by JE Gurley
“Doesn’t any of this worry you?” Brad asked.
Lester stopped eating and stared at Brad. “Well, I’ll tell you. I guess I was scared shitless at first, but then I got to thinking. If whatever is happening is in the air, then either I’ll catch it or I won’t. If I do, either I’ll die, or I won’t. Starving or locking myself away isn’t going to help. If I survive, I’ll be pleasantly surprised.” He patted his hip. Brad glanced down and saw that Lester wore one of the .45’s. “If any zombies come at me, I’ll shoot them in the head. Other than that, I don’t know what else to do.” He waved his fork at those around him. “You see these people? They’re going through the motions, but they’re as good as dead. If this plague doesn’t get them, they’ll end up doing what Meyers or Greene did. Living here during the winter takes its toll on people. It doesn’t take much to push them over the edge.”
Brad nodded at the engineer’s sage wisdom. “Will you help me get the others to come out of their rooms? We need to work together.”
“You’re beating a dead horse, Niles. Me, you, Doctor Strong, and maybe a few others are plunging through this mess trying to get to the other side. Even a bitch dog knows when she’s whelped too many pups and she lets the weakest die. You can’t carry everybody, or they’ll drag you down with them.”
“We can’t just let them die,” he challenged.
Lester shook his head. “You can’t stop them.”
Brad stared at his plate, his appetite suddenly fading. Deep down, he suspected that Lester was right. He tossed his fork into his plate with a loud clink. Several heads jerked up and looked at him, but then resumed their dispassionate stares. He wanted to shout at them, tell them about the radiation and the bizarre rise in temperature, anything to force some display of emotion to their cold, stoic faces. Instead, he rose from the table with his plate of untouched food and left it in the dish pit, wondering briefly if anyone still bothered checking the duty roster.
Less than a week had passed since normalcy at the base had broken down, yet it seemed as if he had been riding the razor-thin edge of sanity for months. His appetite was shot, his nerves were wound near the snapping point, and like Overton, he looked like a bum and smelled like an offal heap. If he wanted to sway opinions, encourage them to cooperate, the least he could do was to look the part. He decided a shave and a shower was in order.
He ignored the time restrictions on showers and allowed the hot water to stream over his aching body for five minutes before soaping and rinsing. He closed his eyes and leaned against the shower wall for several minutes, relishing the silence and the solitude. A brisk toweling dry revived the nerves in his skin. His hand was too shaky for his Schick razor, so he had borrowed Overton’s electric razor. He stood naked in front of the mirror, hardly recognizing himself. He had dropped nearly eighteen pounds from his already lean frame. His heart quickened when he thought he saw a dark line beneath his breast, but it was only a trick of the light, a shadow.
Afterwards, contemplating his freshly shaven face, he noticed the bags under his eyes and a host of new wrinkles on his forehead. He decided to take better care of himself. If he allowed his heath to deteriorate, he would be of no use to anyone.
“That’s better.”
He spun around. Liz was looking at him and smiling.
“I like the new clean-shaven you.”
He grabbed his towel and wrapped it around his waist. “How long have you been standing there?”
She laughed. “I just walked in. Don’t worry. I’ve seen naked men before.”
He noticed the towel and a change of clothing in her hand. “It’s only fair that I get to see you naked.”
“I’ll tell you what. If you’ll stand watch at the door while I shower, you can let your imagination run wild.”
He shrugged. “I guess that will have to do. I’m glad to see you take a break.”
She frowned. “I have no more patients.”
“What?” he exclaimed in surprise. “Why?”
“My last two patients just died. The others decided to lock themselves in their rooms and hope for the best.”
“I’ll see to the bodies.”
“Don’t bother. Trace Wilkie and Evan Deen moved them.”
Brad nodded. Wilkie and Deen were heavy equipment operators. Deen had won the last pool tournament. He was glad not everyone had given up. “That’s almost a third of us dead.”
“I can’t stop it,” Liz sobbed. “I don’t even know what’s happening. I’m treating symptoms, but it doesn’t do any good. In the end, everyone dies.”
