by JE Gurley
As the lights of the station and outlying buildings dwindled in the distance, swallowed by the darkness, the urge to keep driving, to run away, threatened to overwhelm Brad. He knew it would be a foolhardy attempt, even with extra fuel and supplies, but the thought of returning to the zombie-infested station seemed ludicrous. There was no moon, but the headlight revealed no obstacles in his path. He could have closed his eyes and ridden without fear of hitting anything.
After an hour, Bain’s headlights picked out the snow tractor in the distance. Its massive red hulk loomed surreal and ghostly in the darkness. Bain pulled up almost to the door. Brad and Liz parked beside him. DeSousa and Reed stopped some distance away. Bain, Brad, and Liz entered the tractor, while Lester hung back, reluctant to go inside the dead-man vehicle.
“It’s larger than I expected,” Liz commented as she stepped through the door into the driver’s cabin and removed the hood of her parka. She brushed her hand on the wall, dislodging a shower of sparkling ice crystals. Frost covered everything. An empty vodka bottle rattled across the floor as she accidently kicked it with her foot. Everyone froze at the unexpected sound. Brad pushed open the hermetically sealed door to the rear cabin.
“It has beds,” he said, surprised at the comfort the vehicle provided.
“It’s designed for long term ventures on the ice,” Bain explained. “It can accommodate six to eight people for weeks.”
Brad played his flashlight over the cabin. An uneaten bowl of soup sat on the table. The bowl’s contents were frozen and unrecognizable, but the strong odor of brine and the licorice-smell of tarragon still lingered in the air. Brad picked up the bowl by the spoon frozen in its contents and banged the bowl on the table.
“Rassolnik,” Bain answered Brad’s questioning look. “It’s a briny, cucumber-based soup with vegetables, potatoes, and kidneys. It’s too salty and sour for me, but the Russians love it. Hmm. It looks as if they weren’t very hungry.”
“They were dying,” Liz said, reminding them of the reason for their journey.
The bunk beds were unmade. Brad eyed the Russian AK-47 lying atop one of the beds, an extra clip of ammunition beside it. “Looks like they expected trouble.”
Liz was rummaging through a pile of papers littering the floor. “Here’s something,” she said, holding aloft a sheet of paper. I can’t read Russian, but I recognize the caduceus on the logo. It’s a medical bulletin.”
“I read some Russian,” Bain said. Liz handed him the paper. Brad looked over Bain’s shoulder as he read. He recognized the caduceus as the snake wrapped around a staff, but the Cyrillic lettering was like a coded message. “Hmm,” Bain said, rubbing his chin with his mittened hand. “It’s from the Russian science council to the commandant of Vostok Base, a Vasily Dubcek. It advises him that a plague is spreading through Moscow, and he is to lock down the base. Fighting has broken out in the Middle East and parts of the Ukraine and Uzbekistan.” He looked up at Brad and Liz. “He is ordered to avoid contact with any outsiders.” Bain dropped the paper and stared at Liz. “It seems they were trying to get close enough to relay the message by radio to us but couldn’t. They were too ill. The Russian commandant didn’t suspect the disease was airborne and that his warning would contaminate us.”
Brad considered another reason. “It’s more likely that they were simply fleeing Vostok and figured here would be safer.”
The three rummaged through more stacks of papers and magazines but found nothing relevant to their search.
“We’ve learned all we’re going to,” Brad said. His frustration at the lack of information had blackened his mood. He had hoped for something more definite and useful.
“I agree,” Bain said. He looked at the Kharkovchanka. “Maybe we should return later with extra fuel. We might need this tractor.”
Brad was amused that Bain was arriving at the same conclusions that he was – no one was going to come for them. They were on their own. Lester stuck his head in the door.
“Are you guys about finished? The wind’s picking up. It’s kind of spooky out here.”
“We’re through,” Brad replied. He walked back to the bunk, picked up the AK-47 and extra ammo, and handed it to Bain. “We might need this,” he said. Bain accepted the weapon without comment.
As he stepped outside, Brad heard a strange susurration riding the rising wind. It reminded him of the ululations of Arab women greeting their men. No wonder Lester is worried, he thought.
