Ice Storm

by David Meyer

  The wind picked up a notch. Blowing snow struck the ground repeatedly, causing more powder to rise into the air. It whirled around in great circles, striking me from all sides.

  What time was it anyway? How long had I been searching for Ayers? Minutes? Hours?

  I figured the others were out there with me, blanketing the vast tundra. But I couldn't see them, hear them, or smell them. For all I knew, they'd given up hours ago. Or maybe I'd strayed too far. Maybe they were searching for me now.

  A fleeting image of Beverly's face crossed my mind. I was still determined to find her as soon as possible. But I had no reason to think she was in immediate danger. On the other hand, the odds of finding Ayers still alive were falling by the second.

  I twisted around. I couldn't see Kirby. But I was reasonably sure I could get myself back to it.

  I reached the snow bank and started to search it. I didn't know much about Ayers. I hadn't even heard his voice. Hell, I couldn't even be sure he had a voice. Still, I found myself wondering about him, his life. What would happen if we didn't find him? Would anyone remember him? Would they mourn him? How long would those memories last? Months? Years?

  Practically everyone who'd ever lived had already been forgotten. It was a cold, but undeniable truth. There were just too many people to remember, too few memory slots available.

  Most individuals succumbed to time, some quicker than others. Within a single generation, the vast majority of people completely vanished from the public consciousness. A few high-profile individuals—politicians, actresses, athletes, people like that—lasted a little longer. But almost all of them faded within a few decades. Only a precious few—the religious icons, the trendsetters, the inventors, the explorers, the conquerors—managed to live on in the collective memory.

  My legs began to quiver. I cursed myself for walking so far. I should've stayed closer to Kirby, to the others.

  I craned my neck. I saw another dark blotch among the vast expanse of ice and snow. As I hiked toward it, I thought more about Ayers, about how others would remember him. But deep down, I knew I was really thinking about myself.

  I had no legacy, no lasting achievements to pass onto future generations. Almost all of my discoveries were locked up in private hands. The others were little known outside of treasure hunting circles. In other words, I was doomed to be forgotten.

  But I wanted to be remembered. I needed to be remembered. I wasn't so foolish as to think Cy Reed would ever be a household name. But the Amber Room was one of the greatest lost treasures of all time. Surely, my discovering it would be remembered by future generations of historians, archaeologists, and treasure hunters.

  But how long would that fame last? I tried to think of people from the distant past. Jesus of Nazareth obviously lived right after the switch from Before Christ to Anno Domini. Alexander the Great was born three hundred and fifty years before that. Socrates preceded Alexander by about a century. And Amenhotep I ruled around 1520 BC, making him one thousand and fifty years older than Socrates.

  I thought hard but I couldn't think of a single ancient person who predated Amenhotep. Of course, many fossils predated him. Some of them, like Lucy and Ardi, were millions of years old. But they were just fossils. I knew nothing about their lives. Neither did anyone else. And even they were just blips on the scale of time. Dinosaurs appeared millions of years before them. And who knew what forms of life preceded those creatures? Hell, Earth itself was over four billion years old.

  Emptiness spread over me. Life felt meaningless in the vast expanse of time and space. I took no comfort from the realization. I felt no freedom from my worries. Instead, I just felt lost, alone. Empty.

  I reached the dark blotch. It was another snow bank. Kneeling down, I studied the powder. It was windblown and lacked moisture. So, it felt extra dense, nothing like the powder at a ski resort.

  Coldness crept over my toes. I wiggled them, trying to retain some feeling. Then I started brushing away the snow. Almost immediately, my hands struck something hard.

  My nerves tingled. Quickly, I scraped away more snow. A patch of red fabric appeared.

  My hands worked like shovels. In less than a minute, I managed to clear away most of the powder. "Ted?"

  Ted Ayers' eyes were open. But he lay perfectly still. His skin was pale. His lips looked blue.

  I checked his pulse. Then I closed his eyes.

  I looked around, trying to spot the power plant. But I couldn't see it. I glanced back at Ayers. My eyes passed over him. I didn't see any wounds from the explosion.

