Thirst

by L. A. Larkin

  ‘It’s hard to tell, sir …’

  ‘Food, medicines, what?’ He was growing impatient.

  ‘We’re checking now, sir. Do you wish to check for yourself?’

  Robert had spent his life watching his back, and he recognised Wei’s challenge. He stepped to within centimetres of Wei’s face. ‘You think me a soft city boy, don’t you?’ Perhaps Wei, who was used to the unrelenting brutality of commanders such as Robert’s father, had heard him vomiting after the first killings.

  Wei didn’t flinch. ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Follow me,’ said Robert. His Dolce & Gabbana sunglasses masked his trepidation, but he had a point to prove. He led them up the steps to the outdoor platform, and he recalled his men sabotaging the generators and bolting the doors.

  ‘Show me,’ he commanded, and Wei took him to Craig’s charred remains. Bile rose in Robert’s throat but he swallowed it back down. He called over the soldier who had let Searle escape. ‘Kneel,’ Robert ordered.

  The soldier hesitated for a fraction of a second, then obeyed.

  ‘Why didn’t you kill Searle, as you were ordered?’

  ‘I tried to, sir, but he was too fast. He was leaving as I arrived.’

  ‘Did you chase after him?’ Robert was circling Craig’s body.

  ‘Yes, sir, but he crossed a snow bridge and then destroyed it. I couldn’t get across. By the time I found a way around, he’d gone.’

  ‘You followed his tracks?’

  ‘As far as I could. He took a route that was riddled with crevasses. It was too dangerous to enter without the proper gear, so I radioed in and called for backup. Sir.’

  ‘Liar!’ yelled Robert. ‘You’re a sickening coward.’

  Robert pushed the soldier’s head down so that his nose touched Craig’s blackened, stinking corpse. The soldier screamed and resisted. ‘I should shoot you like a dog,’ he said. ‘You disgust me.’

  Robert released his grip and stood up. He enjoyed the flicker of shock he saw on Wei’s face. The soldier wouldn’t fail him again. Robert’s father had used the same technique on him as a child when he wet his bed. His mother would comfort him but his father was disgusted and pushed his face into it. Eventually, the fear of his father’s torment outweighed his fear of the dark, and he stopped wetting his bed.

  ‘Show me the others,’ Robert ordered. Perhaps he was getting used to the smell of death as he no longer felt like gagging.

  Wei showed him Sue, lying near the lift. Robert couldn’t resist saying, ‘Ah, nicely kebabbed’, but his humour fell flat. They arrived at the kitchen. On finding Blue’s dismembered body Robert’s façade almost crumbled. He had to turn away.

  ‘Searle took food, cooking equipment,’ said Wei. He pointed to the fresh footprints in the ash, which led to the freezer; the lid was hanging open. A series of circles on the pantry shelves revealed that tins of food had been removed.

  ‘What else is missing?’ Robert barked.

  ‘Medical supplies, possibly clothing, and he went into the communications room, sir.’

  Robert’s head shot round. ‘And?’

  ‘All the equipment was destroyed, sir. There’s nothing left.’

  Robert nodded. ‘Which way did he go?’

  ‘Towards the bay.’

  ‘Why would he go there?’

  ‘We’ll know very soon, sir.’

  Robert kicked Blue’s body in frustration. The corpse jolted sideways; the guts, now mostly frozen, moved with him, like a macabre sculpture. Captain Wei instinctively took a step forward.

  ‘Do you have a problem, captain?’ Robert demanded.

  ‘I … I wish to respect those fallen on the battlefield, sir.’

  Robert guffawed, his head thrown back. ‘What old-fashioned nonsense.’

  Wei stared at him defiantly, his eyes angry. ‘General Zhao insists we respect the dead, even if they are our enemy. It is a matter of honour.’

  ‘We’ll have time for honour once we’re victorious. Until then, nothing else matters. And might I remind you that I own Hung Security. And that means while you’re here, I own you too. Remember that.’

  Wei looked down. ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Well, get on with it, man!’

  Wei took off like a startled rabbit, rather than the well-seasoned soldier he was.

  On the way back to his snowmobile, Robert passed the fuel tank and saw a sign still stuck to its side: ‘Danger – No Smoking’. The irony was not lost on him as he glanced at the still smouldering station timbers.