The three snowmobiles strung out across the ice on the return trip. Brad didn’t worry as long as he could see the lights of the other vehicles. He didn’t want to separate from the others and wind up lost. As they neared the base, the light shining through the windows was a comforting sight. Despite the horrors within, it was an oasis in the frozen desert.
Brad brought the snowmobile to a sudden halt as he saw two figures moving toward the garage in the darkness. He unslung his rifle and called out. “Who’s there?”
After a few seconds, a voice called out, “It’s me, Hughes. I’m with Mclean.”
“Hughes. Are you all right?” Brad yelled.
“Is that you, Niles? We’re headed in for more supplies. Where have you been?”
Brad waited until Hughes drew nearer before answering. “We went to the Russian tractor looking for answers.”
“Did you find any?”
“None that you’ll like.”
Hughes leaned on his rifle and eyed the six people on the snowmobiles. “Is this it?”
“We don’t know. Some have locked themselves in their rooms. We’ve lost fifteen that I know of.”
“Jesus Christ!” Mclean shouted. “What a fucking disaster.”
“It’s worse than that.”
“How?” Hughes asked.
“No one’s coming to help us. The Russians came to warn us but wound up bringing the disease here. Somebody dropped a few nukes somewhere. The radiation level is rising. So is the temperature.”
“Any more bad news?”
“Yeah,” Lester added, “I shot Bradshaw. She turned into a zombie.” He glanced at Liz. “According to the Doctor here, we all might.”
Brad thought Mclean might become hysterical at the news. He began pacing the snow in a circle, moaning loudly. They all stared at him until he stopped suddenly and pointed toward the base.
“Who’s that?”
Four figures were coming toward them, but it was too dark to recognize them. Hughes lit a flare and tossed it in front of them. To their horror, they recognized the faces of Greene, Adler, Pirelli, and Chopra.
“Jesus, it’s Pirelli!” McLean yelled, pointing as Pirelli made a beeline for Mclean.
Staring at the group of walking dead, Brad saw no hint of recognition in the cold, dead eyes of his former companions. They moved purposefully, a demonic hunger written on their faces. It was a scene from some horror movie.
“Jesus!” Mclean exclaimed again and began running. He ran directly into the outstretched arms of Barbara Connelly who had come up behind him. They both fell. Mclean screamed as she bit into his neck. Blood from McLean’s severed artery spurted across her face and stained the snow crimson beneath their struggling bodies.
Hughes reacted quickly. He shot Connelly in the head with his rifle. Brad watched in horror as Connelly’s head exploded and she collapsed to the ground, her arms flailing for a few seconds. Lester fired from the seat of the snowmobile, hitting Pirelli in the face. Pirelli spun in a circle, stumbled toward Brad, and collapsed to his knees, his arms outstretched beside him. His head jerked once as Lester fired again.
Brad brought his rifle to bear on Greene. The sight of Greene with his bloodstained wrists from his suicide, more than anything else, convinced Brad that his friends really were dead. There was no possibility of a coma-like condition or some explainable malady for Greene’s condition. He squeezed the trigger with the same lack of emotion that he felt while taking aim at a moose or an elk. Greene was dead. He was looking at a creature, an an
imal. The only difference was that he would not be eating Greene as he might an elk, though he was certain the former cook would have no such qualms about eating him.
“Back on the snowmobiles!” Brad yelled as soon as Greene dropped. When Liz didn’t respond quickly enough, he shoved her. She stumbled, stared at him for a moment, and then nodded. She climbed on the back of the snowmobile, as he leaped across the seat and cranked the engine.
Behind him, he saw that Bain and Lester were moving as well. However, DeSousa’s vehicle was still stationary. Brad watched with mounting curiosity as DeSousa and Reed picked up Mclean’s corpse from the ground and draped it over the seat of his snowmobile. He realized DeSousa’s intentions when, using the remote control, DeSousa began maneuvering the snowmobile closer to the remaining zombies, taunting them. As DeSousa had hoped, they chased after it. He led them away from the base and out onto the ice, keeping the snowmobile just ahead of them. He, Reed, and Hughes remained motionless until the zombies had disappeared into the darkness; then followed the others into the garage.
