Chill Factor: Ice Station Zombie 2

by JE Gurley

  “Damn thing won’t start,” Lester snapped. Brad heard a thud, as if Lester had resorted to kicking the generator. “What’s wrong with it?”

  Lester tried again with the same lack of results.

  “I smell fuel,” Bain said. “There must be a leak somewhere.”

  Laughter rang out from the corner of the room. Brad recognized the short barking laugh of Daryl Overton. He rushed back into the room.

  “Daryl,” he yelled. “Come on out. We’re leaving for McMurdo.”

  “No one’s leaving,” Overton replied.

  “What do you mean?” Brad shook his head as he noticed Lester’s hand reaching for the pistol on his belt. “No,” he whispered. “Maybe I can talk him into coming out.”

  “He killed Feinstein,” Lester reminded him.

  Overton overheard Lester. “He tried to prevent me from destroying the generators,” he shouted. “We have to keep the base cold, like a tomb. It’s the only way to stop them. That’s why I sabotaged the generators and why I opened the doors.”

  “Son of a bitch,” Lester muttered. “He’s letting the damn things inside.”

  “It’s warming up outside, Daryl. The zombies are thawing out.”

  Overton’s voice became frantic. “I’m too late, too late.”

  “It’s not too late. Come with us.”

  Overton’s laughter was sepulchral, deep and dark. A sobering chill began nibbling at Brad’s spine. His anxiety increased as the astronomer continued. He realized he was listening to the voice of madness.

  “There’s nothing out there, Brad,” Overton said. “Don’t you see? It’s the end of the world at the ends of the Earth – the Apocalypse.” He laughed at his joke. “This place is Sheol, a dark, deep place where lost souls go. We’re in an ice cold Hell.”

  Brad wondered why Overton, a non-practicing Jew, would now cling to the religion he professed to despise. He tried to sway his friend. “The sun will return in a few weeks. It’ll be light again soon. We’re going to McMurdo and try for home. There have to be survivors somewhere.”

  Overton’s voice went quiet and cold. “Not here,” he intoned. “Here, we’re all dead already.” A flare ignited in the corner of the room, illuminating Overton in brightness. Somehow, he had lost or removed his shirt. He was naked except for a pair of ragged underwear hanging loosely from his narrow hips. His eyes were as cold as his voice. His jaw twitched in spasms of either despair or ecstasy; Brad couldn’t tell which. He was relieved to see none of the black patches on Overton’s chest that had marked the other infected people. Overton lifted the flare above his head, an avenging angel with a flaming sword, ignoring the bits of burning material that dropped onto his bare arm and shoulder. “If cold won’t stop them, maybe fire will.” He cocked his arm to throw the flare.

  Brad, realizing Overton’s intent, yelled out, “No!”

  It was too late. Overton tossed the flare toward the JP-8 jet fuel pooling behind the generator.

  “Run!” Lester screamed as the flare tumbled end-over-end through the air. He and Bain scrambled out of the way.

  Brad remained frozen for a few seconds in disbelief that his friend and colleague could ever do such an insane thing.

  “Move it!” Lester yelled, slamming into Brad and shoving him toward the open door.

  Finally, fear dissolved his doubt and his legs began pumping furiously, conveying him away from the generator. Behind him, the flare landed, bounced twice, and then ignited the fuel. The explosion he had expected did not come. Instead, the fuel simply caught fire and began to burn. A wave of flame swept across the room and crept beneath the generator. Brad paused outside the room, staring back into the trying to decide if he should rescue Overton. Lester grabbed him by the shoulder and yanked him aside just as the room exploded. The concussion shook the entire building, shattering windows in the managers’ offices. A rush of hot air roared from the room, propelling him like an autumn leaf in the wind. He rolled head-over-heels down the corridor, his ears ringing from the concussion. Flames licked the corridor wall opposite the doorway and ignited furniture and curtains inside the offices.

  “I thought jet fuel didn’t explode,” he moaned to Lester, who lay across his chest.

  “There were barrels of cleaning solvents in there. The flames ignited them.”

