Chill Factor: Ice Station Zombie 2

by JE Gurley

  She glanced at the people around her. They were frightened and unsure of what was happening. Some huddled for warmth around the two kerosene heaters someone had lit. Most, too dazed by events even to notice the heaters, milled aimlessly around the garage. She realized with a heavy heart that Brad was right, but it didn’t ease her apprehension. “Some of these people are still too weak. It took all their energy just to manage this far.”

  Another long sigh noted his frustration. “Then we have to wait, but not too long. We don’t know what we’ll find at McMurdo.”

  He had touched upon another of her fears. They were a long way from McMurdo, and McMurdo was a long way from anywhere else. They were isolated and most of the zombies were dead, consumed by the fire that had also consumed their supplies. Their biggest threat now was starvation or freezing. How could they cope with hundreds or even tens of thousands of zombies?

  Hughes walked over shaking his head. “I guess you realize that we’re screwed.” He waited for Brad to challenge him. When Brad said nothing, Hughes continued, “I’ve been taking inventory. We have enough food to last maybe three weeks if we stretch it. Water we can get from snow and ice, but every drop of fuel we burn for heat means just that much less for the vehicles.”

  Brad considered their options, which were few. “Check the Kharkovchanka. Maybe there’s food in it. We’ll sift the ashes of the base for anything edible if we have to. These people are our responsibility.”

  “Any ideas?”

  “McMurdo,” Brad replied.

  Liz expected Hughes to object and was surprised when he nodded.

  “It won’t be easy,” Hughes said, “but Deen and Wilkie drove a convoy up the snow road. They can help. I’ll prep the vehicles.”

  “We can’t leave yet.”

  Hughes frowned. “Why not?”

  Brad glanced at Liz. “In Liz’s opinion these people are too weak to make the journey. They need time to recuperate.”

  Hughes’ scowl betrayed what he thought of Liz’s judgment. “Let ‘em rest up along the way. Time’s ticking away.”

  Liz took umbrage at Hughes’ dismissal of her medical advice. Health matters were her responsibility. “They need food and rest. If we leave now, some might die.”

  “We might all die,” Hughes snapped.

  “If you’re so frightened, take a Sno-Cat and leave.” She waved her hand at one of the vehicles in the garage. “It’s my job to keep these people alive.”

  “I’m staying with her,” Brad said.

  Hughes half turned away, and then spun back around. She tensed, expecting him to lash out at her. Instead, he smiled. “Damn, you’re stubborn.” He looked at Brad. “Both of you. Well, I guess I’m in. I never expected to live forever.”

  As Hughes walked away, Brad reached out and grasped her hand. She surprised both him and herself by kissing him. His enthusiastic response roused a stirring within her breast that she hadn’t felt in a long time, not since the early days of her failed marriage. She let the kiss go on for what seemed like an eternity, but was probably only a few seconds, and then broke away with reluctance.

  “Thank you, Brad,” she said.

  “Mmm. Thank you.”

  She wanted to stay with him, wrap herself in his arms, but she was a doctor. She couldn’t prevent them dying from the zombie plague, but she could make certain they didn’t die from complications of starvation. “I have to see to my patients.”

  1 3

  Sept. 6, the ruins of Amundsen-Scott Base, Antarctica

  On the fourth day after the fire, Brad, Hughes, Bain, and Wilkie ventured outside to explore the ruins. Brad’s heart sank when he saw what was left of Amundsen-Scott Base. The ashes had grown cold, but wisps of smoke still rose from lingering hotspots in the ruins as fires smoldered deep beneath piles of twisted metal and charred equipment. Melted snow and ice had refrozen into beautiful, exotic crystalline shapes that might have been beautiful elsewhere if they did not serve as markers for so many graves. Pod B, the source of the fire, was completely gone, reduced to rubble. Pod A had fared better, but the flames had gutted the interior. A few zombies driven away by the fire wandered the outlying edges of the base among the drums of fuel and storage containers, but they didn’t come near the sad remnants of the former technological marvel of Amundsen-Scott Base.

  “The good news is that radiation levels haven’t increased,” Bain announced. “The bad news is that the temperature is near freezing.”

  “I can live with that,” Brad replied.

