by JE Gurley
Connelly’s screams had brought several people to investigate, but no one summoned the courage to enter the room. Instead, they stood crowded at the door staring at Pirelli’s body as if expecting it to rise and walk. Liz was half expecting it herself.
“Two of you carry him outside,” she snapped, angry with herself at her inability to save him. She didn’t know Pirelli well enough to call him friend, but she did like him. His loss would severely affect morale. No one moved. “Please,” she asked more gently.
“I’ll help,” Brad said.
She looked up at him. His eyes held so much sympathy that she almost burst into tears. He had returned with a tray of food for her. He set it on her desk. She looked at the plate of food and shuddered. The smell of roast pork, which she had once found so enticing, now nauseated her. She didn’t know if she would ever eat again. Her stomach was so queasy that she wondered if the unknown virus had now infected her. She glanced at Pirelli. Suddenly, her legs refused to hold her weight. As she fell forward, Brad grabbed her under her arms and dragged her to her chair.
“I’ll be all right,” she said, trying to brush him aside. She had no time to collapse. She still had patients to attend to.
“Sit still,” he demanded. “You’re tired and weak. You need rest.”
She saw the others watching her warily and knew that Brad was right. If she fell apart, no one else would dare care for the sick. She grabbed his arm and looked into his eyes.
“You’re right. I’ll lie down in one of the beds for a while.”
“Then you’ll eat.”
It was not a question. She nodded her assent, though the aroma from the pork was almost more than she could bear.
“Someone help me carry Tony outside,” he said.
Liz watched as two men stepped forward, each taking a corner of the sheet beneath Pirelli’s feet. Brad took the end by his head. Together, they carried Pirelli’s body from the room to place in the freezing cold outside the base, along with the other bodies. Her dizziness passed. She rose and helped Connelly back to her bed. Connelly was in a state of shock, crying for Shelia Meyers, her lover, but Meyers was not present. Meyers, like so many of the others, had locked herself in her room. Liz finally managed to coax Connelly into bed. She gave her the sedative that she had intended for Pirelli. He was beyond pain now.
The crowd slowly broke up. Now that the show is over, she thought with disdain for her fellow Antarctic castaways, and then mentally chastised herself for her judgment of them. If she with her store of medical knowledge was frightened, how much more frightened were they? Brad returned a few minutes later, still wearing the heavy, bright red anorak and gloves he had donned to venture outside. He glanced first at the untouched tray of food, and then at Liz.
“Eat or sleep,” he said, “one or the other.” He removed the gloves and coat, and then placed them on the floor. “I’ll keep watch.”
The emergency with Pirelli had eroded the last vestiges of her will power. Exhaustion was quickly seeping in. “Okay, but just for a short while.”
She couldn’t bring herself to lie in the bed so recently vacated by Pirelli. Instead, she chose a folding cot stored in one of the closets. When setting it up proved too much for her to handle, Brad once again came to her aid, setting it up and covering it with a blanket. She lay down, realizing that it felt remarkably good to get off her feet. Brad covered her with a second blanket, whispering, “I’ll wake you in two hours.”
She nodded and gave herself to the comforting arms of oblivion.
* * * *
Ravi Chopra re-ran the air sample tests for the fourth time, and still he couldn’t accept the results. He must have made an error. Or perhaps, he thought, the Russian snow tractor contained radioactive materials and contaminated my samples. He quickly dismissed that unlikely scenario. The Antarctic Treaty of 1961 banned the possession and testing of nuclear weapons and the disposal of radioactive wastes. Russia was a signatory to the treaty. No one from the party retrieving the bodies from the Kharkovchanka had reported finding anything unusual. There had to be a more reasonable explanation for his unexpected results.
Discovering the three dead Russians had brought Chopra few minutes of fame with his fellow scientists, but he had quickly become a pariah when the Russians began their killing spree. He couldn’t understand his fellow scientists’ attitude. Was it his fault that they attacked people? Did they think he should have just let his discovery of the Russians go unreported? He was equally at a loss as to how supposedly frozen corpses could reanimate. His field was meteorology, not biology.