  T MINUS 3 DAYS, 21 HOURS, 49 MINUTES

  7 March, 8:11 am (AEDT)

  The lawyer’s office was tucked down an alleyway in Sydney’s Chinatown. It was a little after eight in the morning – the day after Jack Woo’s death – when Wendy Woo stepped into the office’s reception area, which consisted of nothing more than two plastic chairs and some tatty real-estate magazines, piled neatly on a small and slightly chipped coffee table. There was no receptionist. The airless space smelled of yesterday’s meal; no doubt it had wafted in from the nearby restaurants.

  On the other side of the frosted glass wall of the only office of Chan Associates sat Anthony Chan, Wendy’s father’s solicitor of almost twenty years. In one sinuous movement, Wendy glided from the doorway to the chair in front of Chan before he even registered her presence.

  ‘Wendy!’ Chan’s jaw dropped, revealing crooked lower teeth. ‘But how did you …’

  ‘I rode all night.’ She sat before him in skin-tight black leather jacket and trousers, clutching a biker’s helmet under one arm.

  ‘What? From Melbourne? Why didn’t you catch the red-eye?’

  Wendy unzipped her jacket and threw it over the back of her chair. ‘Had to do something. Couldn’t sleep.’

  Chan dashed around his desk to give Wendy a hug. She was surprised by this formal man’s emotion, and she relaxed into his comforting arms. ‘Oh, this is terrible,’ he said. ‘I am so sorry.’

  Eventually, she pulled away. ‘Thank you for calling me. I’m sorry I was … rude. It was such a shock, you know.’

  Jack’s body had been found less than an hour after his death by a seamstress who had left her grocery shopping behind at the shop. She had first called an ambulance and then Chan.

  He observed Wendy’s wan face. She knew what he was thinking: Wendy, the source of her father’s woes.

  ‘Please take a seat. Green tea? I didn’t expect you this early.’

  ‘You’re a creature of habit. I knew you’d be doing your paperwork early. Yes, tea would be lovely.’

  Chan boiled the kettle and prepared the pot. ‘I marvel at how someone as petite as you can handle those heavy motorbikes.’

  Wendy ignored the comment. ‘I don’t understand,’ she said. ‘Heart attack? He didn’t have heart problems. He never even went to the doctor. I just can’t believe he’s gone.’

  Chan poured the green tea into thimble-shaped cups. Wendy sipped at it like a hummingbird. Except in Chan’s eyes, this little bird was dressed like a man. The only thing feminine about her was her neat black bob and pink lipstick.

  ‘He wasn’t a young man, Wendy,’ he said. ‘And he worked very hard. Long hours, you know that.’ He paused. Wendy had covered her face with her hand and was shaking her head in disbelief. ‘And he loved you very much, you know.’

  Wendy’s hand jerked away from her face and her almond-shaped eyes narrowed. ‘Our relationship is none of your business.’

  Chan’s eyes widened, a little shocked at her curt tone. He focused back on the matter in hand. ‘The police needed someone to identify him. I went last night. I didn’t want you to have to go through all that.’

  Her frown softened. She looked over his shoulder at the groaning air-conditioner on the wall, which belched out a damp-smelling chill. ‘Thank you,’ she said, avoiding eye contact, embarrassed by her outburst.

  ‘There will be a post-mortem today, only because he doesn’t have any history of heart disease. A routine thing. It�
��s nothing to worry about.’

  She looked up, startled. ‘I want to see him before they do that.’ She blinked away a tear.

  ‘I can arrange that. But are you sure, Wendy? They say the image of the dead haunts you forever.’

  Wendy nodded and pulled a tissue from her pocket. ‘Can I see him right away?’

  ‘Well, I’ll have to ask the Department of Forensic Medicine mortuary. You normally need an appointment, but I have a contact there so I’ll see what I can do.’

  ‘Please. I can’t wait.’ She wiped her eyes.

  ‘Oh Wendy, I am so sorry for your loss. Your father was a fine man and a good friend to me. If you need anywhere to stay while you’re here, you are very welcome to stay with me and my family.’