  “Well, actually, that’s very bad news. We have to traverse ice bridges, glaciers and an ice shelf to reach McMurdo. We’re on a sea of ice, constantly moving. It wouldn’t do to fall into a thousand-meter-deep crevasse.”

  Brad hadn’t considered that possibility. Had they delayed too long already? During the Antarctic winter, one didn’t normally think about the ice thawing.

  Digging through the ashes, they had found nothing useful – no food, no blankets, and no weapons. The fire had consumed everything. Brad eyed the storage trailers among the heavy equipment.

  “What’s in those?”

  “Spare parts for generators, spare scientific equipment, camping gear for summer expeditions – no food,” Hughes said. “That was all there.” He pointed to the ruins.

  “Anything in the Ice Cube labs? I know there’s nothing at the telescope,” Brad paused before continuing, “except maybe a bag of chips and a cherry soda or two.” He winced inwardly as he thought of Overton, whose love of cherry colas and salt and vinegar potato chips had almost caused a rift between them when an empty potato chip bag had jammed the telescope’s delicate gears, ruining a full night’s work. Overton and Walls had been his closest friends. Now, both were dead.

  Hughes’ voice was bitter as he replied, “If there were, Mclean and I would still be there.”

  Hughes’ mention of Mclean reminded Brad that everyone among them had lost friends. It was a shared loss. He noticed two zombies coming toward them. “We had better go back before we draw too much attention.”

  Liz met him as he entered the garage. The broad smile she lavished upon him warmed his heart. The smile vanished as she noticed they had brought back nothing with them.

  “No supplies?” she asked.

  “Not a crumb,” Hughes answered. He went directly to the huge Russian tractor, where he had been spending most of this time. Wilkie joined him.

  “There’s nothing left of the base, just ashes,” Brad told her.

  He could tell that his news jolted her, but she recovered quickly. “We’ll make do with what we have.”

  “I’m going to go warm up,” Bain said, rubbing his hands together.

  To provide sufficient space for all the survivors, they had sealed off a small corner of the garage with plastic sheeting as a living area, reducing the need to heat the entire garage. The two kerosene heaters kept the space toasty and warm. Bain pushed through the plastic barrier and disappeared inside. The space was tight and confining, but not as confining as the snow tractors would be on the trip. Piles of blankets on the floor, sleeping bags, and a few cots provided places to sleep. Meals were as lavish as they could make them to help replenish the strength of the weak. To conserve the bottled water for the trip, they melted ice and snow for drinking and washing. Melted ice didn’t taste as good as the water supplied by the base’s water plant, but without power, the plant was useless, and without waste heat from the generators, the well was froze solid. An unheated, makeshift portable latrine provided for their sanitary needs – uncomfortable but functional.

  The health and overall condition of most of the survivors had improved steadily with an improved diet and a sense of security. They were consuming precious food and fuel at an alarming rate, but the half-starved survivors needed calories to replace lost muscle mass during their confinement. The human body burns more calories in cold climates, up to four-thousand per day just to stay warm. Every pound of food, every gallon of fuel used for heating impr
oved their health, but reduced their chances of reaching McMurdo alive.

  “We can’t delay any longer,” Brad said. “We have to try for McMurdo.” He nodded his head toward the people inside the shelter. “Can they make it?”

  Her hesitation concerned him. He trusted her medical opinion but hoped that she didn’t err on the side of too much concern for her patients. She delivered her assessment cautiously.

  “Most of them can. A few … I’m not sure. Must we leave so soon? A few more days …”

  Brad cut her off. He understood her reluctance, but they had to consider the welfare of the entire group, not just a few. “We don’t have a few more days. Each day depletes our supplies just that much more. We don’t know what we’ll find at McMurdo. I don’t want to resort to eating seals like Shackleton’s Endurance crew on Elephant Island to stay alive. Start getting them ready to leave.”

  She nodded and left. He hated to be harsh with her. He loved her. He knew that now. Their relationship had turned a corner in the last few days, not sexually consummated in the crowded shelter, but a mental and spiritual joining of their two kindred souls. They needed each other. She relied on his strength, and he relied on her humanity. Now was the time for strength.

