by Rob Boffard
I sit back down again, hard. If he was here, Prakesh would come up with a plan. And Carver… he’d have some gadget stashed away, a portable flamethrower or a miniature electric stove.
I close my eyes. They’re not here. You need to think.
The Core. I was prepared for it then, dressed appropriately, with my dad’s old flight jacket and several sweaters, plus thick gloves. Here, I’ve got nothing on but thin pants and a jacket–a single layer against the cold.
I need insulation. But how?
I could snuggle up to Syria’s body–make use of his remaining heat. I could even take his clothes, or what’s left of them. The thought makes me recoil. I won’t do that. If there’s nothing else, if I truly can’t stay warm, then I’ll revisit it. But there’s got to be another way.
What about the leaves? asks a quiet voice in my mind.
I don’t give myself time to poke holes in the idea. I scramble in the dark, using my hands to feel for the plants. I know there’s one close by, and seconds later I find it, yanking it towards me. There aren’t many leaves, and those that it has are crumbly and dry, falling apart in my fingers. I let it go, and keep searching.
I find another plant, then another, stripping them bare, and soon I’ve gathered enough to start stuffing them into my jacket. They’re scratchy and uncomfortable, but I keep going, pushing them down into the jacket sleeves.
My hands are utterly numb, and the only thing I can see is my breath condensing in the freezing air. I shove more leaves into my pants, which feels even worse. Not that I have a choice in the matter–I do this, or I die.
Something moves against my skin.
I squeal, ripping my hand away. The thing comes with it–I can feel it latched onto my finger. I shake my hand furiously, and then it’s gone. A bug. Had to have been. Asleep in the leaves, until I disturbed it. The idea that there might be others, crawling close to my body…
The cold is making it hard to think–my thoughts are coming in quick bursts, barely coherent. My stomach sends a radiating, hungry ache up through my body, and, right then, I realise just how tired I am. It’s as if all the strength has run out of my legs.
I find my way back to Syria, the leaves rustling against my skin. My thigh is throbbing. I do my best to ignore it, curling into a ball, pulling my hands into my jacket sleeves and jamming them between my legs as I try to get comfortable on the hard ground. At least I’m out of the wind, hunkered down in the depression.
I hunch my shoulders, trying to get my ears into my jacket collar, but the jacket isn’t big enough.
I don’t know how long I sleep, but it’s dark and dreamless. I only wake up when a sound steals into my mind. The sound is a low growl, and it pulls me out of the blackness.
I open my eyes. They adjust to the darkness instantly, as if I’ve had them open this whole time.
The animal is right in front of me, no more than three feet away, its jaws wrapped around Syria’s leg.
16
Prakesh
They can’t restart the fire.
The fuel on the lake has burned away, save for a few flickers of flame in the centre that provide a little light. No matter what they do, they can’t get any other wood to catch.
And the fire isn’t the only thing that’s gone. Kahlil is dead. He slipped away without anyone noticing, his sightless eyes staring at the sky.
Mikhail is on his hands and knees, blowing with all his might. It would look ridiculous, Prakesh thinks, if the situation wasn’t so serious. He’s already told Mikhail that it’s not going to work–starting a fire from scratch requires fine motor skills. It requires time and energy to gather materials. The cold and damp is taking all of it away, but Mikhail won’t quit. He keeps blowing, refusing to give up hope.
“Shit,” Carver says, kicking a clod of dirt into the lake. The last cinder goes out with a puff, and Prakesh coughs as a loose wisp of smoke catches him in the throat.
Clay is praying loudly, invoking Buddha this time, praising his holy name. Carver rounds on him. “Will you shut up?”
Clay subsides, muttering. Carver looks at Prakesh, shivering as the wind scythes through him. “OK, P-Man. Your action. What do we do now?”
But before Prakesh can answer, Janice Okwembu speaks up. “We need to keep moving,” she says, getting to her feet and dusting herself off. “Walking will keep us warm, and we can look for food.”
