Antarktos Rising

by Jeremy Robinson

  Merrill rested his head on a pillow and looked into Vesuvius’s brown eyes. The dog returned his gaze, holding an almost thoughtful expression.

  “I was thinking,” Merrill said, “that this quake, if that’s what it is, must be affecting the entire continent.”

  Vesuvius raised an eyebrow and blinked.

  “You see, the shaking is somewhere in the order of six on the Richter scale.”

  Vesuvius sighed.

  “You don’t believe me? I spent time in San Francisco, you know. I’ve felt my share of earthquakes. And this is the mother of all earthquakes. What boggles my mind is where the epicenter might be. If we’re close to it, then the quake, other than its unceasing duration, isn’t that bad.”

  Merrill made sure Vesuvius was still listening. The dog continued to stare.

  “However, the cause of the quake is what has me concerned. As you know, the temperature has been rising.”

  Merrill looked down at his body, clothed in a T-shirt and a pair of shorts which he created by cutting a pair of pants. “This indicates to me that we might be experiencing some volcanic activity. I know. I know. I’m not a volcanologist, either, but how else can you explain the temperature change? You can’t. We must be near a rising chamber of magma . . .”

  The ground shuddered worse than usual for a moment. Vesuvius picked up his head and listened. Merrill held his breath.

  Vesuvius lay back down and returned his gaze to his master’s eyes.

  “I suddenly feel very foolish remaining in the valley,” Merrill said. “If there is volcanic activity in the area and lava was to flow, I’m not sure the walls of our little valley would protect us.”

  Merrill crawled to the tent’s entrance. Placing one foot over the vomit, he slowly stepped outside and stood. Vesuvius was by his side in an instant. Using the tall dog as a balance, Merrill took a step forward . . . and fell. The ground came up fast and he landed hard. Vesuvius plopped down next to Merrill and licked his face.

  “Not as spry as I used to be, eh, boy?” Merrill sighed and looked at the distant valley walls where, somewhere, a narrow switchback trail led to the top. “Don’t suppose we’ll be climbing out any time soon, either.”

  The two clambered their way back inside the tent, where the blankets and pillows absorbed at least some of the shock from the vibrating earth.

  Merrill’s thoughts turned to the possibility of dying in the valley. After some deliberation, Merrill concluded that dying in the valley would be fitting. Aimee had died there because of him. Justice would be served if he died there as well. If he wasn’t so positive that the vengeful God of the Old Testament had transformed himself into the more forgiving God of the New Testament, Merrill would have thought it was God himself smiting him for his unconfessed sins.

  “It’s an awful big show for just one guy,” Merrill said to God, looking up. Vesuvius was staring at Merrill when he looked back down.

  “Just talking to God,” Merrill explained.

  Vesuvius put his head down.

  Merrill was a man of habit and praying at night was his routine, but if there were ever a time to break that routine, it was now. He rolled through his list of usual requests: good health, his work, and end of the quake, which was a recent addition. But unlike other nights, when his prayers were consumed by sleep, Merrill was still wide awake when he finished his requests.

  He paused for a moment, unsure of what to say next. “Lord . . . I have sinned. You know that. Of course You know that. You don’t need me to tell You. But I guess that’s not the point, is it?”

  Merrill looked at Vesuvius. The dog’s eyes were closed.

  “And I know what You want to hear from me, but I’m not ready for that. I’m not deserving. I realize now that I have sinned again . . . not that, I’ve only sinned twice—sorry, I don’t know why I feel I need to explain the nature of my sins to You—You know what I’ve done, what I think . . . You see the sins of which I didn’t even know I was guilty. But this time I recognize it, too.”

  Merrill listened to the shaking. It seemed to be decreasing in violence and noise. Pauses like these came every so often. He used them to relieve himself and get food, but now he remained in the tent, determined to finish his prayer, to seek forgiveness.

  “Forgive me, Lord, for leaving Mira.” Merrill’s voice broke as he said her name. “I know now that the past, the relics, the discoveries, are meaningless compared to her. Please, if you have any mercy left for me, let me . . . and Vesuvius . . . survive this so we can go home. Forgive me.”