  He heaved Lester off him and climbed to his feet. He peered into the generator room from a safe distance. The room was awash in flames. Overton could not have survived the explosion and resulting fire. As Brad watched, the ceiling began to cave in, and flames leaped upward through the gap into the Ice Cube lounge upstairs. The library and its hundreds of books would ignite quickly. The entire station was at risk. Brad yanked a fire extinguisher from the wall and began spraying foam on the walls.

  Lester grabbed him by the shoulder and spun him around, yelling to be heard over the roar of the flames. “It’s no use. We’ll have to secure the fire doors on both levels or we’ll lose the entire base.”

  The heavy concrete-filled steel fire doors’ functions were to separate the two pods in just such an emergency. The four men made it through the door and dogged the hatches just as a second explosion, larger than the first, jarred the entire building. The floor of the building became a rolling ship’s deck, sending Brad reeling like a drunken sailor. The emergency lights flicked several times, and then failed completely. Tiny fingers of flames began to dance along the edges of the warped fire door.

  “It’s not going to hold long,” Lester warned.

  As they raced for the stairs, Brad noticed something odd and stopped to look. The door was pulsing, bulging outwards from its frame, and then receding, as if it were breathing. The tendrils of fire grew longer, groping the surrounding wall and licking the bubbling paint from the door. With the sound of wrenching metal, one hinge snapped and flames shot down the corridor and along the wall. Brad took the stairs two at a time with the flames nipping at his heels.

  He reached the top of the stairs to see Houseman, outlined by Bain’s flashlight, struggling with the heavy second-level fire door. Before anyone could assist him, three zombies pushed through the door of the adjacent summer dormitory wing, allowed into the building by Overton’s senseless act of opening all the outer doors. Two of the creatures fell upon Houseman. In his haste to close the door, he had carelessly leaned the AK-47 against the wall of the corridor several feet away. The zombies were between him and his weapon. Lester saw the creatures and drew his pistol, but didn’t fire for fear of hitting Houseman. His hesitation allowed the third zombie to lunge at him. He ducked beneath its outstretched arms, raised his pistol, and placed a bullet through the creature’s chin and into its brain. The top of its head exploded in a geyser of thick black blood.

  Brad, still reeling from his push up the stairs, didn’t stop to think. He rushed in, grabbed one of the zombies attacking Houseman by the arm and yanked it away. The creature bounced off the wall and fell to the floor. As it struggled to rise, Lester shot it in the head. Brad then turned his attention to the remaining zombie. He was too late. The zombie had his face buried in Houseman’s shoulder. Houseman screamed in pain and lunged backwards, slamming the zombie into the metal door in a frantic attempt to dislodge it. Finally, the creature released him, its face glistening with Houseman’s blood. Houseman staggered out of the zombie’s reach. Brad didn’t have time to unsling the Winchester strapped to his back. He grabbed the AK-47 leaning against the wall while on the run and placed a quick burst into the zombie’s head and chest. It slid down the wall, leaving a smear of dark blood.

  Houseman, illuminated by Bain’s light, leaned against the wall holding his left hand to his savaged right shoulder. Blood seeped between his fingers and down the front of his coat. The pain of the wound was intense, but the wretched look of fear on his face came from the realization that he was now infected. He had seen what had become of Pirelli and the others once bitten. He looked at Brad, his eyes pleading with him to do something, but Brad could do nothing. Brad s
till held the AK-47 in his hands, but he couldn’t bring himself to pull the trigger on a living human being, even to end his pain.

  Beyond the fire door, flames now billowed into the corridor from the library and the Ice Cube lounge. Smoke poured up the stairwell from the fire below. The building shuddered once more. Pictures fell from the walls, their glass shattering on the floor. Lockers toppled like a row of dominos. Pipes running the length of the ceiling twisted from their brackets and tumbled down. The overloaded steel supports designed to raise the building as snow accumulated beneath it groaned from the stress, a building in pain. The elevated building trembled as Pod B tilted by fifteen degrees. The entire base was quickly losing its structural integrity.

