by Logan Keys
**
As hours passed by without them sinking, Luckman focused on the water sluicing by and the ’bergs that floated near in silent audience to his stupidity. If they knew he was going to be dead by the end of the day, they weren’t saying so. The hardest part for him was not to imagine the flimsy rubber getting a hole. Sure, it was made for the ocean, but he doubted it was reinforced for sharp ice. And the ice got denser as it got colder and closer to night. Holtz tried to use a flashlight, but it became too dangerous to go on in the dark. “We have to wait for morning.” He shut off the light and pulled blankets over himself to keep warm.
They had a miniature tent on board that was a pretty cool invention he’d seen before. Mark would have loved it. Poor Mark. Dead and gone like so many others. At least he could only hope that everyone on McMurdo was safe. They got the tent up and settled inside of it, their body heat warming them far better than they had been all day.
“Want to snuggle?” Holtz asked, and Luckman laughed.
His laughter died when Holtz didn’t join him in the humor. He was a strange guy, and Luckman got a bad vibe from him.
He knew one thing: he wasn’t going to be able to sleep.
**
Holtz slept like a baby, snoring loud enough to echo off the ice nearby. Luckman tossed and turned, wishing if he was going to be on this death contraption that German could have come along. The big Russian would have somehow made the trip interesting, at least. For some reason German always made Luckman feel braver, too. Probably because he believed in Luckman like no one else had before.
Luckman huffed a laugh at being sentimental, causing Holtz to root like a piglet and begin to snore with even more vigor.
**
Morning dawned, and Luckman was pleased to find the seas had calmed. The fog had cleared and the motor started without any hiccups. But with the good things came the bad. They were traveling just short of five hours out when the ice became too dense to find spots to pass. If they went into a place too narrow, they could be crushed between the two sides on the waves. As far as they could see was a thick blanket of white. They had run out of ocean.
“Can you see it?” Holtz said, pointing. “Land. The ice is a bit darker; you can just pick out the green underneath.”
The low hanging fog hid the island, but Luckman had no trouble picturing it there.
“Strange,” Holtz said.
“What?” Luckman asked.
“We must be a mile out of the harbor, but it’s ice locked all the way to shore.” He shrugged. “We have to walk the rest of the way. It’s solid.” He took his pick and stabbed the nearest piece of floating ice. They were long and short and round and square, all fitting together like a puzzle. But the trouble was, they’d have to hop from one to the next when they got near an edge.
“Shifting ice is dangerous,” Luckman said, but he was already packing up his things.
“It’s not shifting much on the bigger ones. Can’t be good that they have this much ice though.”
The cold was stinging. The temperature had dropped as if the cold circulated its own pocket around the island, making it worse. Just as how Luckman had described it when they’d spoken about the killing cold traveling by sea, and then worsening in the vacuous atmosphere of land.
“Where are we?” Luckman asked. “Specifically?”
“Christchurch, I believe. The harbor.”
Holtz anchored the small boat, and then exited, jumping onto the nearest ice. He stood there, fairly stable, and Luckman followed his lead.
There were a few slips and spills, but mostly the ice was tightly packed together, at times rocking from small waves, but luckily, they made it across. They arrived at the harbor and Luckman stopped to stare. The docks were frosted over with icicles. The bell at the end of one landing was frozen stiff—the wind must have hit it because it was at an angle, showing the clapper frozen to one side on a final ring.
There wasn’t any movement. The boats in the harbor were encased ice cubes stuck in place like cake toppers. Luckman felt uneasy as they carefully approached. The ice over the ground was glass-like and uneven, as if it had blown in quickly and layered in strips. There was no sound. The wind that had been had left, and the birds and people and noise went with it. The ship yard was like a ghost town, and they stepped onto the wooden dock, having to hold the railing so as not to fall.
“Do you feel that?” Luckman asked. His body was shaking, a bone numbing chill eating through their clothing, quickly sapping heat from their bodies. He could feel it through his boots and gloves, burning his skin in warning.
“Lots of snow for New Zealand’s summer, this year,” Holtz said, and even he seemed nervous by the epic quiet. When he spoke huge billowing bursts of air pushed out, as if he were still smoking. They walked down towards a boathouse, the eerie stillness permeating everything. One expects waves and gulls at the seashore, but instead it was cold pockets that sucked the breath from their lungs, making Luckman’s heart race.
His eyes scanned the island looking for signs of life. With what felt like more ice in his veins than in the whole of the small town they were in, Luckman followed Holtz to the boathouse that sat quaintly on the quay. Holtz went in after Luckman hesitated but quickly came back out shaking his head. “Empty.”
They had to walk another mile before they found a pub with cars out front. “Someone must be here.” Luckman listened, hoping to hear a laugh, or some music from inside. He waited with his hands stuffed deep in his pockets and his gaiter pulled up over his neck and mouth. His own breath was the only thing keeping his nostrils from freezing on the inside.
Holtz fought with the door, struggling to get it to open even a couple inches. “The damned things stuck. Frozen solid.”