Brad remained on the seat after Hughes closed the door of the garage with Liz leaning against him in shock. Reed fell to his hands and knees and vomited. Mclean’s sudden death had taken them all by surprise.
“I thought they were frozen solid,” Hughes said.
“There must be some chill factor below zero temperature where they can’t function,” Bain replied. “The temperature is less than thirty below. I suppose it is above their threshold.”
“You suppose?” Hughes snapped. “Mclean could have used a head’s up on that little bit of news.”
Hughes’ mocking tone offended Bain. “What do you want me to do – apologize? How was I to know what they are capable of?”
The two men stared at one another across the garage. Brad decided it was time to intervene. “Look, you two. We have enough problems without a pissing match. I suggest we put our heads together and come up with a plan.”
Hughes broke eye contact first. He turned to Brad. “As I see it, we can either hold up somewhere like Mclean and I were doing, or we can get the hell out of Dodge.”
To Brad, the first option had its own set of risks. “If we stay here, we’ll have to clear the place of zombies and make certain that everyone left is healthy and alive. Of course,” he added, “that doesn’t mean one of us might not turn.”
“I say we leave,” Reed offered.
“For where?” Bain posed. “McMurdo was hit before us. We won’t find help there.”
“We don’t know that for certain,” Reed said. His voice bore a tone of desperation the others didn’t miss. “We might find a ship.”
“The coast is iced in for the winter. There are no ships.”
“There might be a plane,” Liz suggested.
“Can you fly?” Bain asked her.
“No, but maybe someone here can.”
“I can.”
Everyone turned to stare at Lester. He grinned back. “Shocked? I’m no expert, of course, but I have soloed in a small Cessna. I think I can get a plane off the ground, but landing it somewhere in the dark … that’s a different story.”
“I’ll take my chances,” Reed said.
Brad felt he had to point out one small pertinent detail. “If we went to McMurdo, where do we go from there?”
No one had an answer to that.
He continued. “If this … disease, this zombie plague, has hit everywhere, we can’t just go to a heavily populated area. It would be crawling with zombies. And what if our destination has been nuked or is radioactive?”
Hughes sighed. “You’re just full of good news, aren’t you?”
Brad shrugged. “I just think we need a plan before we dig a hole and crawl inside to wait, or march off to destinations unknown.”
“He’s right,” Liz said.
He smiled at her, appreciative of her defending him. “First, we have to clear the base and gather everyone together. Some might choose to take their chances here and I’m not going to force anyone to take part in what might be a foolhardy expedition. We’ll clear Pod A; then seal it off from Pod B. It’s too dangerous to try to reach McMurdo at night. We have to wait until sunrise. That’s three weeks away.”
“Three weeks,” Deen cried. “That’s ridiculous! What if more of us turn into zombies? What do we do then?”
“Had you rather be in a Sno-Cat when someone turns?” Brad posed. He looked around at the others. “If someone turns zombie, we shoot them. Who has weapons?”
Brad and Hughes had their .308 Winchesters, Lester had one of the .45s, and Bain had the Russian AK-47 retrieved from the Russian tractor.
“We need more ammunition,” Hughes said.
“There should be more ammo for the rifles and the .45s in the weapons locker. An extra clip is all we have for the AK. We’ll split up, two weapons per group. Liz, Lester and I will take the second floor. Hughes, you, Reed, Bain, and DeSousa take the ground floor. We have to check each room. Announce yourselves first, but kick in the door if you have to. Explain what we’re doing. If they want to remain where they are, let them, but if they shows any signs of illness, board up the door so they can’t escape once they turn zombie.”
“That’s pretty heartless, isn’t it?” Bain said. “Some of them may recover.”
“If they recover, they can break down the door or call us to release them. If they die and turn into zombies, they’ll be safely contained.”
Bain held out the AK-47 to Brad. “Can you show me how to fire this thing?”
Brad set it for short bursts, and then made certain it was ready to fire by snapping off the safety. “Point and shoot, like a camera.”