He recalled from his youth the Hindu myth of the Vetala, spirits that could inhabit corpses and haunted charnel yards. It was a tale told to frighten young children and he didn’t believe in children’s fairy tales. However, the reading of an atmospheric radiation count four times higher than normal was no fairy tale. Had someone, possibly the Russians, ignored the nuclear ban? The obvious conclusion for their reanimation was that Doctor Strong had made an error in declaring the Russians dead. Some small spark of life must have remained in their super-chilled bodies, rekindled as they warmed. He knew that the Antarctic species of Toothfish, also known as Chilean Sea Bass, contained a type of antifreeze protein that prevented their blood from freezing in the sub-zero waters, so such a thing was possible. The cold, and possibly radiation exposure had damaged the men’s brains, driving their insane killing rage. What had happened was not his fault.
He grabbed the edge of the worktable to steady himself as a wave of nausea swept over him. His first concern was radiation poisoning, but the Geiger counter resting on the table read within normal limits. He moved it closer to the vial containing the air sample and the meter shot higher. The sample was hot, but should not adversely affect him. He relaxed, but a second, more intense wave of nausea struck him. His stomach writhed like a living creature seeking escape. He leaned over the garbage can and vomited. He had not eaten since the previous night and had very little on his stomach. The bitter taste of bile filled his mouth, as well as a metallic tang. He was startled to see flecks of blood in the clear liquid. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, blinking back burning tears to clear his vision. Tiny black lines slowly crawled from the fingertips of his trembling hand toward his wrist. His chest burned as if on fire. He could not inhale deeply enough to fill his aching lungs.
Gasping for breath, he reached for the telephone to call Doctor Strong for help. He knocked the receiver from the base but couldn’t force his uncooperative hand to grasp it. He fell to his knees, leaning against the end of the wooden workbench. He began to cough, spraying the lightly stained oak with a foamy black liquid. The viscous fluid seemingly defied gravity by running up the wood toward the top of the bench. He reached out a finger to touch the strange ebony substance. It rose, swaying like a shadow in a shadowy breeze to meet the tip of his finger. It was cold to the touch, yet somehow warm and inviting, as the fluid joined the tracings on his hand. His chest heaved in another spasm of coughing, but this time no more of the marvelous fluid escaped. His lungs ached as if filled with cement. The lack of air did not worry him. His fading mind connected his condition with that of the Russians. If he was infected, then others in the base were as well. Why, then, was he not alarmed?
He could feel his brain shutting down, neuron by neuron. Memories went first. He no longer remembered who he was, but found that he did not care. Senses were next. His world became as black as the liquid running through his veins, claiming his body as its own. He could no longer see or hear, nor could he feel the roughness of the wood against his face or smell the urine running down his leg. His mind dwindled until only a small kernel remained; then, it too faded.
* * * *
Guy Hughes and Greg Mclean loaded as many cans of food as they could carry into their backpacks and then slung them over their shoulders. Hughes also carried one of the .308 Winchester rifles. He was no coward, but witnessing the insane zombie hunt had shaken his faith in his invuln
erability. Pirelli was dead leaving no one was in charge of the forty-something frightened survivors. He was certain chaos would soon ensue. It was human nature. Better to be away from the base when that likelihood occurred. The Ice Cube lab seemed the likeliest location in which to seek refuge. Two people could hold out a long time.
Many of the others still thought the Russians had been in some sort of catatonic state when they had attacked and eaten Walls and Combs. He knew better. He had heard rumors about the Providence disaster from one of the Aussie sailors who had helped sink the American nuclear submarine. The sailor, a Boatswain’s Mate, had drunk enough booze to loosen his tongue but not enough to erase the constant guilt he felt over the devastating secret he carried. He had hinted at zombies, devoured corpses, and government cover up. At the time, Hughes had written the Boatswain’s Mate off as insane, a drunken bum, but seeing the Russian attack Combs had changed his opinion. There had been no life in the Russian’s eyes, no hint of recognition. Hughes didn’t know how many of his fellow over-winterers might be infected, but he suspected that at least a few were. He didn’t want to wait to find out whom.
