Antarktos Rising

by Jeremy Robinson

  “Why do you need him so badly?”

  “He has information vital to the success of our mission.”

  “What mission?”

  “Ensuring the existence of the United States.”

  Cruz slapped her on the back like they were old pals. “We gotta save the country, chica. What’s left of it, I mean.”

  Whitney glared at him. She didn’t like digging for information she deserved to know. She didn’t like talking about Clark. She didn’t like being smacked. And she didn’t like Cruz. “You call me ‘chica’ one more time and I’ll pay Ferrell to give me a demonstration of her sniper rifle.”

  Ferrell laughed but it sounded more like a growl. “I’d do it for free . . . chica.”

  Chapter 19

  Whitney shivered from the cold that had assaulted her since the group left the warm church five days previous. She clutched Wright’s waist as they sped across a plain of packed snow. Her muscles were tense, not from holding onto Wright but from a tension created by learning more about the state of the country. Washington D.C.—the Pentagon, the White House, and the Capitol Building—had all vanished, buried beneath hundreds of feet of ice and snow. Whitney had learned that the president and most top officials were off the ground when the wave and chilling air struck, but everyone else—the entire population except for a few lucky prepared souls—had perished. Further inland there were more survivors.

  The water had reached a few hundred miles in, further where there were large rivers, scouring the land of life before freezing over. But beyond the range of the killer waves, millions either suffered a slow, freezing death inside their homes or fled south. The livable portion of the country now consisted of Florida, Georgia, Alabama, Mississippi, Louisiana, Texas, New Mexico, Arizona, and Southern California. No one had heard from Hawaii; it was presumed destroyed. Alaska had taken a beating, with sweeping waves of water and a sudden and violent drop in temperature killing most living creatures in the area. A few surviving military units, stationed in underground bases, reported their status when the situation settled down. The ice had melted and the temperature had warmed considerably. Alaska was habitable, but only a few hundred Americans had survived.

  The situation was worse than Whitney had expected. When Wright had finally told her the details of the devastation, she’d wept until falling asleep. When she awoke, the tears continued for hours. While most numbers were estimates, they might be off by thousands and still be chilling. Canada had no survivors. Like most of the United States, it had suffered a deluge followed by the sudden freeze. Japan held perhaps five hundred thousand survivors. The Philippines were gone. Indonesia was totally devastated, with survivors ranging in the hundreds of thousands. Cuba and the Dominican Republic no longer existed, having been swept away by the raging seas. Australia was nearly frozen over—only the northern territories remained thawed. Mexico and much of South America had fared well but weren’t unscathed. The climate had dropped by twenty degrees in Central America and the northern half of South America. The southern half of South America had warmed considerably and was suffering a drought which incited immense wildfires.

  Russia and much of Europe had become an arid wasteland. Fires and hellish hot dust storms spurred by newly formed active volcanoes ripped across the lands, stripping trees of bark and flesh from people. The northern hemisphere around the globe had become uninhabitable, although countries like China, the entire Middle East, and North Africa had become lush paradises.

  The coastline of every nation across the globe had been devastated. Whitney nearly vomited as she recalled the number of dead: 1.5 billion. That was, as Wright had put it, a conservative estimate. Of some nations there were no reports at all, and no one had the resources to investigate. It was believed that total casualties probably ranged from 2 to 2.5 billion, nearly halving the human population of the world. More died every day from disease, starvation, dehydration, or extreme cold.

  On the six populated continents, countries were absorbing another billion displaced refugees. Even with the drastic reduction in population, there wasn’t enough habitable space for all the people. Disease ran rampant, food supplies were low, and with governments collapsing, much of the world was descending into chaos. Of the surviving nations, eleven were struggling to maintain order and run the world. The United States, the newly reunified Soviet Union, China, India, the newly formed Arab Alliance, the struggling and recently formed European Kingdom, South Africa—which had expanded to include several other African countries as far north as Congo—and the South American nations of Peru, Chile, Argentina, and Brazil had discussed the fate of the planet and had come to a solution that seemed fair: immediate action had to take place. What that might be, Whitney had no idea, and Wright said he couldn’t explain. Not until the final word was given.

