Robert Masello - Blood and Ice

After everyone had spoken, Murphy haltingly led them in a recitation of the Lord's Prayer, and when a few moments of silence had passed, Franklin sat at the piano in the corner, and played a rousing version of the old Bob Seger hit, “Old Time Rock ‘n’ Roll.” It was one of Danzig's favorite songs, and Franklin was able to give it a suitably gritty rendition. A lot of the others joined in on the lines, “Today's music ain't got the same soul, I like that old time rock ‘n’ roll!” And when the music died down, Uncle Barney announced that, in Danzig's honor, hot grits and gravy were being served in the commons.

On the way out, Murphy waved Michael and Lawson over to one side and said, “You guys see Ackerley anywhere?”

Even when Spook was in the room, it was easy to miss him; he was that quiet and self-effacing. But Michael had to say no.

“Probably talking to his plants,” Lawson said, “and lost all track of time.”

Murphy nodded in agreement, but said, “You mind going to see if he's okay? I just tried him on the intercom but he's not picking up.”

Although Michael had hoped to join Charlotte and Darryl in the commons-he'd spent the whole day making notes in his room and had pretty much forgotten to eat-he could hardly say no.

“Don't worry,” Murphy said, “I'll be sure to save you some grits.” He turned to Lawson. “But how's your leg? You up to it?”

Lawson, who'd dropped the ski gear on his ankle, said, “It's fine-no problem at all. Use it or lose it.”

To Michael, he always sounded a little like a coach on the sidelines of a big game.

“Might want to use some poles,” Murphy said, and Lawson agreed. “Wind's gusting at eighty miles per hour.”

They suited up and grabbed some ski poles from the equipment locker, and while the others poured into the brightly lighted commons, they turned the other way, up a long bleak concourse where the wind was whipping up little cyclones of ice and snow and sending them whirling, like tops, back and forth from one side to the other. Some gusts were so strong that Michael was blown back against a wall or half-buried fence, and had to wait to push off again until the wind had died down. Not that it ever stopped. There were times, in Antarctica, when you wished for nothing more than stillness, a temporary truce with the elements, a chance to stand still and catch your breath and look up at the sky. The sky could be so beautiful-so blue and pristine it looked like the most perfect thing imaginable, an enameled bowl fired to a hard blue glaze-and at other times, like now, it was simply a smudged bucket, a dull broad glare that was impossible to distinguish from the endless continent of empty ice it glowered over.

The ski poles were a good idea; Michael doubted he could have stayed upright without them. Lawson, with his sore ankle, would surely have been toppled. In fact, Michael made it a point to stay a couple of yards behind Lawson, just in case he went over and started to roll. Once the wind caught you and knocked you down on an icy patch, you could roll like a bowling ball until you hit some kind of obstruction; Michael had seen a beaker named Penske, a meteorologist, rolling past the Administration module one morning until he collided with the flagpole and hung on to it for dear life.

Michael rubbed one mitten across his goggles to clear away some of the snow, and for a second he wondered if he could make his fortune by marketing goggles at the South Pole that had their own windshield wipers. He'd have liked to call out to Lawson, to ask him if the leg was really okay or if he wanted to turn back, but he knew that the wind would blow the words right back into his mouth-and the temperature was so low you could crack your teeth if you kept your mouth open too long.

They made their way past the glaciology lab-Michael glanced inside for Ollie, but if the bird had learned anything so far, it was to stay inside the crate on a night like this-and the marine biology lab, and the climatology lab, until Michael saw Lawson heading off to the left, toward a big, rusted-out trailer squatting on its cinder blocks like an old red rooster. Bright light shone out through its narrow window panels.

Lawson stopped to rub his ankle under the rough wooden trellis that framed the ramp, and motioned for Michael to go on ahead. The door was a steel plate-dented, scratched, and covered with the faded remnants of Phish decals-and Michael banged on it with his fist. Then, having given warning, he shoved it open and went inside.

His goggles immediately fogged up, and he had to slip them back on top of his head. He parted some thick plastic curtains, threw his hood back, and found himself standing in a sea of metal shelves and cabinets, all at least six feet high, and crammed with samples of indigenous moss and lichens. There were little white labels, inscribed in a spidery hand, on each shelf or drawer. Fluorescent lights flickered in the ceiling, and from somewhere among the impenetrable racks he heard the tinny sound of cheap speakers playing an endless jam.

And he also heard something else-a low, wet, snurfling sound. When Lawson came through the door, Michael instinctively motioned for him to keep silent. Lawson looked puzzled, but Michael gestured for him to stay where he was, by the door, and then, still carrying his ski poles, he started to thread his way through the maze of cabinets. Could it be another one of the dogs, Michael wondered? Or more than one? Should he back off and call the chief for reinforcements? But what if Ackerley was in big trouble and needed help right now?

The music was getting louder, but so was the strange lapping sound. Like somebody slurping soup. Or cereal. Was that all it was? Ackerley, deaf to the world, eating a bowl of cornflakes and rocking out? Michael found himself wedged between two towering cabinets, one marked GLACIAL MORAINE, SW QUADRANT, and the other reading SPECIMENS, STROMVIKEN SITE. But there was a chewing sound, too, so maybe it wasn't cereal. More like a stew maybe. Why would you eat some microwaved crap in a lab trailer when Uncle Barney was serving up hot grits at the memorial dinner?

He peered through some of the shelves and saw a long lab counter, not so different from Darryl's, with a couple of sinks, a microscope, some bottles of chemicals. But no one was sitting on the lab stool. And now that he looked again, he saw that a couple of potted plants were upended, and one of them had smashed onto the floor. An iPod was cradled on a shelf between its own tiny speakers. Michael stepped out of the shelves and closer to the lab table. The eating noises were coming from the other side, from down near the floor, and as he moved around the corner, he saw the tips of two rubber boots, their clasps undone, sticking out. He gripped the ski poles harder.

The eating sound became a rending sound, like flesh being torn, and when he got all the way around, he saw first the broad expanse of a flannel shirt, stretched across the shoulders of a big man, huddled over a body on the floor, and busy at work. If he hadn't known better, Michael would have thought, in that first instant, that it was Danzig.

Who was dead.

He raised one of the sharp-tipped ski poles and shouted, for want of anything better to say, “Hey! You! Stop what-”

But he got no further. The huddled man's head whipped around, startled, the beard so matted with blood it looked like it had been coated with a bright red paintbrush. His eyes were red-rimmed, too, and blinking furiously. Michael was so stunned he fell back, and the man leapt up at him, snarling. One of the poles went flying, clattering against a cabinet, and Lawson hollered, “What's going on?” and started crashing through the labyrinth.

The man clutched at Michael's collar, almost as if seeking something- his help? — and his breath reeked of blood and decay. But worst of all, it was Danzig-dead and frozen Danzig, with his throat torn out by the dog-whose fingers were ripping at the fabric of Michael's coat. Michael staggered back against another set of shelves, and the whole rack toppled over, taking him and Danzig down onto the floor amid a hail of dirt and seeds. Michael banged him in the face with the handle of the pole, wishing he could somehow get the sharp end into action. Danzig's face hovered above his own, his teeth stained with blood. His eyes were black with rage and-though Michael would only have time to think of it later-a bottomless grief, too.