  He joined Hughes and Wilkie as they worked on the Kharkovchanka. The big Russian tractor could hold all of them, but by using both Sno-Cats, they would reduce crowding. It was an unspoken thought among them that by dividing the survivors among the three vehicles on the journey, they tripled the chances that at least some would get through. The trek would be treacherous, especially at night. With no functioning GPS, the stars and landmarks would be their only means of navigation just as the early sailing ships had reached Antarctica in the early 1800’s.

  “Will it make it?” he asked Hughes.

  Hughes emerged from beneath the tractor with grease smearing his face. He dropped a large wrench into a toolbox and wiped his face and hands with a rag.

  “It’s a twenty-five-year-old piece of shit, but it’ll make it.” He reached out and patted the Kharkovchanka’s side. “The Russian’s made these babies to last. It drinks diesel like a sponge and drives like a barge, but it can handle anything thrown at it.”

  “What about the Sno-Cats?”

  “They’re ready to go, but only four of us have any real experience driving – DeSousa, Wilkie, Deen, and myself.”

  “I can handle a snowmobile.”

  Hughes smiled. “That’s like the difference between a canoe and an aircraft carrier.”

  “You can give me lessons along the way.”

  Hughes nodded. “If you’re game.” He looked at Brad, noticed the hardness in his face, and smiled. “So, when are we leaving?”

  “Soon. We can’t waste any more time.”

  “We’re going to need more fuel for the journey.” He waved a hand at the drums along the wall. “Most of these are oil or hydraulic fluid.”

  “Where’s the diesel?”

  Hughes pointed outside. “Out there. With the zombies.”

  * * * *

  An hour later, Brad and Hughes left on one of the snowmobiles pulling a sledge. A second vehicle carried Leonard Morgan and Lars Hendrickson, who had agreed to join them, while Wilkie and Lester loaded supplies onto the Russian tractor and the Sno-Cats. Morgan, at sixty-one, was older than most of the over-winterers, but as an avid hiker and a legendary health-food guru, his age was no hindrance. He had come to the Antarctic to test his pet theories on caloric content. Hendrickson, a botanist, was out of his element on the ice but he had grown weary of the confines of the garage shelter. Only Hughes and Brad carried weapons, as neither of the others professed any competency with firearms.

  They located the storage container containing fuel drums, broke the lock and shoveled away three feet of blown snow that blocked the doors. The drums of JP-8 diesel were marked clearly. They managed to load eight drums onto the sledge before the first zombie appeared. Hughes shot it, but the sound drew more of the creatures.

  “We need to secure these drum s on the sledge,” Brad told them.

  Morgan grabbed a strap and began to wrap it around the drums. Hendrickson helped, but he focused most of his attention on searching the area for zombies.

  “Hurry,” Brad urged.

  Reluctantly, Hendrickson took one end of the strap and held it in place as Brad began to tighten it. At the sound of a second shot from Hughes, Hendrickson dropped the strap and backed quickly away from the sledge, staring back toward the base.

  “Come back, you fool!” Morgan called out. “We need you.”

  Hughes appeared from around the side of the container. “You’d better hurry. There are six more of them.”

  This was all Hendrickson needed to hear. He made a guttural sound deep in his throat and ran toward the second snowmobile. Hughes took up the slack of the strap as Brad secured the drums. The sound of the snowmobile cranking surprised them all. Hendrickson wasn’t waiting on anyone. He was saving himself first. Hughes and Morgan jumped on the vehicle pulling the sledge, while Brad grabbed his rifle and hopped onto the sledge on top of the fuel drums. The six zombies were getting too close. He dropped one with a shot to the head, but missed the second as the sledge jerked when Hughes gunned the engine. Laden with the heavy drums, the zombies were catching up to them quickly.

  Hendrickson, ahead of them but unfamiliar with the snowmobile, turned too sharply and flipped it. He tumbled away from it and lay there stunned. Hughes pulled alongside the wrecked snowmobile and yelled at Hendrickson.

  “Get on!”

  Hendrickson, either ashamed of his actions or frightened by the rifle in Brad’s hands, rose to his feet and began limping away from them. As Brad climbed down from the drums to go help Hendrickson, the sledge began moving.

  “Wait!” he yelled to Hughes.

  “No,” Hughes answered and continued toward the base.