  I reached for his parka hood. Gently, I pulled it away from his body.

  My gaze fell on a long cut. It ran across his neck. The skin beneath it was stained with blood. My face tightened.

  This was no accident.

  This was murder.

  Chapter 50

  "Goddamn, it's good to see you." Graham spun around. His eyes traced my body. "You look even worse than I remember."

  The common room smelled like alcohol. Candles and battery-operated lights provided some illumination. Trotter was situated near the door, lying on a couch. Jenner knelt next to him, propping his head up. Baxter held a bottle of rum, which he proceeded to tip toward Trotter's chapped lips.

  "Thanks." I nodded at Trotter. "How is he?"

  "He's fine, just cuts and scratches."

  "How's everyone else?"

  "Good. Ted's still missing though."

  I sighed. "Not anymore."

  "Where is he?"

  "I took him to the vehicle shed. Someone cut his throat."

  Graham inhaled sharply. "Who?"

  "Good question."

  Trotter tilted his head toward me. His expression changed from hopeful to depressed. My chest tightened another notch. "Give me a second."

  I walked over to Trotter. A big bandage was plastered over his right temple. "How do you feel?"

  Trotter's eyes were bleary. "How do I look?"

  "You could be worse." I paused. "I found Ted."

  Baxter and Jenner turned to look at me.

  Trotter's eyes widened. "And?"

  I shook my head.

  "Are you …?" He swallowed. "Are you sure?"

  I nodded.

  "Did he … was he …?"

  "It looks like he died instantly."

  "I want to see him."

  "I carried him to the vehicle shed."

  Trotter tried to stand up. Then he collapsed back to the couch. His eyes closed over. His breathing slowed and he passed out. Baxter and Jenner quickly went to work making him comfortable.

  I grabbed Graham's arm and pulled him into the kitchen area. "You know how this place is supposed to be some kind of eco-miracle?"

  "More like eco-fascism. I tell you, I'm sick and—”

  "It's a fraud."

  His brow furrowed. "Come again?"

  "I went inside the power plant to look for Ted. There's a diesel generator hidden under the floorboards."

  "Well, I'll be damned." He shook his head. "Can't say I'm surprised though. Green technology doesn't make much sense out here. Think about it. There's no sun for half of the year. Without wind, power vanishes."

  "I agree. But this building isn't Fitzgerald. Hell, it's not even close to that size. How difficult can it really be to keep it warm?"

  Graham gave me a curious look. "It sounds like you've got something brewing in that head of yours."

  I tried to piece the puzzle together without success. "We'll worry about it later. Beverly still needs our help."

  "Let me get Pat. He agreed to come with us."

  "Okay, meet me in the vehicle shed."

  "Will do." He hesitated. "Why would someone want to kill Ted?"

  "Maybe he saw something he wasn't supposed to see."

  "Like what?"

  "Like the bomber."

  "The explosion was deliberate?"

  "Most likely."

  "But why? The bomber needs heat just as much as the rest of us."

/>   "Perhaps. But he or she might need privacy even more." I started ticking off my fingers. "First, the satellite phones stopped working. Then the regular line went dead. Now, the power plant is gone. Since the wires ran through it, I'm guessing that means we won't be able to fix the regular line anytime soon."

  "Which means we're isolated, cut off from the rest of the continent." He rubbed his forehead as if he had an ache in it. "I suppose it's possible. But why would someone want to do that?"

  "I don't know but we'd better find out fast," I replied. "Before we all end up like Ted."

  Chapter 51

  Holly held her breath as she climbed down the ladder. Darkness shrouded the room below. It had been covertly hooked up to Kirby's power plant. When the plant went off-line, the hidden basement had lost power as well. But the emergency generator should've kicked in by now. Without it, all hope was lost.

  Her right sneaker slipped on a rung. She dropped a few inches. Her left sneaker lost its purchase.

  Her fingers tightened around the rusty metal. Her body jolted to a halt. Pain shot through her arms. For a moment, she flailed twenty feet up in the air, trying to regain her footing. But her sneakers kept missing the rungs.