  More zombies appeared in the Pod B corridor through the smoke beyond the fire door. Houseman glanced in their direction, and then back at Brad. His face so recently filled with fear and dismay suddenly calmed. Brad guessed his intentions as Houseman pushed away from the wall and stepped through the fire door. Brad stepped forward to stop the injured man; then stopped. Houseman was a dead man and he knew it. He had the right to choose in what manner he wished to end his own life. He had made his decision. His eyes held Brad’s for a moment as he leaned into the heavy door to close it from the other side. A sad smile played on his lips in the final few seconds before the door shut. Brad’s last glimpse through the door was of a wall of flame rushing down the corridor like a rampaging beast, immolating the zombies in its path, and Houseman.

  He turned away from the door. Bain and Lester were staring at him in astonishment. The flashlight in Bain’s shaking hand cast the corridor in a strobe-like effect. Brad noticed Liz in the corridor outside the galley, washed in candlelight.

  “We have to leave now,” he said. “We don’t have much time.”

  12

  Liz felt the building vibrate seconds before she heard the explosion. She immediately knew something had gone terribly wrong. In the kitchen, Mullins and the cook dodged heavy pots falling from their racks, clattering to the tile floor. Stacks of dishes toppled and crashed. Mullions rushed to shut off the gas to the stoves. In the cafeteria, windows cracked. Tables and chairs danced around the room. The emergency lights went out, leaving them in candlelight. A single scream pierced the gloom. Loud moans and groans reminded her that others were as frightened as she was.

  “Stay calm,” she urged, though her own lack of composure provided no example. Her hands shook so badly that she reached down to clutch her thighs to hide their trembling, glad for the dim lighting. However, she couldn’t hide her apprehension. She suspected that Brad and the others were near the source of the explosion and feared for his safety. Moments later, a second shudder rippled through the building. Glass exploded from the cracked windows peppering people with shards of glass. A water pipe burst, extinguishing most of the candles in a shower of water. One of the one-inch-diameter gas pipes on the ceiling snapped in half and fell, impaling a dim figure against the wall. His agonized scream ended abruptly as the floor canted several degrees. Gas hissed from the ruptured pipe. It was becoming too dangerous to remain where they were. Liz reversed her original decision.

  “We must leave,” she called out. “Grab your coats and food and water. Hurry!”

  “Where are we going?” someone asked.

  She turned on them. “It doesn’t matter. We can’t stay here.”

  She stepped into the corridor just as rifle shots rang out. She pressed against the wall to avoid being accidently shot. Flames rushing down the corridor from the opposite end of the base silhouetted several figures. They suddenly disappeared as the emergency door slammed shut, closed by someone from the far side. Relief flooded over her when she saw Brad illuminated by the beam of a flashlight. She ran up to him and hugged him.

  “What’s happening?”

  He pushed her away and laid his hands on her shoulders. “The building’s on fire. It’s collapsing. We have to get everyone out.”

  She nodded. “They’re getting ready now.”

  He smiled at her. This simple act calmed her more than any words could have. “Good job. We have to get to the garage. It’s our only chance.”

  She rushed back to the galley. The confusion and panic had settled into a kind of quiet stampede. People gathered winter gear and grabbed cases of water and food. She slipped her arm around one man still too weak to manage on his own. Acting as part den mother-part subway conductor, she urged her wards to move more quickly. The scream of grinding metal grew in volume as girders twisted by the heat collapsed under the weight of the building. Each weakened leg placed more stress on the remaining supports. They could give way at any time, bringing the entire structure down around them.

  Their only was through the Beer Can. She led the way. With so many windows shattered by the death contortions of the base, the hollow structure had become a chimney, funneling smoke from the lower level. She raced down the stairs through an acrid haze of blinding smoke that bit her throat. She covered her mouth and nose with one hand in a futile effort to keep out the smoke as she supported the weak man with the other. As they reached the first level, waves of scorching heat swept down the corridor. Flames had already reached the greenhouse. The sizzle of the hydroponic liquid reminded her of the sound of grease in a hot skillet. The laundry room was ablaze. Water gushed from freshly thawed broken pipes and sprayed the walls, but had no effect on the spreading flames. She panicked when she lost sight of Brad in the smoke, but then she caught a glimpse of him ducking back into the building and entering the emergency supply room. She choked on the thickening smoke, waiting breathlessly for him to reappear. The man she was helping down the stairs grew restless, pulled away from her, and began hobbling down the stairs in his haste to escape the flames. She breathed a sigh of relief when Brad re-emerged a minute later loaded down with blankets.