  Brad felt pity for the frightened and confused Hendrickson, but he had abandoned them. Now they had to abandon him. When Hendrickson noticed he was going in the wrong direction, he turned and began to retrace his steps, but with his injuries, he was too slow. The zombies caught him before he reached the snowmobile. The creatures dragged him to the snow and began tearing at his body with teeth and hands. Hendrickson’s screams lasted almost a full minute before thankfully, the wind and the roar of the snowmobile muffled them.

  Back in the safety of the garage, Brad leaped off the sledge to confront Hughes. “You could have waited.”

  “We all risked our lives for that diesel. We need it to reach McMurdo. Hendrickson made a poor decision. In the Antarctic, poor decisions kill.”

  As Hughes turned to walk away, Brad, not satisfied with Hughes’ explanation, grabbed him by the elbow and spun him around. “We could have shot the zombies.”

  Hughes’s expression took a darker side. His lips tightened and his nostrils flared. He slapped away Brad’s hand and growled, “Leaving was your decision. Do you want to risk everyone’s lives for one stupid, frightened man?”

  “So you think leaving for McMurdo is my poor decision.”

  “I would go. Bringing everyone is your decision. We’ll have to wait and see if it was a poor one.” The anger left Hughes’ face. “I have to fuel the tractors.”

  This time, Brad let him go. His argument wasn’t with Hughes; it was with himself. Hughes was a survivor and he might be right. Brad knew enough about battlefield triage to know that sometimes you had to ignore those who couldn’t make it to concentrate on those who could. Hendrickson had panicked and it had cost him his life. In his gut, Brad knew that before they reached safety, more would die. It didn’t make things any easier to stomach. To vent his anger, he kicked an empty can. It flew through the air and bounced off the wall, rattling across the floor to a spinning stop. He felt no better.

  1 4

  Sept. 7, Amundsen-Scott Base, Antarctica

  Liz ignored the noisy arguments around her as she helped Vince Singleterry, the man she had help
ed escape from the fire, into the rear of one of the Sno-Cats. Singleterry was still pale and weak. She suspected that he suffered from more than simple malnourishment, perhaps a weak heart, but she had no equipment with which to verify her diagnosis. Even her stethoscope had been lost in the fire. She should have ridden with Singleterry, but as she waited for Brad, someone pushed in ahead of her. She was disappointed to see Brad climb into a Sno-Cat beside Hughes without coming to her before leaving. He had been unnaturally quiet since his return with the diesel fuel, but she attributed his disposition to the loss of Hendrickson. He had confided that he and Hughes had words but didn’t elaborate.

  She brushed her hair away from her eyes, dismayed by its condition. It was filthy, hung limply and lifeless, and clung to her scalp. The heat of the fire had singed a few stray strands of hair. They had no water to spare for washing. Looking at the dirty faces of those around her, she imagined her face looked no better. She picked up a handful of snow, rubbed it in her face, and then wiped it away with her sleeve. It might not improve her looks, but the cold snow invigorated her. She walked dejectedly to the Kharkovchanka alone.

  The interior of the Russian vehicle was toasty and warm, a stark contrast to the chilly garage with the doors flung wide open. The wind had picked up and whipped into the building relentlessly, as if it wished to scour the remaining traces of mankind from the ice. She removed her heavy parka and sat back on one of the bunks to catch her breath after the mad dash to load everyone. The tractor jerked as it moved forward. DeSousa was wasting no time leaving.

  Through the round, ice-rimmed window of the tractor, she gazed at the ruins that had been her home for two years. Barely visible through the blowing snow, the remnants of Pod B had collapsed into a depression in the ice gouged by the intense heat. Only its roof protruded from its icy grave. Pod A, her office, her home, sloped some thirty degrees toward its gutted twin. Flames, rekindled by the wind, licked the canted roof through broken windows. The aptly named Beer Can lay on its side like a discarded, crushed beverage container. Flames reached skyward through cracks in the ice from the underground power plant, washing the death scene with a macabre orange-crimson glow that reminded her of a portrait of hell. She watched the flickering inferno until it disappeared behind the tractor as DeSousa nosed the chunky, thirty-foot-Kharkovchanka north toward McMurdo and safety.