“Be sure you bring a pair of radios,” he told Mclean.
Mclean stared at him apprehensively. “Why?”
Hughes shook his head. Mclean had seen the zombies but still couldn’t grasp the significance. “If help doesn’t come, we might have to drive out.”
“In a Sno-Cat?”
“Had you rather walk?” Hughes challenged.
Mclean turned away and continued donning his cold-weather gear. Mclean was frightened. Hughes didn’t hold that against him. He had chosen Mclean for his skill as an Antarctic explorer. Mclean had spent weeks at a time out on the ice and knew how to handle himself in the sub-zero cold. If they had to make the rough journey to McMurdo, he didn’t want to be saddled with a novice.
Hughes had deliberately chosen the early morning hours to abandon the base. He didn’t want the others to discover what he was doing. He felt badly enough about leaving the others in the lurch, but he could live with his conscience.
“Ready?” he asked.
Mclean threw the hood of his anorak over his head. “As ready as I’ll ever be,” he snapped at Hughes.
Hughes shot back, “You can stay here; take your chances with the others.”
Mclean didn’t reply as he headed for the Beer Can, the cylindrical stairwell leading to the underground power plant and the parking garage. He kicked the door open with his booted foot. “I want to survive, too.”
The pair said nothing as they walked through the cold tunnels hacked from the ice. They avoided the power plant in case one of the mechanics was working there. As they stepped outside into the bitter cold and darkness, Hughes wondered if he had made the right decision.
7
August 26, Amundsen-Scott Base, Antarctica
Sampson died next. His body joined the others outside. Six more people were ill. When they discovered Chopra’s body and brought it to Liz, the condition of his body puzzled her. He had not been bitten or scratched, nor had he complained of any illness. She worried that his early exposure to the Russians’ bodies had led to his death. If so, the disease was likely airborne and they were all infected. None of her twenty-four hour or forty-eight hour cultures had turned up anything abnormal. She lamented her lack of equipment. A scanning electron microscope might help her identify the culprit for certain, but she suspected a virus.
Connelly and Adler slowly slipped into comas. Nothing she did seemed to make a difference. She distributed Tamiflu to the ill and issued platitudes to the frightened. She could offer no assurances. She was too exhausted to maintain a gracious bedside manner. Brad was her knight in shining armor. He made certain that she ate and offered her encouragement where she felt discouraged. He tended to the sick with the aplomb she lacked. Many of the others, those not locked in their rooms or labs, looked to him for leadership. In spite of this, he didn’t see himself as a leader. He was one of those rare human beings blithely unaware of their affect on others. In fact, their veneration frightened and embarrassed him. She and Brad sat at her desk, laden with trays of dirty dishes and half-eaten meals.
“With Chopra, that’s six dead,” he said, counting on his fingers.
“Barbara and Adler will be next. I can’t help them.”
He glanced into the next room at the immobile patients. A mask of fine black lines covered large portions of their faces. “How many are sick?”
“Ten have reported symptoms so far. God knows how many are ill behind locked doors.” She looked at Brad. “I can’t help them either.”
“Some might have the flu or a common cold.”
She shook her head. “I doubt it. We’ve been isolated for months. They have whatever affected the Russians.”
“Will they …” He paused. “Will they become like the Russians?”
She shrugged her shoulders. The motion made her neck ache. She massaged it with her hands. “I don’t know. I don’t know what’s wrong with them. If we place the dead outside to freeze, I don’t think so. The Russians were immobile until they thawed.”
He nodded. “No problems from them, then. I’m more worried about some of the others who’ve locked themselves away. Some aren’t even answering when I yell through the door to check up on them.”