  Her eyes roamed the room, locking onto anything but Chan’s kindly face. She was trying hard not to bawl but his pitying look threatened to tip her over the edge. She glued her focus to a pile of paper files gathering dust on a side table. ‘He’s all I have,’ she said. ‘Had. There’s no one else.’

  Chan knew their family history. ‘Then stay with us. You are always welcome.’

  She looked up at Chan and clenched her teeth to control her emotion. ‘No, I’ll stay at Dad’s. There’s a funeral to organise, things to sort out. But thank you.’

  ‘You have keys, of course?’ he asked. She nodded. ‘And to the business?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘Strictly speaking, I’m not supposed to give you keys until the paperwork has been approved by the court. But as you are a director of the company, you are entitled to them anyway.’ Chan opened his desk drawer and presented her with a bundle of keys tied together with a red ribbon.

  ‘I’d forgotten I was a director. Dad did that years ago.’ She fingered the ribbon. ‘He was hoping I’d join him.’ And I disappointed him once again, she thought. ‘What about the will? Shall we do it now, so it’s over and done with?’

  Chan blanched but quickly recovered. ‘If you wish. You are the sole beneficiary.’

  Wendy realised he probably thought her a heartless bitch. But this moment was agony; hearing the will would be agony; seeing her poor dad’s body would be beyond agony, as would the funeral. So why prolong the pain with a will-reading at another time? Chan was looking at her sitting stiffly, behaving in a business-like manner, but he was unaware of the emotional war being waged inside her. She wanted to cry and scream and wail but she didn’t want Chan to see her break down. So she took a big breath and held it, hoping that she could stifle the sob that was building inside her.

  Chan opened a fat and frayed manila file on his desk. ‘This is your father’s last will, dated the second of July, 2008. In it he bequeaths his house and business and his worldly possessions to you, Wendy Woo. As I mentioned, there is no other beneficiary. However, since this will was made, your father re-mortgaged his house. Given the size of the loan, the bank virtually owns it. I am afraid, Wendy, there’s barely any money set aside for the funeral.’

  Wendy blinked in surprise and exhaled loudly, the sob that had been bursting to escape sounding much like a hiccup.

  ‘What? You’re saying he mortgaged our home? Why?’ She was incredulous.

  ‘I am. You didn’t know?’

  ‘How would I? We haven’t spoken in five years.’

  ‘Hmm,’ muttered Chan, unsure what to say next.

  ‘But why? Did he need money?’ she asked, leaning forward. The house was probably worth one point two million and their original mortgage had been paid off years ago. She looked intently at Chan, who leaned back, uncomfortable under her stare.

  ‘He recently invested in shares,’ Chan said. ‘He came to me for advice about buying shares in his name or the company’s. I explained the legalities of both options and he bought the shares through the company, so you, as the sole surviving director, can do with them as you think fit.’ Wendy opened her mouth to speak but Chan raised his hand. ‘Wendy, in my professional capacity I could not guide your father on whether he should buy shares or not, but I warned him that the share market was a risky venture and that he should seek advice from a financial adviser.’

  Wendy’s cupid’s bow lips parted, then shut. She was speechless and Wendy was seldom speechless. As an equity analyst for an investment bank, she could hold her own. But today she could barely hold up her head. ‘But shares? Dad never took risks. This is absurd. It doesn’t make any sense.’

  ‘All I can tell you is that he was convinced the shares were about to rise in value in a big way. He said he didn’t need professional advice and insisted there was no risk.’

  ‘So what did he buy into?’ she asked, shaking her head.

  ‘Only one company. Dragon Resources Corporation.’

  Wendy’s eyes opened wide in shock. She rubbed her temples, revealing black nail polish. Her work portfolio was property, not resources, but she had overheard her colleagues talking about this company. It had two divisions: Dragon Oil and Dragon Mining.

  ‘Why didn’t he ask me?’ she asked. ‘I could have looked into the company for him.’

  But they both knew why, and she flicked Chan a warning look. She didn’t want to hear his answer, which she knew would only make her feel worse. ‘It’s madness to invest everything in just one company. How much did he spend?’

  ‘I believe it was nine hundred and thirty-five thousand dollars.’

  ‘Jesus fucking Christ!’

  ‘Wendy!’

  ‘What was Dad thinking?’