  Whitney’s survival defied the odds on a grand scale; it was, according to Wright, the first good news they’d had in a long time. She failed to see how her life was of any consequence. The world certainly wouldn’t miss a wildlife photographer.

  When Whitney had asked for the status of Antarctica and those stationed there, including Dr. Clark, Wright had simply said the state of Antarctica was “in flux.” Whitney struggled with that now. “In flux” could mean so many things.

  “Hanging in there?” Wright yelled from up front.

  Whitney’s thoughts returned to the rushing wind, biting cold, and stark scenery. She wished he hadn’t asked. “Fine,” she said.

  “Only two more days of this,” Wright said. “Then it should warm up some. We’ve got an HH-60G Pave Hawk waiting for us at Fort Benning in Georgia. They’ll fly us the rest of the way to Dallas.”

  Whitney struggled to speak through the wind that whipped about the snowmobile. “What’s in Dallas?”

  “New capitol. President, vice president, and what’s left of the country’s elected officials are all there.”

  “Why do we need to go there? I thought we were going to Antarctica.”

  “Like I said,” Wright shouted against the wind, “Antarctica is in flux. When we came to get you, no one knew if there was an Antarctica left to go to. If the global plan is executed, our orders will come straight from the president’s mouth to our ears.”

  “We’re meeting the president?” Whitney couldn’t fathom, not for all her life, what knowledge Clark was privy to that made him so important. The world was falling apart around them, billions were dead, and now they needed him, of all people? For what?

  Whitney saw the back of Wright’s head nod. “This will all make sense in a few days.”

  Finished with the conversation, Whitney let her eyes drift. To their left she saw Cruz, hunched down on his snowmobile. The man had softened over the last few days, as they shared stories of how each had survived the wave, freezing weather, and riots. He had even stopped calling her “chica.”

  Ferrell rode to their right and behind a little. She sat straight up, as though daring the wind to pull her out of her seat. She had remained aloof, keeping to herself. If they weren’t riding, sleeping, or eating, she was polishing that damn sniper rifle. Like there was anyone left to shoot.

  “Until I’m the last bitch left on earth,” Ferrell had said one night, “there’ll always be someone left to shoot. Don’t think because the world took a hit that everyone’s going to play nice now.”

  “It’s the only way we’ll survive this,” Whitney had said defensively.

  Ferrell had smirked, saying, “You don’t think human civilization’s gone through the wringer before? Floods, wars, famine; all those things do is make us stronger in the end. The weak starve. The less intelligent are slaughtered. The slow drown. What’s left is the best of the bunch. This disaster is just the next test for mankind. The strong will survive, the weak will die. With no natural predators aside from ourselves, it’s nature’s way of applying natural selection to humanity. Maybe a billion more will die when this is all through. Maybe more. What’s left will be the strongest, smartest, and quic
kest.” She lovingly tapped her sniper rifle. “And this is what ensures me a place in the future.”

  Ferrell’s words echoed in Whitney’s mind. Humanity had suffered its worst eradication since the biblical flood, but if Ferrell was right, this was just the beginning. Life on earth would get much worse. Beyond the starvation. Beyond the disease. Whitney feared that man’s most vicious killer would soon be upon them.

  War.

  Chapter 20

  The sensation of looming danger had hovered around Whitney for the past hour. They’d been traveling through downtown Dallas on foot. The first and only time she’d been to Dallas, the temperature had been 103 degrees and the streets had smelled of asphalt and exhaust. Now it was 45 degrees and the air reeked of refuse and human waste. The streets were packed with refugees. Some had set up shop, claiming sidewalks and street corners as their new front yards. The chaos was enough to make Whitney actually miss the freezing cold. The frozen congregation was more calming than the hysterical swarm of people, buzzing like angry, dislocated bees. Many were just passing through, hurrying for the Mexican border, which was rumored to be closing.