Luckman reached his side, and they both worked together until it flew open and banged on the wall. That sent sheets of ice from high up on the roof to rain down onto their heads and they both dove away into the snow. Icicles fell, one by one. Thick, clear, heavy, and sharp, they crashed to the frozen ground with deadly force right where the pair had been only seconds before.
“Hell!” Holtz cried getting to his feet. “Have you ever seen anything like it?”
But Luckman had. He went up to the door, certain now that nothing else would fall from above. They’d cleaned the roof off on accident. He gave the door another mighty yank, getting it to wrench open and stick this time. Holtz came over and glanced at the workings of the door. “Look at this. The hinge is frozen together as if it were fused.”
Luckman was already making his way inside, his stomach tied into knots. The bar wasn’t any warmer than outside. Dark and quiet, the usual stale smells were gone underneath a chilling mask that stole the sense from your sinuses. And it was a muffled quiet that felt like your ears were clogged.
Luckman turned and froze. There was a man sitting at the bar, or rather, hunched over it.
Luckman swallowed past the lump of fear and asked, “Hello? You okay, man?” His adrenaline fueled a sort of tunnel vision that hid the other patrons from his sight as he moved to the man’s side. Luckman pulled on the shoulder and the entire body turned with it. The face was bloated and blue, the coloring mottled like a bruise over the dead expression. Luckman jerked away with a hiss, and the body fell from the chair to the floor.
Holtz was breathing heavily behind Luckman, his panic evident. “What in the hell happened to them?”
That was when Luckman turned to find more patrons sitting at tables, a waitress on the floor, and he guessed if he looked behind the bar he’d find the bartender, too. Luckman didn’t waste any time; he was already headed for the door, pulling up his gaiter. He wasn’t staying around the dead another minute.
“Wait!” Holtz called. “Anyone here?” he shouted to the back before rushing to follow Luckman outside.
“We gotta go. We gotta get out of here.” Luckman knew he sounded afraid. He was. “It might come back.”
Holtz was running after him, slipping o
n the ice, his eyes wild. Both of their voices were muffled by their neck gaiters. “What are you talking about, man? You sound crazy!”
“The killing cold,” Luckman shouted, rounding on the other scientist. “They were flash frozen like a bag of vegetables. I’ve seen it before.”
“That’s impossible,” Holtz said with a nervous laugh. “Has anyone told you that you’ve been gone on the ice too long? I think it’s killed your brain cells.”
“Then you tell me what happened back there.”
“I, um…I’m not sure. There has to be an explanation.”
Luckman turned around and started marching through the snow.
“We have to…” Holtz was out of breath trying to keep up. “Hey, wait a minute. We have to call the police.”
“Be my guest,” Luckman said, angry with himself for even trying to tell Holtz the truth. He knew the guy thought he was off his rocker now.
“Look. Stop. Listen to me.”
Luckman waited, and Holtz caught up, then put his hands on his knees, wheezing and holding his side. “I told you…I have a friend…across the channel. I’ve been here a few times, and I can get us a place to stay. We both need sleep. That’s all.”
“Then lead the way,” Luckman said with sarcasm.
Holtz was still panting as he turned a circle. “With all the snow it’s hard to remember where the roads are. I only come here in the summer.”
“It is the summer,” Luckman snarled. “Don’t you get it? This is summer. Something’s wrong. If we don’t get out of here we’ll end up like those poor people back in the bar.”
“Okay, all right. Just let me get my bearings.” He glanced in a few directions before saying, “This way. I’m pretty sure it’s this way.” Holtz eyed Luckman like he was a mental patient but motioned for him to follow.
They walked roughly a few miles in silence, squashing snow in a rhythm beneath their boots. The ghost town was even stranger as they made their way through it. Flags were frozen mid-flight, the ice was so thick underfoot, you couldn’t tell where the streets began and ended, and the buildings were crusted over as if someone built ginger-bread houses and went crazy with frosting. Holtz wiped off a sign. “Christchurch,” he read.
“I want to check inside,” Holtz said, as if someone had dared him. “Just pick a house. Let’s see if anyone is here.”
“What?” Luckman frowned. “Why?”
Holtz was gazing at a small house with the front gate left open. He was sort of in a daze when he said, “It could have been a fluke back at the bar. Maybe these people are fine.”
Luckman could have mentioned the chimneys that weren’t pouring out smoke. Or the fact that they hadn’t seen a soul since they arrived, but instead he said, “Okay.”
Hope was a funny thing like that. No matter how dark the signs pointed, a person would grip onto any stream of light they could find.
Holtz passed the little fence and walked up the drive of the home carefully. Wisely, he checked above for any big icicles that could fall on him before he knocked on the front door.
“Hello!” Holtz shouted, then he opened the door, shrugged, and disappeared inside.
Long minutes went by before Holtz came back outside. “No one’s home.”
Luckman blew out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. While Holtz had been gone, he’d spun images through his mind of frozen families at dinner, kids in front of the television…
Holtz walked out the gate and entered the neighboring yard. “Maybe there was a gas leak or something?”
Luckman didn’t offer much other than, “Maybe.”
“Will you, uh, come with me this time?”
Luckman nodded that he would.