  Chan frowned. ‘Wendy, your father may not have been a professional analyst like you, but he was a sensible man and I’m sure—’

  ‘I’m sorry, Anthony. Look, I don’t need the money, you know that. But I thought I knew Dad. This is so unlike him. He was always so careful, so … predictable, reliable. Owning his home meant everything to him. Why on earth would he have put it all on the line to buy shares in one resources company?’

  Wendy stood and paced the office. The air-conditioning unit churned feebly, and from outside a truck’s brakes intruded. Perhaps the answer would be in her father’s papers.

  ‘Thank you, Anthony,’ she said at last. ‘You’ve been wonderful.’ She shook his hand, careful to avoid another hug, unable to allow herself to be enveloped by the old man’s kindness.

  ‘Let me give you the details … the morgue.’ Chan wrote down the address for her and she left.

  In the alleyway, Wendy tucked the big bunch of keys into her jacket pocket, put on her helmet and straddled her black Ducati Monster. She loved its throaty roar. She revved the engine and accelerated sharply. Beneath the tinted visor, her face was wet with tears.

  T MINUS 3 DAYS, 19 HOURS, 26 MINUTES

  6 March, 4:34 pm (UTC-07)

  Luke stood tall, his hand on the outboard’s throttle, powering the boat forward. He peered past the bow so he could pick his way between the irregular gaps in the pancake ice which floated like giant frozen lily pads on the water. His left shoulder was aching badly and he found it increasingly painful to stretch out his fingers when he switched hands on the motor. By taking a wide arc away from the glacier front, they seemed to have avoided detection by the killers. As always, Luke was in awe of the Pine Island Glacier, a mighty white wall as wide as eighteen Sydney Harbour Bridges. Now, heading out of the bay, he focused on trying to follow the shoreline, but the fast ice – which attached itself to land or grounded bergs – made it difficult to tell where the land ended and the ocean began.

  They made good progress for the first two hours, but the further north they went, the slower the going. In the distance, Luke could see the two-hundred-kilometre-long Hudson Mountains poking through the ice. The range looked like a giant sleeping beast, its back arched to the sky and its white pointed tail stuck out into the sea as a promontory. Further inland, it bent round until it abutted the Pine Island Glacier. Cranton Bay and Bettington Station were on the other side of the headland, but where exactly, Luke didn’t know.

  The noise of the engine
made it difficult to talk and after a while Maddie dozed off, oblivious to the frequent clonks as ice hit the boat’s sides. Luke didn’t need the compass yet, and besides, they had to use it judiciously because of their proximity to the South Magnetic Pole.

  Just the two of us left.

  He thought back to the day they had met aboard the Aurora Australis. Maddie’s first briefing of the team had been in the bar, which was a good start. Her speech made everyone laugh. She chatted amiably to each of them, her words and presence visibly defusing the first-timers’ nerves. But when she had reached Luke, the anger in her startling green eyes was obvious, despite her fixed smile.

  ‘I hear you’re a bit of a rebel,’ she’d said. ‘I’ve read the reports from Casey and Mawson.’

  ‘Not really,’ he’d replied, confused. ‘I just get on with my job.’

  That night, the ninth member of their over-wintering team had needed an emergency operation for a ruptured appendix. Blue was the only qualified doctor on board so Maddie had stood in as his anaesthetist. The next morning the grateful patient was airlifted back to Tasmania. That took some guts, thought Luke.

  Bang! He’d hit a thick slab of ice. Maddie’s eyes opened and then quickly closed again, unsure of her surroundings and shocked by the brightness.

  ‘Sorry, the ice is getting thicker.’ The whine of the engine became a low hum as he slowed the craft down.

  ‘Where are we?’ Maddie asked, struggling to sit up. ‘God, I didn’t mean to sleep. Must be the painkillers. What’s this?’ she said, feeling inside her freezer suit pocket. She held up someone’s zinc cream. ‘Could come in handy,’ she said, dabbing a white streak down her nose, and offering the tube to Luke.

  He shook his head. ‘It’s getting tougher to find gaps, but we have to keep going. We’re way too far away.’

  ‘Luke, why don’t you take a rest and I’ll drive?’

  ‘That’d be great, but it means moving you this end.’ Maddie was in the middle of the boat.

  ‘I can do it,’ she said, ‘I was brought up around boats.’