Bain looked down at the AK. “Some camera – point, click, kill.”
Brad started to reply that if he needed to use the weapon, he wouldn’t be killing anything alive, but thought better of it and let the matter drop.
11
They had almost reached the power plant when the lights flickered a few times before extinguishing completely, plunging them into pitch-black darkness so complete that Brad couldn’t see his hand in front of his face. He heard Reed whimpering nearby, frightened and invisible in the gloom. The darkness receded as Hughes and DeSousa switched on their flashlights.
“What happened?” Reed asked. He huddled trembling in the small pool of light cast by DeSousa’s flashlight, as if the light was shielding him from whatever lurked in the shadows.
“The generators are down,” Brad observed. “Must be out of fuel.”
“All three at the same time?” Bain questioned.
“I’ll admit that it seems unlikely.”
Hughes located a storage locker, retrieved three more flashlights, and passed them around. Brad handed his to Reed, who seemed a little more comfortable once he had a light in his hand. They quietly entered the power plant through a side door, inspecting each inky pool of shadows in the long Quonset hut-style building for lurking zombies. They found Warren Feinstein lying on the floor in a pool of fresh, steaming blood, a kitchen knife protruding from his chest.
“No zombie did that,” Hughes pointed out, “somebody stabbed him.”
“Overton,” Brad said, cursing himself at his lack of foresight. “He went off the deep end earlier today. He came down this direction. I never thought he would kill someone.”
Hughes shook his head. “Maybe you should have warned everyone a crazy man was running loose.”
Brad turned on Hughes, jabbing his finger into Hughes’ chest. Hughes’ remark cut too close to an accusation. Brad had enough of Hughes’ macho-man tirades. “Maybe if you had hung around to help instead of running away, Feinstein wouldn’t be here alone.”
Hughes scowled and shifted his weight. Brad expected him to throw a punch, but something held him back. Maybe he’s as frightened as I am, Brad thought. He backed away from Hughes and knelt by Feinstein’s body. He took a rag from a workbench and laid it over Feinstein’s face. It was the best he could do.
&n
bsp; “The power panels are wrecked,” DeSousa announced as he played his light over a tangle of shredded wires and broken switches.
Brad rose and stared at the damage. “Can you repair it?”
DeSousa arched an eyebrow. “Possibly, if you give me a week and more spare parts than we have. Overton might be crazy, but he knew exactly what to destroy to cut off power.” He went to a smaller panel and opened it. “Damn, here too.” DeSousa reached inside the panel and twisted two wires together. Sparks flew, but the emergency lights began to glow dimly. “Best I can do for now. It’ll be just the emergency lights in Pod A. Pod B circuit is fried.” He angrily slammed the panel door shut and examined the generators. He sniffed at the stench of JP-8 jet fuel contaminating the air. “Son of a bitch also smashed the fuel pumps on the generators. We have no power or heat.”
“Let’s kill the bastard,” Hughes said.
“No, if we find him, we subdue him. He’s crazy, not sick. It's not like he was under stress or anything,” Brad added with a touch of sarcasm.
Hughes pointed to Feinstein’s body. “I think he’s a little stressed now.”
Brad understood Hughes’ anger, but he was adamant. Overton, crazed or not, was still his friend. With proper treatment, he might recover. At least he deserved the chance. “No killing unless we have to.” He hoped he didn’t come to regret his words.
* * * *
Liz had witnessed the exchange between Hughes and Brad with growing concern. Both men were Alpha males, but while Brad felt uncomfortable exerting authority, Hughes’ disdain for authority forced him to target anyone whom he felt threatened him. If the two men didn’t come to terms with their differences soon, disaster loomed. She watched with interest Brad’s treatment of Feinstein’s body. His reverent gesture of covering the dead man’s face revealed a side of him that she hoped prevailed during the present crisis. The disparate group of survivors needed a mobilizing force, a leader to mold them into a cohesive group that could pull together to survive. Brad’s kind heart would serve him in good stead as such a leader, even though he instinctively fought the responsibility that he naturally assumed.