop to all this killing.”

  “You mean, you’re going to hunt it.”

  “Whatever this thing is, I think it’s done its fair share of hunting. Now it’s our turn.”

  “Just the three of you,” Creel said.

  Gonzalez eyed the cache of weapons, then smiled mirthlessly. “Why? You think our force is insufficient?”

  “Given the state of your intel, I think the larger the force, the better.”

  Now Gonzalez examined the man more carefully. “Were you in the service, mister?”

  Creel threw out his chest. “Third Armored Cavalry, Desert Storm.”

  Gonzalez stroked his chin. “You’re not part of this little group, right? You’re the local foreman.”

  The man nodded. “George Creel. Out of Fairbanks.”

  “Ever do any hunting?”

  The foreman grinned crookedly. “Only uniformed humans.”

  “That’s sufficient. Want to join the party, Mr. Creel?”

  Creel’s grin widened. “And let me do this for free? Are you kidding?”

  “Very well.”

  Barbour heard her own voice almost before she realized she was speaking. “I think that’s a mistake.”

  Gonzalez turned toward her. “What, exactly, is a mistake?”

  “You’re hunting it with so little information. Sully and Faraday are in the lab, analyzing its blood, learning what they can. The more you know, the better equipped you’ll be to do it harm.”

  Gonzalez’s eyes narrowed. “What can they possibly learn that will help us?”

  “They can find a weakness. Learn its vulnerabilities. Make observations.”

  “They’re welcome to make all the observations they want—of its carcass.” Gonzalez glanced around the weather chamber. “All right, people. Follow me.”