  Merrill wiped his nose across his arm, leaving a patch of slick hair. Then he stopped, arm against nose. The shaking continued, more quietly than ever. Quickly saying an “Amen,” Merrill rushed outside. Vesuvius followed.

  As the shaking continued to slowly dissipate, Merrill found it easier to stand. Unsure how long the respite would last, Merrill charged across base camp, heading for the last supply crate that had remained unopened since the quake began. He reached the crate and tugged on its slats with his hands. Desperation strengthened every sinew in his body and the wood began to give way. He considered running back to the tent to retrieve his crowbar but realized he might not return before the shaking resumed.

  Merrill stabbed his fingers through a slot in the wood and grabbed hold of the loosest plank. He gave it three quick yanks. On the fourth, he threw his weight into it. The board popped loose and sent Merrill sprawling across the smooth stone valley floor. He threw the plank aside and stood to his feet.

  Then he froze. Slowly he turned his head from side to side.

  He could see.

  The entire valley was in focus. He trained his perceptions on his hearing. The rumbling was still there, but fading. And the vibrations which had blurred his vision for so long were almost impossible to discern.

  “It’s moving away!” Merrill shouted then realized he was speaking too loudly to compensate for the rumble, which was now fading into the distance.

  Another noise recaptured his attention: trickling water.

  At the base of the crate was a pool of water that emptied into the smallest of streams, trickling across the valley floor. For a moment, Merrill thought he might have inadvertently opened a water container inside the crate. But there was too much water. Vesuvius saw the water, too, and began lapping it up with enthusiasm.

  Merrill rounded the crate and found water again. He followed the small stream with his eyes. Its path wound past his ancient wall, past the dinosaur skeletons, and finally up the valley wall. The water was coming from outside the valley.

  “Impossible,” Merrill said. “Everything is frozen.”

  Or was it? He looked at himself again, dressed in summer clothes. Free from the distraction of the constant shaking, he realized how truly warm—and humid—the air really was. It felt like an August afternoon in Miami.

  Scanning the valley walls, Merrill located the switchback. He ran for it as fast as he could, Vesuvius bounding around him playfully the entire way. When Merrill began climbing the path, Vesuvius charged up ahead of him, as he liked to do. Mirabelle had told him it was a sign of the dog asserting his dominance.

  On his way up, Merrill vowed that he would signal the next supply copter to land. He had never kept a radio at the site. He’d never wanted to be bothered. But now it was time to leave. I’ll see you soon, Mira, Merrill thought.

  Merrill reached the top of the path and fell prostrate before what he saw. Vesuvius was there, playing in a pool of water and barking joyously. The landscape filled Merrill’s vision. A month ago, the world around him had been white, the only variations being the sky and the exposed portions of the Transantarctic range. But now the land was brown and gray. The landscape was barren as ever except for the occasional pool of water, but otherwise, as far as he could see, Antarctica was free of ice and there wasn’t a volcano in sight.

  The continent had thawed.

  Chapter 10

  A deep chill gnawed at Whitney’s red and yellow full-
body snowsuit, but thankfully failed to penetrate it. The Gore-Tex outer shell and down interior were doing what they were designed to do—keep her alive. Behind her, a trail of snow-shoed footprints disappeared over the horizon. Before her was a flat white expanse.

  Leaving the house was easier than she’d imagined. She had thought of selling the estate earlier in the year but feared severing the last tie to her past might be more than she could withstand. Now that it had become a freezing cold deathtrap, leaving was easy enough. She’d been trudging through snow for five hours now and had seen nothing to indicate that she was headed in the right direction, let alone still in New Hampshire. When she struck out from the house she aimed south, lining herself up with the front of the house, which faced out to sea. She had a compass, but it didn’t seem to be working. It was pointing dutifully north, but the direction wasn’t really north at all, but west, away from the ocean. Now, with the ocean and land frozen over and looking identical, she could be walking over the ocean and not even known it.