“No.” Mikhail has finally abandoned the fire and is sitting back on his heels. Prakesh doesn’t like the look in his eyes, doesn’t like the naked fear he sees there. “We stay here. You heard the radio message. There’s sanctuary out there.” He leans on the word, as if it’ll keep the cold away. “They’ll come for us. We swim out, we get more fuel. We restart the fire.”
“And end up like him?” Carver jerks his head at Khalil’s body. Mikhail glares at him.
“It won’t work,” Okwembu says, folding her arms. “If the people who broadcast that message are out there, we need to get to them. We can’t wait for them to come to us.”
Suddenly they’re all talking at once. Mikhail and Carver are shouting at each other, Okwembu trying to intervene. Clay’s prayers get louder.
“Enough,” Prakesh says. When nobody listens, he bellows, “Hey!”
Everyone falls silent. Mikhail’s shoulders are rising and falling with exertion. Above his beard, his eyes are gleaming with panic.
“She’s half right,” says Prakesh, pointing to Okwembu. “We keep moving.”
Okwembu nods, but Mikhail growls in frustration. “We’ll never make it.”
Prakesh talks over him. “We’re too exposed here. Feel that wind coming off the lake?”
The others nod. Of course they do.
“Moving will keep us warm. And we’re not going far–just until we find somewhere out of the wind. Once we’re there, we group together for warmth, wait until morning. It’s the best chance we’ve got.”
“We don’t even know where we are,” Mikhail says. Prakesh can hear the fear in his voice.
Clay stops praying, then clears his throat. “Actually, I think I do.”
They all turn to stare at him, and he swallows before continuing. “I looked at some old maps on the ship’s computer before we came down here,” he says, pointing to the water. “I think this is Eklutna Lake. South shore.”
He swallows again, knotting his hands. “We’re north-east of Anchorage. It’s far, but all we have to do is head that way.” He points into the forest.
Prakesh doesn’t wait for an answer. He walks away from the group, moving into the trees, rubbing his arms furiously. For a long moment the only sounds are his feet crunching on the frosty ground. They’re not coming, he thinks. They’re actually going to sit there and freeze to death.
But a moment later he hears them coming after him. He slows down, waiting for them to catch up. No one mentions Kahlil.
The ground slopes slightly, and before long Prakesh’s knees are aching from the descent. His eyes have adjusted to the dark, but it’s a relative term. The forest is as dark as space itself. He can just make out the stunted trees against the black sky. Once again, he feels that excitement–a feeling that refuses to go away, despite their situation.
How can there possibly still be trees down here? Why has this part of the planet survived, when everything they know about Earth says it should be a frozen, radioactive dustball? Is the planet starting to fix itself? How long has it been like this? Surely not long–they would have seen it when they sent the Earth Return mission down, when they were scanning the planet for landing sites. That means it’s only been like this for seven years, at the most. How is it even possible?
A hundred years before, the people still on Earth were using every technological trick they had to turn the tide of climate change. Cloud seeding, messing with the ionosphere, carbon capturing. None of it really worked, and then the nukes came raining down and it didn’t matter any more. But here, something has changed. Something made this part of t
he world different.
His thoughts return to his parents, back on Outer Earth. The regret comes rushing back, rough and familiar as an old blanket.
But what is he supposed to do? How can he possibly help anybody who might be alive on Outer Earth? There’s only one thing he can do now, and that’s survive. If he’s going to live through the night, then he’s got to shut out everything else.
The wind has got worse–it’s constant now, whistling through the tree branches and every gust freezes him to the bone. He keeps hoping that the slope will deviate, that there’ll be a depression or gully where they can get out of the wind. But there’s nothing–no matter where they go, the ground is evenly sloped.
Carver is to his right, and he can hear Mikhail behind him, swearing as he pushes through the foliage. He can’t hear Clay, or Okwembu, and he doesn’t want to lose them. “Everybody still here?” he calls.
“Still here,” mutters Carver. The others echo him, one by one, their voices betraying their exhaustion.