They walked up the next drive and found the door locked. Holtz laughed when he felt under the potted plant and retrieved a key. “Bingo. The crime rate here is so low they just do the obvious thing.”
“Yeah.” Where Luckman lived in the states, Staten Island, a hide-a-key would be like inviting robbers in to stay in your spare room.
Holtz unlocked the door and then waited for Luckman to go first. “I did the last one,” he said.
Luckman entered, but he was instantly aware that everything was wrong. No lights. No power. No heat. He got the strange sense that this one wouldn’t be empty. It was like a cold hand walking fingers up his spine. Luckman knew that he was about to see something he couldn’t unsee. He paused near the living room entry way, his feet rooted to the floor.
Holtz sighed and brushed pasted him, only to cover his nose and run backwards crashing into Luckman.
Luckman turned for the door after Holtz, and asked, “A gas leak, huh?”
“Freeze!” the front door flew open before Holtz could get there and police officers filed in, at least five of them. “Put your hands where I can see them!” the lead officer shouted, a short female with thick eyebrows and a ‘don’t screw with me’ glare. She had a shotgun in her hands and Luckman did as she ordered.
Holtz unwisely moved forward. “Hey, we were just—”
“Put your hands where I can see them!” She aimed the shotgun at his chest and racked the forestock, loading a round into the chamber.
“Turn around!” she shouted and Luckman did so slowly as the other officers came over and zip tied his wrists.
Holtz struggled and they had to subdue him. “I have rights, you know! I’m a scientist!”
Luckman rolled his eyes as the officers only tied Holtz’ hands more harshly for it. They were led outside to a jeep that was outfitted for snow. Big chains were wrapped around oversized tires, and a large plow was welded to the front. The police were used to having to be mobile in sub-Antarctic weather.
“Get in,” she told Luckman, shoving on his head and putting him in the back. He obeyed while Holtz kept arguing and resisting until they finally had to threaten to taser him.
“All right. All right,” he said.
They put him in back with Luckman. “Can you believe this?” Holtz fought with his ties. “We didn’t do anything wrong!”
“They think we were breaking and entering. We were.”
“We had a key!”
“I don’t think they care.”
The officer got into the front and started the jeep. She spoke into the radio. “We found two guys claiming to be scientists rummaging through a house. The family is deceased.”
The answer was too hard for Luckman to understand with the accents and static, but the officer replied, “No. I don’t think they had anything to do with that. They seemed frozen…like the rest.”
Her partner got inside the jeep. He’d been going into the other houses. He turned to face the female officer and shook his head. “All dead.”
Chapter Seven
Just outside Chicago
“That’s the third gas station we’ve passed.”
“I know,” Brittany said. “I know. But I can tell no one’s there so it’s not open. How can we pump it without it being turned on?” She ran a hand through her long hair, her temper growing short. It was no one’s fault that they were coasting on fumes, or that they had yet to find a place to get more gasoline since the big quake. Some places were empty, others full of people waiting in a line at the door to see if the station opened.
“I’m not sure what the protocol is for a station trying to use lines after a quake,” Colton said thoughtfully. “It might be too dangerous until the integrity is verified.”
“But—” Bart tried.
“No,” Brittany said cutting him off. She shook her head. Every time they found another station empty, he’d offered to break in and turn on the pump. Bart even seemed excited to MacGyver his way through this problem.
“If they don’t have power,” Bart said, “they have a backup generator. I know I can get the pumps up and running.”
Brittany sighed, glaring at the sun to the left of her. It was late in the day, and time was running out. She was almost willing to go with Bart’s crazy plan, just
to make sure they made it to Chicago before nightfall.
“Do you even know how it works?” Colton asked.
“I’ve worked at a station a time or two in my day. I don’t think you had to because you always worked with dad, but I never got along with him on a job.”
“What does your father do?” Brittany asked, glancing in the mirror to see Colton and Bart back in the third row behind the sleeping children. Several times she’d wanted to ask someone to come sit with her, but it felt…strange. Since the life or death situations they had all been in, there was still a distance between the three somehow. It was as if they knew each other better than they knew anyone else in the world, but at the same time, not at all.
“My father’s a plumber,” Colton said, and then his face darkened. “Hope they’re okay.”
They’d tried to make calls at every place they stopped, but no one had service.
“I still think we should try it,” Bart said.
Brittany wouldn’t budge. “I don’t want to break in some place and get one of you guys shot. Some of the owners might be expecting trouble, right?”
“That’s true,” Bart said.
“We’re not thieves,” she reiterated for the millionth time. Brittany didn’t glance down at her clothes—though she almost did—because they had stolen those to get by.
The highway they were on was cracked in places, some parts so potholed it nearly chipped their teeth, but otherwise it was passable. People weren’t driving in their direction so there wasn’t any traffic. The other side was full of people leaving Chicago, which made them guess they would find the city as wrecked as the others nearby. At the last station they’d tried, someone had asked about the city and one guy swore it was demolished. Colton had asked if they could get around it, drive north past the hole, and the man had sort of stared off into space. “I’m not sure if there’s a hole. We just ran for our lives,” he’d said. “Lots of buildings fell over.”