  Before heading out, Whitney carefully packed her bag. Rations for a week went first. Her most prized possession, a Canon EOS 1D Mark II digital camera with a 200mm zoom lens and image stabilization system, went next. With a megapixel rating of 20, a frames per second speed of 8.5, and the ability to save thousands of images, her camera was top of the line. And with no film to worry about, it served her much better in the field. The camera was followed by a small tent, sleeping bag, extra layers of clothing, crampons, an ice axe, binoculars, and a first aid kit. Last was her 9mm Taurus Millennium handgun. She packed the weapon, as she always did, just in case. Typically the gun was kept concealed in a zippered compartment of her handbag, alongside two extra clips. She knew the ammunition was excessive but didn’t feel safe without it. Even now, when there was no one left alive to shoot, it gave her a certain amount of comfort knowing that at least she could defend herself if the need arose. She regretted not owning a pair of cross-country skis, but considering what she had survived . . . well, snowshoes would do.

  Being physically trained for her Antarctic trip helped as well. She was making good time.

  I’ll be in Boston by next week, she thought cynically to herself.

  And that was the best she hoped for. If there was any place that might have weathered the storm, it would be Boston. Granted, being built on the edge of the ocean put it at ground zero for the wave, but the skyscrapers, the John Hancock Tower, Prudential Tower, and the Federal Reserve Bank should all be poking out of the ice. Survivors might still be inside. She hoped to hole up in a building and scrounge for more food. Then she would head south again.

  Five hours later, Whitney’s pace slowed. Her legs were weary and her breath was short. She looked at her watch: 6:30 PM. The summer sun wouldn’t set for another two hours, but the sun dawdled in the sky. It was a sight she had seen before, the first time off the coast of Alaska, on a cruise with her parents as a child. The sun came and went, but night only lasted a few hours and the sun seemed to linger in the sky.

  This was an arctic sun.

  Something glinted in the distance.

  Whitney fell to her knees, shrugged off her backpack and rummaged for the binoculars. She placed them to her eyes and zeroed in on the shiny object.

  A cross.

  A gleaming, gold cross. Whitney stared at the cross and details beneath began to emerge. The top of a church steeple was poking out of the snow like a beacon. The structure was almost impossible to see—white paint against white snow—but it was there.

  A stiff wind kicked up and made her body shudder. She looked up. The sun had moved. It appeared night might come after all. She left the binoculars slung around her neck, repacked the backpack, and made a beeline for the steeple. For her refuge.

  Chapter 11

  With burning muscles, Merrill hiked up a thirty-degree slope at the base of Mount Blood, which became almost vertical a mile up. Though he kept his eyes on the ground, choosing his steps carefully on the slope, he pictured the familiar surroundings in his mind’s eye. Below him, a half mile away, his valley split the slope in two. To the left was the Liv Glacier, which slid inexorably into the Ross Ice Shelf, a floating sheet of ice four hundred miles long that ended in the sea. It was normally a world of white so bright that it could damage the naked eye.

  Vesuvius barked at Merrill from the top of the slope.

  “I’m in good shape, but I’m no dog!”

  The dog barked again.

  Merrill paused at the apex of the slope and caught his breath. For a moment, he felt afraid to turn around. He knew that whatever had happened had changed the landscape with which he had grown so familiar. In fact, with the number of hours he’d spent exploring Antarctica, it could be argued that no one alive had spent more time on the continent than Dr. Merrill Clark. He’d lost so much in his life, and now the continent he’d made his home was becoming a stranger.

  Vesuvius nudged Merrill’s hand from his hip, demanding a pat. Merrill stroked the dog’s head as he turned around.

  Vesuvius let out a yelp. Merrill flinched. He’d inadvertently clenched his fist in the dog’s thick hair upon seeing the landscape. He removed his sunglasses and took in the new world. The scrap of barren land he had seen from his low vantage point at the edge of the valley was only the beginning. The typically snow-covered peaks of Wishbone Ridge, Morris Peak, and The Tusk were as exposed as two-thousand-year-old bones at a dig site. The slow-moving expanse of the Liv Glacier did not exist. In its place was a deep valley full of house-sized boulders and a blue, crystal-clear river that flowed out of a more distant fissure that had previously housed the Zotikov Glacier. The river disappeared behind a mountain, Mercik Peak, whose stony walls had also been freed from snow and ice. The familiar freeze-dried white world had been transformed into wet shades of gray etched by several small streams and a thick river. The Liv River, Merrill realized.