Abruptly, the trees open up. They’re in a small clearing, no more than fifty yards wide. There’s a sliver of moonlight, peeking down through a tiny gap in the clouds–enough for Prakesh to see some strange structures ahead of them. He identifies an old wooden table, half of it rotted away. Plants have grown into it, winding tendrils through the wood. Next to it is what appears to be a large steel drum, now rusted, most of its top half gone. The bottom is still held in place by two metal brackets.
Prakesh runs his hand across the edge of the drum. It would have been installed over a hundred years ago, and probably hasn’t been visited in about as long.
One thought leads to another. If humans really have survived, then they’ll have managed to keep some tech going–they wouldn’t have been able to broadcast a radio signal otherwise. The excitement rises again at the thought of what else might be out there.
He pulls his hand back from the drum. Wouldn’t do to get an infected cut out here.
The others stumble into the clearing behind him. Mikhail collapses on the table, which groans in protest.
“Keep moving,” Prakesh says.
But Mikhail is shaking his head. “No. No. This isn’t right. We stay here. We can light another fire.”
“Mikhail.” It’s Okwembu. She’s shivering, too, holding herself tightly, but her voice is as calm and controlled as ever. “Get up.”
If Mikhail hears her, he gives no sign. He’s still shaking his head, muttering to himself.
Okwembu walks up to him, grabs him by the shoulders. “Get up,” she says, and this time there’s real fury in her voice. He ignores her, rocking back and forth on the rotten wood.
Carver strides off, heading for the other side of the clearing.
“Aaron!” Prakesh catches up to him just before he disappears into the trees.
The wind has got even worse, and Prakesh struggles to hear Carver’s voice. “Forget that. He wants to stay where he is? Fine! Let him!”
“We need to stick together,” Prakesh says, but he doesn’t even know if Carver can hear him. He plunges into the trees, almost tripping over a rock, and has to put his hand against one of the tree trunks to stop himself from falling. The bark is damp and frigid against his skin, speckled with frost.
“Wait!” Clay screams the word, stumbling after them. Prakesh can feel a panic of his own rising, as if the presence of the others was the only thing keeping it down. He is colder than he has ever been in his life, and every breath feels like it has to physically claw its way out of his lungs. The wind has increased now, strong enough that he has to lean into it. He can hear the trees beginning to bend, the old wood creaking.
17
Riley
I stay as still as I can.
The animal lets go of Syria, its growl extending and twisting into a snarl. There’s a gap in the clouds, enough to let in a little light from a hidden moon. I can’t stop looking at the creature’s mouth. Its teeth are a dull white, and saliva drips from its bottom lip.
A small part of my mind, walled off from the terror coursing through me, is fascinated. Outside of those in pictures, this is the first animal I’ve ever seen.
As my eyes adjust further, I pick out more details. Its two ears lie flat against its head, and its eyes have a lethal, primal shine. It’s low to the ground, waist height, no more, with spiky, ragged hair–or is it fur?
The growl comes again, and that’s when the fascinated part of me disappears. It might be the first animal I’ve ever seen, but it definitely isn’t friendly.
Very, very slowly, I get to my feet. The beast takes a quick breath, interrupting the growl, but then it comes back at an even higher pitch. A tongue darts out from between the teeth, liquid and agile.
Terror has a way of sharpening my senses. How many times have I felt it on Outer Earth, and how many times has it made me a better tracer? It works now, because that’s when I see the other two.
One of them is on the edge of the depression, almost invisible in the darkness. It’s standing stock still, its head tilted to one side. The third is on my right: smaller, its fur darker than the others, opening and closing its mouth.
I raise my hands. The white vapour of my breath is coming in quick, trembling bursts. I’m speaking quietly, nonsense words, trying to keep the fear out of my voice.
I take a single step back, and that’s when the first animal attacks.
It’s shockingly fast. One moment it’s motionless, and the next it’s crossed the space between us and buried its teeth in my leg.
There’s a frozen moment where I feel its teeth crushing through the leaves in my pants. Then they pierce my skin.