  Her hands began to ache. She did her best to maintain her grip. But her fingers could only take so much. Slowly, they uncurled before her eyes. Holly shrieked. Then she plummeted toward the concrete floor.

  Ten feet down, an arm wrapped around her waist. It firmed up, strong as a steel cable. She jerked to a stop. She hung there for a few seconds, her legs dangling in mid-air.

  Carefully, Rupert adjusted his other arm, wrapping it securely around a rung. "You okay?" he grunted.

  Holly couldn't speak.

  Rupert twisted his arm. Holly swung close to the ladder. But her arms remained limp at her sides. "Don't worry. I've got you."

  With a soft shudder, she reached out her hands. Her fingers closed around a metal bar.

  "That's it," he said. "Now, put your feet on that other rung."

  She shifted her legs and planted her sneaker firmly on the rung. Then she moved her other foot toward it.

  Her right sneaker slipped again. She yelped. Her fingers clutched the bar so tightly her knuckles turned white.

  Rupert didn't move a muscle. He continued to support her weight with relative ease. Quickly, she placed her right sneaker back on the rung. She pressed down on it. It didn't slip.

  Holly clambered down the rest of the ladder. As she stepped off it, fear filled her chest. She turned on her flashlight and raced across the room. She stopped just short of the middle cryocontainer. Her hand drifted to its cool, metal surface. An image flashed before her eyes.

  She saw him lying in that cursed hospital bed. He was sixty-six years old. His cheeks were gaunt and scruffy. His salt-and-pepper hair was plastered to his sweaty forehead. His body, covered in several blankets, was heartbreakingly slim.

  Holly remembered lifted the breathing apparatus from his nose and mouth. She recalled leaning her head across his lips. She could still feel his breath, soft and raspy, touching her ear.

  She stared at the computer monitors. Ordinarily, they were full of life. Lights flashed. Electricity buzzed. Beeps, soft and reassuring, filled the air. But now, the machines were dark and quiet.

  She felt a presence behind her. "What happened to the generator?"

  "I don't know," Rupert said. "This is the first time it's failed on us."

  Her heart thumped against her chest. "Can you fix it?"

  He switched on his flashlight and hustled to the far corner. Tools rattled. Metal clanked.

  Holly closed her eyes again. Gently, she stroked the cryocontainer. She recalled running her hand through his hair. She remembered trying to comfort him, as he'd done so many times for her.

  She searched her mind, trying to recollect her earliest memories of her father. He'd played with her when she was an infant. He'd walked her to the bus on her first day of kindergarten. He'd smiled upon meeting her first boyfriend and wiped her tears when the romance dissolved two weeks later.

  Unconditional love was a rare thing in the world. Holly had tried to embrace it in her own life, often with mixed results. But eventually, she'd found success with Rupert, thanks largely to her father's example.

  She'd never known her mother. Her father refused to talk about the woman. But he'd worked hard to make up for her absence. To the best of Holly's knowledge, he'd never dated during the entire length of her childhood. That wasn't to say he didn't have admirers. But Holly had managed to keep them at bay. Every time a new woman showed the slightest interest in him, Holly would insert herself into the mix. She'd force him to choose between her and the woman. He'd always chosen her.

  Until Susan.

  "What's taking so long?" Holly breathed softly. "Do you need help?"

  "It's this damn filter." Liquid glugged. The odor of diesel gas permeated the room. "I'll be done in a moment."

  Her fingers traced the metallic surface. Carefully, she wiped beads of condensation away from the container. "It's okay," she whispered. "Rupert and I are here. Just hold on a little longer."

  Susan Rochelle was different than the other women. She was a first-class harpy and a flirt of epic proportions. While Holly was across the country attending school, Susan had managed to wriggle into her father's life. Holly had tried her usual tricks to break them up, but the long distance impeded her efforts.

  A few months later, Holly had watched him walk down the aisle. He'd grasped Susan's hands. They'd said their vows. A union was born.