  It seemed all the illegal immigrants in the United States suddenly wanted to head home . . . along with millions of legal U.S. residents. According to whispers on the street, the unceasing river of humanity heading south would be stopped at gunpoint upon reaching the Mexican border. A few million people had already amassed and were getting ready to storm across the border. The bloodbath would last until the Mexican defenders ran out of ammunition, but the worst would come after that. Mexicans and Americans would fight and kill each other for any land to the south. Millions would die if a solution wasn’t announced soon.

  What Dr. Clark had to do with that solution, Whitney could not conceive. The biggest thing he’d ever done was write that book. Antarktos. She’d taken the photos for it; he’d written the text. Subjects ranged from ancient Antarctic civilizations to long-extinct Antarctic dinosaurs. They’d traveled the continent together, putting the pieces in place. Ultimately, after it was ill-received by Clark’s peers, the book drove a wedge between them. Even so, there were people more knowledgeable about the seventh continent than Clark; some were members of the military. Why did they need him so badly?

  A solid blow to the shoulder sent Whitney spinning onto the pavement and out of her mental reverie. Her hands scraped against the ground, forcing small pebbles beneath her skin, burning like hot coals. “Watch where you’re going, asshole!” she shouted. Looking back she saw that it was a woman holding a limp child, yelling for help.

  A strong hand reached down and pulled Whitney up, but she couldn’t take her eyes off the woman. “There is nothing we can do for her?”

  Whitney looked at Wright, who had just removed his hand from hers. His eyes held compassion for the woman, but his expression was resolute. They could not help her, and her child was beyond help. Whitney dusted herself off. After so much time in winter gear, it felt strange to wear jeans again. At Fort Benning, they had exchanged their winter and military gear for civilian clothes. Anyone perceived as authority was presumed to have answers. Every living soul on the streets would mob them with questions, for some clue to their fate. But there were no answers to give.

  All four wore blue jeans and some variety of jacket, which had been scuffed up and dirtied to make them appear as though they’d been camping like everyone else. The helicopter had dropped them outside the city limits, and they’d been walking ever since. Conversation was nil. Tension ran high. Everyone in their group carried handguns, just in case, but the threat of being suffocated by the weight of so many pushing and shoving people never subsided.

  After a half hour of walking, they reached an alley where a group of fifteen rather large men had set up camp. It was like the Dallas Cowboys had hunkered down together. Behind them the alley was empty. Strange, Whitney thought. Every alley they’d passed thus far had been cramped, full of refugees. Wright approached the large men while Ferrell and Cruz stayed back. Cruz took Whitney’s arm. “Don’t get too close. These guys are real twitchy.”

  Whitney strained to hear Wright’s words. After a full minute of quiet discussion, the group of large men quietly parted just enough for the four to walk through. As Whitney passed through the group, a malnourished passerby saw what was happening and shouted, “Hey! They’re getting in!” Apparently the sealed alleyway hadn’t gone unnoticed by the hundreds of nearby campers.

  The starving man rushed for the opening. A large man from the blockade stepped out, took the smaller man by the throat, and squeezed. There was a crack, and the man fell to the ground, unmoving. Whitney put a hand to her mouth and was yanked through the line, which closed behind her.

  They hurried down the alleyway toward a single door at a dead end. Whitney realized who must be behind that door. The poor starving man had been killed so quickly, and without any question from Wright, who was pulling her down the alley. They were about to meet the president.

  “Hands up, palms open,” Wright said as they stopped at the metal door. He knocked twice. A hatch slid open and a pair of eyes peered out at them, scanning them from head to toe.

  Whitney suddenly felt like a member of the underworld. What they were doing felt wrong. A man had been killed. They were dressed to dispel attention. And now they were standing at a door, being inspected by a stranger with beady light blue eyes.