“They’re frightened.” She knew exactly how they felt. She wanted to lock herself behind a door as well, but her oath to heal the sick wouldn’t let her. Though she could not help them, her patients needed her.
“I understand their reluctance, but we must all work together to beat this … this crisis.”
“What if …” She paused.
He looked at her, waiting for her to complete her thought.
“What if we can’t beat it?”
“Are you giving up?”
A sigh escaped her lips. She slumped in her chair. “No.”
He turned to look at Connelly, and then Adler. “Can we isolate everyone who becomes ill?”
“Not if it’s airborne. Besides, would you want to be confined in a room with someone who might turn into a zombie?”
He jerked his attention from Adler to glare at her. “You too?”
“I don’t know what else to label it. The dead reviving and eating human flesh – zombie is as close as my medical knowledge comes to describing what I’ve witnessed.”
“I’m sorry. Hughes’ label seems to have stuck. I’ve heard the term more than once over the past couple of days. It just seems so …” He searched for the right word.
“Bizarre,” she suggested.
He smiled at her. “I was going for unnatural, but bizarre will do. It’s like a page from some horror novel. Something else that concerns me – no one replaced any of the weapons in the firearms locker. It’s not safe having frightened, armed people running loose.”
“Do you still have your rifle?”
His sheepish grin spoke for itself. “It’s in my room,” he admitted.
They both turned at a slight tapping on the open door. It was Ian Bain, the English global weather expert. “Can I come in?”
“Certainly,” Liz replied. She noticed that he glanced at her two patients and frowned. “How can we help you?”
Bain cocked his head to one side. “I’m not certain that you can. It’s just that … well, I was reading through Ravi’s notes and found something quite disturbing.”
“I’m sorry about Chopra,” she said. “Was he a close friend?”
“A friend? No, he was too reserved for a close friendship, but he was a colleague and I liked him.”
Brad brushed aside Liz’s attempt at condolences. “What did you find?”
“According to Ravi’s last weather readings and air samples, the outside radiation levels have increased almost four-hundred percent.”
Brad sat forward in his seat. “Is it dangerous?”
Bain shook his head. “Not yet. Ravi was concerned that entering the Russian snow tractor might have inadv
ertently contaminated his samples, but I don’t think so. To double-check his findings, I went outside today and collected fresh samples.”
“And,” Brad prompted.
Bain looked at the two of them before replying. “The count is increasing, still not dangerous, but significantly higher than normal.”
“And you’re certain it’s not related to the Kharkovchanka? Maybe the Russians …” Brad swore under his breath and slammed his fist on the desk. “Hell, I’m just grasping at straws.”
Bain scratched his head. “It looks more like fallout from a nuclear bomb.”
Liz clutched her chest as her heart froze. “Here?”
“No, no,” Bain said quickly. “But someone somewhere has set one off, maybe more than one.”
“That would explain the lack of communication,” Brad said. “An EM pulse from a nuclear detonation high in the atmosphere would wipe out satellites.” Then he frowned. “But that wouldn’t explain the fiber optic cable going out.”
“War?” Liz asked, incredulous. She felt suddenly cold and crossed her arms over her chest. “Do you mean we went to war?”
“Maybe not war and maybe not us,” Bain pointed out, “but someone has definitely detonated a nuclear weapon. The radiation signature is very specific. It could be above-ground nuclear testing, of course,” he added, but he sounded doubtful.
“We can’t tell the others,” Brad said. Bain and Liz both looked at him. Seeing their quizzical stares, he continued, “This would cause a panic. We have enough problems as it is. If the world’s at war, we can’t do anything about it from here. Who else knows?” he asked Bain.
“Shimoda, I guess.”
“Speak to him. Tell him to keep this under wraps, at least for a while.”
Bain looked unconvinced, but Liz had decided that Brad might be right in withholding such dreadful news. “Look, Ian. Everyone is frightened. Stress levels are high. If people become convinced that no one is coming or that people they love might be dead, they might lose hope.”