He wanted to reach out to her, but suspected that she might resent his sympathy. She was a tough woman momentarily defeated by circumstances beyond her control. His treating her like a frail female might annoy her.
“Go take your shower. Use as much hot water as you want.”
As she walked past him, she reached out her hand and stroked his arm. Her self-appointed guardian, he assumed a position just outside the bathroom door, leaning against the wall. As Liz had predicted, his imagination went wild as he listened to the water sluicing over her spectacular naked body. The mental picture that his mind conjured of her rubbing her breasts with a soapy rag excited him. He became so engaged in his visual fantasy that he didn’t notice the figure lurking at the edge of the shadows down the corridor until the blast of a pistol roused him. He banged the back of his head against the wall as he dropped to a crouching position. The figure stumbled forward a few steps, and then fell face-first to the floor. Charles Lester appeared from around the corner. He nudged the body with the toe of his boot, and then replaced the .45 in its holster. He walked toward Brad.
“Hope Bradshaw,” he said, jerking his thumb over his shoulder at the corpse. “I saw her come out of her room and followed her.” He noticed Brad staring at him in shock. “Hell, she was a zombie for God’s sake. Did you think I just shot her for the hell of it?”
Brad shook his head. “No. It’s just … When did she turn?”
“Who knows? The real question is how many more are there?”
Brad realized with a sick feeling that Lester was right. He had been knocking on doors, trying to rally everyone to some sort of communal action, but ignoring the possibility that no answer might mean something other than a desire for privacy.
“We need to check every room,” he blurted.
Lester raised an eyebrow as he replied, “We? I told you where I stand. If they’re locked in their rooms and turn zombie, maybe they can’t get out. That’s a good thing.”
Alarmed by the shot, Liz ran out of the bathroom. She wore a towel wrapped around her body. Her wet blonde hair lay plastered to her shoulders. She glanced at Bradshaw’s corpse and then at Brad.
“He’s right,” she said. “Leave them where they are.”
Liz’s sudden shift in sympathies confused him. “You were the one trying so desperately to help them.”
“I was wrong,” she snapped; then paused and shook her head. “I can’t help them. No one can.”
Brad stared at her. She turned away to avoid his gaze, but he could sense that she was trying to hold something back, something she didn’t want to tell him.
“What’s going on, Liz?”
She hesitated before answering. “I still don’t know what’s killing everyone, but I did determine that we are all infected.”
Brad backed up against the wall for support before his quivering legs folded. “All of us?”
She nodded. “I haven’t checked everyone, of course, but the infectious agent is in the air. I can’t culture it, so I haven’t been able to identify it, but I have determined that it’s very small. People who have been isolated for days have come down with symptoms.”
“Why don’t I have it, or you, or Charles?”
“Some of us are more resistant than others.”
Lester chuckled. Brad glared at him. “Don’t you see?” Lester explained. “I was right. You can’t help them. You can’t even help yourself.” H
e slapped his knee and laughed again. “What a great, glorious, God-damned joke’s been played on us.”
Lester’s callous attitude irritated Brad. Why was the engineer so cavalier when he was so sick-to-his-stomach afraid? “Glad to see you’re taking it so well.”
“Oh hell, I’m scared, believe me, but what can I do about it? We don’t even know what the hell is happening.” He pointed to Bradshaw’s zombie corpse. She lay naked in a pool of dark blood, her skull shattered by his bullet. His face became cold and hard. “The moment I feel myself turning into one of those creatures, I’m putting a bullet in my head.”
Part of Lester’s statement jolted Brad’s memory. What was happening? Maybe he knew where to look for an answer. “The Russians were coming here for a reason,” he blurted. “They could have as easily headed to the coast. Did they come to warn us, or were they just blindly running from this disease?”
Lester shrugged. “We’ll never know.”
“I’m going back to the Russian tractor. Maybe they knew what was happening. Maybe there’s something in the tractor that might shed some light on this mystery.” He looked at Lester. “Will you come?”