I lash out with my other foot. I’m already falling backwards, my arms whirling, but my shoe takes the animal in the head. It squeals–an oddly human sound–and lets go of my leg, its head twisted sideways.
Wolf.
The memory comes from nowhere. I was once ambushed by the Lieren, an Outer Earth gang intent on jacking my cargo. One of them had a tattoo on its neck. A red wolf.
I scramble to my feet. I don’t know how fast a wolf can run, but right now speed is the only weapon I have. Ice crunches under my feet as I scramble into a sprint, hyperventilating, pumping my arms.
Behind me, the wolves give chase, their barks echoing across the plateau.
There might be a little moonlight, but it’s like running through a black hole. Picking out details on the ground is impossible. I barely make it twenty yards before the wolves are on top of me.
And I’m not even close to fast enough. The wolves’ speed is unbelievable. One of them lands on my back: a huge, hot, horrible weight knocking me to the ground. I feel its breath, burning against my skin. I twist and roll, shaking it off before it can get its teeth into me.
I spring onto my feet, legs apart, in a fighting stance. I’m surrounded–the three wolves have me in a loose circle, with a boulder at my back. The smaller wolf was the one I threw off; it’s getting to its feet, its eyes never leaving mine. The bite on my leg is itching and burning. I’m trying to remember if wolves have poisonous bites, if that was something we were taught in school, but I can’t marshal my thoughts.
All at once, the terror is gone. So is the hunger, and exhaustion. All of them burn away to nothingness, replaced by that seething anger.
I glance down. There’s a loose rock, nudging up against my foot. I reach for it, eyes locked with the lead wolf.
It snaps at me, darting forward, but the anger strips away all hesitation. I bellow as hard as I can, swinging the rock in a massive sideways arc. The wolf drops before I smack it in the head again, twisting its shoulders as it skips backwards. Its legs are bent, quivering with energy.
Movement, on my left. This time, the rock connects, and the second wolf gives a pained howl as I smash it to the ground. My hand is buzzing from the impact, but I bring it back, driving it down into the animal’s skull.
There’s a crunch. Hot blood soaks the back of my hand, and the wolf
’s body jerks, its legs beating the air. It gives one final, piteous whine, then falls still.
I look up at the other two. They’re backing away slowly, their teeth bared. Their growls fill the air.
I put my arms above my head, still clutching the rock, and scream at them. I don’t even know what I’m doing. It’s as if the anger has tapped into a part of me that I didn’t know existed–something fundamental, a survival instinct buried deep in my DNA.
The wolves take off. The big one gives me a last look, and then they’re gone, slipping into the darkness.
I’m still standing there, frozen to the spot, when there’s a voice from behind me. “Guess you ain’t such easy prey after all.”
18
Okwembu
Mikhail is panicking.
He’s rocking back and forth, trembling like a leaf. Okwembu stares at him. How did she ever think he would be useful?
If he wants to stay here, fine. She may not like Prakesh Kumar and Aaron Carver, but she’s a lot safer with them than she is with him. But which direction did they go? They’ve long since vanished into the trees. Okwembu tries to remember. Her thoughts come slowly, the cold sapping her energy.
I have to get out of the wind.
She strides back to the table. “Move,” she says to Mikhail. When he doesn’t respond, she climbs on top of it, barking her knees against the wood, then puts a hand on his back and shoves. He falls forward, crying out in surprise, the sound whipped away by the wind.
Okwembu doesn’t wait for him to get up. She clambers off the table, dropping back to the ground. She’s not used to this amount of physical activity, and her arms are already aching. The wood is soft and rotten beneath her palms, but she pushes hard, using every ounce of strength she still has. If she can lift the table upright, she can make a windbreak. It’s far from ideal, but it’s the best she can do.
The table lifts an inch, then thumps back down. Okwembu tries again, leaning into it.
No good. She’s going to need Mikhail’s help. But when she turns to find him, he’s walking away, hugging himself, head down.