  Merrill sat down on a large rock, opened his canteen, and took a swig. Looking straight out over the newly formed Liv River valley, Merrill gazed down on what surely could not be real. He could see the ocean just as easily as he could from the Portsmouth house’s bedroom balcony. The only remnants of the Ross Ice Shelf were hundreds of icebergs pocking the water’s surface.

  It occurred to Merrill that not only had the air temperature risen, but the water temperature must have as well. In only a month, from what Merrill could see, the ice cap that had kept Antarctica a prisoner had melted away.

  “God . . .” Merrill stood again. “Mira.”

  His mind became a tornado of information and images. He sifted through the torrent, seeking information he’d heard at countless symposiums but to which he’d never given much thought.

  “One hundred and seventy feet.” Merrill looked at Vesuvius. “That’s how much they said the ocean levels would rise if the entire southern ice cap melted. But her old house, the hill is two hundred feet tall. If she had warning, she could have survived in the house . . . but maybe she was out shopping? Or at the beach. Or . . . .or . . . ”

  Had there been time to evacuate? Did anyone have warning that the water was coming? It could have swept across the planet before anyone knew what was happening, or how to react. Merrill felt certain that millions of lives had been lost and that the world must have been devastated. But he didn’t care about the world. His thoughts were with one person.

  “Mirabelle.”

  Merrill charged back down the slope. He had to make contact with the outside world. Without a radio, his only recourse was to activate his emergency GPS transmitter and hope that someone was there to receive the signal, that someone could come get him. The Ross Sea held no interest. The ancient wall, now fully exposed and stretching hundreds of feet, was inconsequential. The bones and freeze-dried creatures churned up by the retreating ice flow were no longer worth noticing.

  Vesuvius gingerly hopped down the rocky slope, knowing already where Merrill was headed. But the dog ventured further ahead than usual, invigorated by the w
arm air and sweet, alien breeze. The distance made Merrill uncomfortable. He took his eyes off the craggy ground and cupped his hands around his mouth, preparing to shout to the dog.

  But the only sound that escaped his lungs was a shrill cry as his foot snagged on an outcrop of rock. Merrill fell forward and landed on a smooth slab of stone. He slid ten feet and crashed into something much softer.

  Merrill grunted as he rolled to his knees. Ignoring the sting that came with his scratched-up hands and the dull pain from the newly opened scabs on his knees, Merrill put his hands on the ground. They sunk in.

  “Soil?”

  The only exposed earth on Antarctica he had ever seen was solid stone, stripped clean by the high winds. He’d never seen anything like this: dark brown, almost black, earth rich and soft to the touch. Merrill rubbed his hands across the topsoil, feeling the sun-dried surface. It reminded him of gardening with Aimee in the spring. The un-worked soil was dry, almost powdery, but it served as a barrier, retaining the life-giving water within. Perfect for growing tomatoes. Aimee had loved their tomatoes. Merrill dug through the dry dirt to the wet and took a pinch in his fingers. He smelled it, allowing the scent to further infect his mind with memories of the past.

  Before he was swept away in reverie, something caught his eye that overrode all his senses and erased his thoughts. He leaned down close to the soil and looked at the tiny anomaly. He hadn’t seen the color in a year, not including the supplies he had brought with him. Green.

  Merrill ran his finger across the tiny sprout’s inch-long curved form. He was infinitely gentle with the plant, as though it were an exposed fetus. Its existence on Antarctica was no less amazing.

  “I wish you were here to see this, Aimee,” he said. His thoughts of Aimee led to a remembrance of Mira. Merrill left the plant to grow on its own, making a mental note to return to the spot first thing in the morning, to check on the little plant’s progress. He promised himself that if Mirabelle was still alive, he’d come back with her here and name the new plant species after her. She would like that.