Lester glanced away for a moment staring at Bradshaw’s body. Brad thought he had lost him, but when Lester turned back to face him, he nodded. “Why not? It beats prowling this tomb.”
“I’m coming with you,” Liz said. “I’m not staying here.”
Brad smiled at her. He did not intend to leave her alone. “Glad for the company. I’ll see if I can talk Bain into joining us.”
10
August 31, Amundsen-Scott Base, Antarctica
They located Bain in the lab working on his remote weather station data feeds. The feeds were supplied by simple radio telemetry and not dependent on the defunct satellite feed. When Brad explained the reason for the trip, he was eager for the opportunity to get outside for more radiation readings, but less eager to visit the Russian tractor. However, upon hearing Liz’s depressing news, he agreed that the Russians might have left clues as to the cause of their demise. The four encountered no one on their way to the changing room to don their winter gear. The base seemed deserted. Even with the smaller-sized overwintering crew, there were always sounds of machinery and lab equipment in operation, or the drone of televisions and conversation. The silence was unnatural and unnerving.
Descending the stairs in the Beer Can, Brad heard noises down one of the ice tunnels, like the banging of metal on metal. He wondered if it could have been Overton, but he allowed the others to talk him out of investigating. They found John DeSousa and Taylor Reed, two of the electricians, barricaded inside one of the Sno-Cats in the underground garage, where the pair had been hiding out for the last four days. At first, DeSousa greeted them with a .45 in his hand, but quickly put it away when he saw that they were not zombies. Empty cans of food and water bottles littered the ground around the Sno-Cat, and Brad thought he recognized piles of frozen human excrement in a corner. Both men looked tired and on edge. The heater in the Sno-Cat would keep the temperatures above freezing, but just barely, forcing the men to live and sleep in their heavy winter coats. DeSousa, a forty-year-old New Zealander, had fifteen years of ice experience and was used to living rough, but Reed, at twenty-three, was a newbie. This was the native New Yorker’s first winter in Antarctica and Brad judged by his expression that he was less than thrilled by his adventure so far.
Brad wasted no time with idle chitchat. “We’re going to the Russian Kharkovchanka.”
The pair exchanged glances. DeSousa assumed role as spokesman. “There’s nothing there,” he said.
“Maybe the Russians were bringing something to us, something explaining what’s going on.”
DeSousa crossed his arms over his chest. “We’re comfortable here.”
Brad doubted that, but didn’t want to argue with the burly DeSousa. He was glad when Liz stepped in.
“We’re all infected with whatever is killing people.”
Reed’s face paled. DeSousa frowned.
“I just shot Hope Bradshaw,” Lester said. “She turned into whatever the Russians had become, a zombie, I guess.”
Upon hearing this, Reed stumbled backwards and sat down on the bumper of the Sno-Cat.
“A zombie?” DeSousa asked unconvinced.
“She was cold to the touch and wanted to eat people. Zombie or ghoul – It doesn’t really matter does it, if we can become just like her.”
DeSousa didn’t reply for almost a minute. Finally, he looked at Reed and said, “Fuel up the snowmobiles.” He grinned at Brad. “The Sno-Cat smells kind of rank.”
Reed’s nervousness showed in his young face as he began fueling the three snowmobiles they would need for the journey. “If we don’t find anything at the Russian tractor, can’t we just ... you know, keep going?” he asked.
DeSousa was busy checking the batteries and ignition systems on the snowmobiles. He reached out and smacked Reed on the arm. “Kid, it’s over eight hundred miles to McMurdo. You don’t just whistle up a taxi.”
Reed didn’t give up. “Can’t we refuel the Russian vehicle?”
Brad tried not to let his expression give him away. Refueling the Kharkovchanka and driving it to McMurdo had crossed his mind as well in one of his moments of desperation. His determination not to abandon the others was all that prevented him from agreeing with Reed.
“It’s too early to start running,” Brad said. “First, we need to find out what’s happening. Crossing the Polar Plateau and the Transantarctic Ridge in mid-winter is dangerous.”
“More dangerous than what’s happening here?” Reed asked.