  But Susan hadn't stuck around for long. When he'd fallen sick, she'd packed her bags and exited the picture. A few months later, she'd quietly obtained a divorce and moved on with her life.

  It had been up to Holly to support her father. She'd done everything in her power to do so. She'd rushed to his side. She and Rupert had spent every waking hour at the hospital, talking to him, pumping him full of hope. It was the least she could do and frankly, she wished she could do so much more.

  Unfortunately, his health deteriorated. Holly doubled her efforts. But things continued to get worse. Eventually, he'd slipped into a coma.

  The hospital bills had piled up. Holly took over his care and moved him to her own facility. But he'd continued to worsen.

  Just when things had seemed their darkest, a light had shone into her life. Out of the blue, a private foundation named Rabe had called her up. They'd offered her an astonishing amount of grant money to move her lab to Antarctica and refocus her research on a recently discovered collapsed colony of tardigrades. All they demanded was total access to her research and complete anonymity. They didn't want credit for anything, not even for discovering the collapsed colony in the first place.

  Holly had jumped at the offer. She'd moved her little family to Antarctica and thrown herself into her work. At nights, she cared for her father. There was no hope of reversing his condition, at least not with today's technology. But by keeping him in a state of suspended animation, there was a chance she'd be able to revive him in the future.

  Everything she'd done in her spare time—building the secret lab, the late nights of research, putting those two men on ice, the cryocontainers—was for him. She wouldn't let him die. She couldn't let him die.

  The generator burst to life. The lights blazed. The machinery started to buzz and beep. A sigh of relief escaped her mouth. She pressed her lips against the cryocontainer just as she'd done so many times in the past.

  Rupert appeared at her side. He didn't say a word. Instead, he wrapped his arms around her and held her close.

  Holly leaned into his shoulder. Tears welled up in her eyes.

  Then she started to cry.

  Chapter 52

  "Where is he?" Baxter strode through the open door. He stopped in the middle of the vehicle shed. "I want to see him."

  I nodded at the far end of the shed.

  Baxter crossed the room. Kneeling down, he studied the corpse. A frown appea
red on his face. "This was murder."

  "Yes."

  "Who did it?"

  "I'm still trying to figure that out." I paused. "I need to ask you something."

  "I don't have time for questions."

  "I went inside the power plant."

  An alarmed look came over his face.

  "I was looking for Ted," I said. "But I found something else."

  "I can explain."

  "You can explain a diesel generator?"

  "Yeah," Graham said. "What happened to all that nonsense about saving the environment?"

  Baxter stared at the ceiling. "Do you know how difficult it is to run a zero emissions base?"

  "I'm guessing it’s more difficult than pretending to run one," I replied.

  "It's impossible. The wind is too intermittent."

  "Can't you store energy?" Graham asked. "You know, save up some extra solar power for a snowy day?"

  "Unfortunately, no. We'd need large-scale batteries to do that. And at the moment, they don't exist." He was silent for a few seconds. "Can't say I'm proud of the subterfuge. But Kirby's got to have heat."

  Secrets. Half-truths. Downright lies. A cloak of deception seemed to surround everything at Kirby. It annoyed me to no end. "Why the elaborate scheme?" I asked. "Why not just tell the truth?"

  "The National Science Board wanted to bolster its credentials with the green lobby. So, they asked me to build a zero emissions base. I told them it was a tall order but they wouldn't listen. They threatened our funding, Cy. Our funding." Baxter spoke with conviction, with moral certitude. There was no question about it. In his mind, he'd done the right thing. The lies and secrecy were necessary evils in order to get a spot at the public trough.

  "Why didn't it work?" I asked.

  "That's just the thing. It should've worked. And it did work, at least for a few months. Then we started experiencing shortages. I tried adding more solar panels and circular fans. But the shortfall just got larger. Eventually, I had no choice. So, Jim and I snuck a diesel generator in here."

  His revelation answered a few of my questions. Unfortunately, it didn't get me any closer to unmasking the murderer. "I think someone blew up the plant. Probably the same person who killed Ted."