  “Go on,” Brad urged, as he pushed her ahead of him, glancing over his shoulder to make certain no one was left behind. She caught up with her ward, grabbed him around the waist, and propelled him down the stairs ahead of her, hoping he didn’t stumble.

  Flames engulfed the entire building on both levels. Walls exploded and collapsed inward. The ceiling crumbled into the corridor, dumping blazing piles of furniture and equipment from the upper level, blocking the corridor and preventing the exit of anyone left trapped inside. The Beer Can swayed like a tree in a hurricane as the rest of the building began to pull away from the structure with the sound of paper tearing. The stairs bucked beneath her feet as they sheered away from their steel supports with a popping sound. She paused to look back, shocked that a building could burn so quickly. Not just any building, she reminded herself. It had been her home for two years. Her few mementos were lost, her clothes, her hairbrush. She thought it petty and silly that she could think of such things amid such tragedy.

  They reached the ice tunnels beneath the building. Water, freed from its frozen state for the first time in millennia, poured in steady torrents from the sculpted ceiling. Liz groped her way blindly with her right hand outstretched to touch the wet wall to keep her bearings. The ground shuddered as explosions rocked the base, sending blasts of hot air down the tunnel. She felt a moment of claustrophobia, fearing that the ceiling would collapse and trap her beneath tons of ice and snow. Finally, a rectangle of light ahead allowed her to get her bearings. Figures silhouetted by the light disappeared as they burst out of the tunnel into the garage. Hughes and DeSousa met them there, waving flashlights.

  “Is this everyone?” Hughes asked.

  Liz nodded mutely as she helped her ward sit on the floor. She looked into his face expecting to see pain but saw only mute horror. “No one alive behind me,” she intoned with numbness in her voice that was rapidly overtaking her body.

  Hughes closed the door, cutting off the smoke pouring down the ice tunnel. “We should be safe here. The tunnels will collapse and provide a firebreak. How bad is it?”

  “The entire building’s on fire and collapsing,” Brad ans
wered. “The fire door didn’t hold.”

  “What happened?”

  “Overton, that’s what happened,” Lester said, glaring at Brad. “The crazy bastard opened all the doors and let the zombies in, and then he started a fire in the emergency generator room.” He rubbed his scorched arms. “I feel like a piece of toast.”

  Liz could see in Brad’s eyes that he felt responsible for the disaster. He had been the one who prevented them from hunting for Overton. He marched away from Lester and Hughes to one of the snowmobiles where he leaned. Liz shot Lester a deprecatory look and followed Brad.

  “It’s not your fault, Brad,” she said. “Overton was insane.”

  He raised his head and looked at her. His face was awash with pain and regret. “No, it is my fault. I should have gone after him the first time, tried to help him. Now, Houseman’s dead and the base is gone.”

  His gaze wandered the garage. Her eyes followed his. In the poorly lit interior, she saw very little other than the vehicles and drums of oil, antifreeze, and diesel fuel stacked along one wall. A winch dangled long chains from a ceiling beam overhead. A long workbench, scattered with tools, and a storage locker took up most of a second wall. The remaining wall was bare. She made a quick mental inventory and noted very little to sustain them – no food, no water, not even a warm place to sleep. The base, containing all their supplies, was a blazing inferno.

  As if reading her mind, Brad said, “We have no power, no heat, and very little food. We can’t stay here.”

  His statement surprised her. “I thought you said it would be too dangerous trying to reach McMurdo in the dark.”

  He held out his hands, and then made fists and shook them, as if he were searching for a target on which to take out his frustration. His jaw tightened. “We have no choice,” he forced out through clenched teeth. He dropped his arms to his side and sighed. “We can either eat up all our food waiting for help that might never arrive, or we can try for McMurdo.”