  The door unlocked and swung open. Wright shook the man’s hand. Whitney recognized him immediately. “Mr. Vice President,” Wright said.

  “No formalities here,” the vice president said. “Call me Kyle.”

  “Right. Kyle,” Wright said. “Good to see you again.”

  “If only the circumstances were better, Stephen.”

  The vice president gave Wright a pat on the shoulder. “Maybe next time, eh?”

  “I’ll do my best to arrange it.”

  “I know you will.” The vice president’s eyes zeroed in on Whitney and she felt naked under his gaze. “Is this . . .?”

  Wright nodded.

  The vice president smiled. “Then our odds just got better.”

  “From a million to one to a million to two,” Wright said.

  This got a small laugh out of the vice president. He ushered them through the door. “Come, come. He’s waiting for you.”

  Whitney passed through the doorway last as the vice president held the door open. She wasn’t sure if she should wave, curtsy, or shake his hand. Her eyes met his and he smiled. His hand was already extended. “A pleasure to meet you, Miss Whitney. Hope all this isn’t too much pressure on you. I know it’s a lot to ask of someone.”

  A knot tightened in Whitney’s stomach. “I haven’t been told what we’re doing.”

  The vice president’s face fell. “Oh. Well then. Follow me.”

  The vice president slammed the metal door shut and locked it. A guard took up position next to the door, and they trotted down a long dim hallway that seemed to grow smaller with every step. Whitney realized the hallway wasn’t shrinking; rather, her vision became distorted as her frayed nerves and exhausted body wanted nothing more than for her to pass out. For the first time since her home had frozen, she was truly terrified. She knew they were going to ask her to do something dangerous. She knew she’d most likely be going to Antarctica, which was fine; she’d been preparing for that anyway. But she also knew it had something to do with Clark; that scared her more than anything.

  Seeing him, after all this time . . . she wasn’t even sure what she would say. Even with the fate of the world mysteriously in his hands, shooting him, after what he had done, would still give Whitney some sense of justice. She shook her head and fought against the weariness. This wasn’t a meeting she could coast through with half a brain, like she had in school. If she missed a detail now, the result wouldn’t be marked with red ink, it would be her blood.

  Chapter 21

  Whitney squirmed in her seat. She hadn’t voted for the man sitting across fro
m her. In fact, she hadn’t voted at all. She couldn’t shake the feeling that it was going to come up, like the man didn’t have a world of problems to deal with already.

  The president—or “James,” as she’d been instructed to address him—was taller than she’d imagined and had a handshake grip that defied his age. His eyes were bright, reflecting sharp intellect and unfaltering confidence, but the flesh around them was sunken and dark. She imagined he didn’t sleep much. His gray hair was combed back and he wore blue jeans and a T-shirt . . . a Budweiser T-shirt she assumed wasn’t actually his.

  He stared at her without saying a word for almost a full minute. She let her eyes drift around the room, feigning indifference to the man’s scrutinizing gaze. There were two doors with two guards at each. The casual clothes they wore stood in stark contrast to the automatic weapons slung over their shoulders. The room was large, perhaps two thousand square feet, and lit by rows of recessed lighting. The area in which she sat was laid out like an office, similar to photos she’d seen of the Oval Office, but not enclosed. It was open to the other areas. One corner looked like a communications center, holding four computer consoles, a large screen, and maps of the world. Next to that was a long table surrounded by plush chairs that looked like a corporate board room. Closest to them was a kitchenette, which appeared well-stocked. Along the far wall was a single-lane bowling alley, candlepins standing in place and balls ready to roll.

  Completing her mental journey around the room, Whitney noticed that James was still observing her. She looked at Cruz, Ferrell, and Wright, still seated, all waiting patiently, indifferent to the long delay. Whitney had never been on hold longer than a minute in her life. She couldn’t stand waiting when she knew someone was just being slow. President or not, James was wasting time.