DeSousa shook his head. “You don’t want to be out in the open if a katabatic wind starts blowing down off the mountains.”
Bain interrupted. “I hate to bring this up, but the temperature is hovering at thirty-four below zero.” In his hand, he held a digital thermometer as if it were a holy relic, tapping it with his finger. “That’s an increase of twenty-five degrees in four days.” He glanced up at the sky. “It could be connected to the radiation – some sort of ionization in the ozone layer.”
DeSousa and Reed looked at each other. “What radiation?” DeSousa asked.
As Bain explained Chopra’s discovery to the pair, Brad walked over to Liz, who stood quietly staring out the open door into the frozen waste.
“Thinking about how cold it is?” he asked.
She shook her head. “No. I was thinking how desolate it is.” She turned to face him. “Why do people come here?”
“Why are you here?” he asked.
Her answer was quick but delivered with no conviction, as if she had repeated it often to herself and others. “I’m a doctor. I came here to help people.”
“That’s no answer.”
Her sigh came from deep inside, the sound of a lifetime of misery escaping. “I needed to get away for a while.” She looked into his eyes, searching for a reason to explain further. “I was married for two years. My husband lost his job as a broker. He resented that I had become the sole breadwinner. He started drinking heavily and became abusive. I let him hit me once without calling the cops. Later, he said he was sorry and begged me to forgive him. I did. The second time he hit me, I hit him in the head with a sauté pan, packed my bags, and walked out. I left him lying on the floor bleeding.” She said this as if leaving an injured person, even a man who had struck her, was beyond her moral sensibilities. “We divorced a few months later. I came here to re-evaluate my life. I’ve been here two years. I don’t know where he is, and I don’t really care.”
He was sorry for broaching the subject. It obviously hurt her to dwell on it. Her story explained her presence in Antarctica, but not her reason for remaining. He decided not to press further.
“Hell of a place for a vacation isn’t it?” he said.
This brought a smile to her lips. “It’s better than North Dakota.”
“I won’t argue that.” He glanced back at the others. �
�I think we’re ready.”
In all, six people would make the journey to the Russian Kharkovchanka – Brad, Liz, Lester, Bain, DeSousa, and Reed. They took three snowmobiles, Ski Doo Alpine 640-ER’s. Rugged and adapted for the extreme cold weather, the Alpines were the mainstay snowmobiles for the Americans. Each was painted bright yellow for high visibility and had remote-control systems that allowed the operator to dismount and safely traverse the vehicle over ice crevasses. This came in especially handy when the snowmobile hauled a loaded sledge. Brad had driven snowmobiles in North Dakota and felt at home on one. Liz rode behind him. Lester rode behind Bain and Reed behind DeSousa. Bain knew the exact GPS position of the Kharkovchanka and led the small expedition. The open cockpit provided no relief from the cold, but Brad had experienced colder temperatures than thirty-four below in North Dakota. Bundled up in three layers of clothing, including a balaclava, snow goggles, and heavy gloves, he felt more invigorated than cold. Gunning the Ski Doo’s 640-cc engine, he burned off his frustration by racing over the ice. The wide, open space, even though shrouded in darkness, provided more freedom than the confines of the base. Liz held on with her arms wrapped tightly around his waist, pressing the rifle strapped to his back uncomfortably into his spine.
The Antarctic Plateau was a mysterious, starkly beautiful plain of snow and ice over 16,000 square-miles in area, the size of Massachusetts and Connecticut combined. At 9800 feet above sea level, the air was thin, cold, and dry, made even colder by the two miles of ice beneath the Plateau. The ice moved constantly, slowly flowing to the sea under the immense pressure of the heavy mantle of millennia of accumulated ice. The Plateau was a vast, frozen desert. Little snow fell, but the perpetual wind eroded the snowdrifts into patterns resembling a beach at low tide. Closer to the mountains, dune-like sastrugi made travel more difficult. If it had been daylight, the horizon would have been almost invisible as snow and sky collided. At night with only the stars to illuminate it, the Plateau seemed to continue forever.