Robert Masello - Blood and Ice

“Good God,” Sinclair heard Rutherford mutter. “What was the man trying to do?”

Sinclair had no idea, but to see Captain Nolan, the most capable rider in the whole British cavalry, slain so soon, did not bode well. The pace of the brigade increased, but only slightly. Lord Cardigan, who had still not so much as turned in his saddle to ascertain Nolan's fate, was leading the troops in close formation and at a measured pace, for all the world as if they were simply performing a drill on a parade ground, rather than marching into a mounting cascade of fire.

“Close in!” Sinclair heard Sergeant Hatch call out behind him, ordering the riders to move up and fill in the gaps left by fallen men and horses. “Close in to the center!”

The pace picked up, and Ajax lowered his chestnut muzzle, with its blaze of white, and carried Sinclair forward, his sword and sabretache slapping at his side, his helmet lowered to shield his eyes from the bright sun. The shaft of the lance grew unwieldy in his hand, and he longed for the order to lower it and cradle it beneath his arm. And he prayed that he would survive long enough to use it.

Halfway down the valley, the brigade had come within the withering cross fire of the cannons and infantry rifles on both the Causeway Heights and the Fedioukine Hills. Musket balls and cannon shells, grapeshot and round, whizzed and blazed through the ranks, tearing into the horses’ flanks, or knocking the riders clear out of their saddles. The troopers could no longer restrain their terrified horses, or for that matter restrain themselves, and the ranks became increasingly disarrayed as horses and men galloped forward, desperate to escape the deadly hail. Sinclair heard cheers and prayers, mingled with the agonized shrieks of wounded horses and the screams of dying men.

“Come on, Seventeenth Lancers!” he heard Sergeant Hatch shout, as his horse drew along Sinclair's right side. “Don't let the 13th get there before us!”

Where was young Owens, Sinclair wondered, or his horse? He had not even seen the man killed.

A bugle sounded, and Sinclair at last lowered his lance, and touched his spurs to Ajax's heaving sides. The battlefield was so clouded with smoke and dust and debris that Sinclair could barely make out the gun battery ahead. He could see flashes of flame, and hear the cannonballs crashing through the lines, taking out a dozen men at once as if they were ninepins. The noise was deafening, so loud and harsh that he could hear nothing but a ringing din. His eyes burned from the smoke and fire, and his blood was pounding in his veins. Horsemen who had charged ahead of him were scattered on the ground, blown to pieces, their steeds struggling to rise on shattered or missing legs. Ajax leapt over a standard-bearer, draped across his headless mount, and confident in his master, galloped bravely into the maelstrom. The ground hurtled past as Sinclair struggled to hold the lance straight and true. Not more than fifty yards away, he could glimpse the gray uniforms and low-brimmed caps of the Russian gunners, as they frantically loaded another shell into the cannon. He was riding straight for its barrel as they rammed the cannonball home, but he could not get out of its way. Sergeant Hatch was close on one side, and Rutherford's horse, keening with fright, was keeping him company on the other; the empty stirrups clanked, but there wasn't any sign of its rider. Sinclair would have no choice but to vault over the gun before it could be fired. He heard cries in Russian, saw a sputtering orange torch being touched to a fuse, and with his head down and his lance extended toward the man who held the flame, he charged the gun. Ajax leapt into the air just as the cannon went off, and the last thing Sinclair remembered was flying blind through a red-hot stew of blood and smoke, guts and gunpowder… and then nothing.

December 16, 11:45 a.m.

Just when Charlotte had started to think this might not be such a bad gig, after all-terrible weather and camp fever, true, but no big medical crises to deal with-all hell had started breaking loose.

First, Danzig had been attacked and killed by his own husky and now- now Murphy was trying to tell her that the mutilated body lying before her on the floor of the botany lab was the dead Danzig's handiwork.

“That's not possible,” she said, for the hundredth time. “I pronounced Danzig dead myself. I stitched his throat closed with my own two hands, I hit him twice-no, three times-with the defib paddles, and I saw him flatline.” She knelt and put a hand to the side of Ackerley's cold neck. “And I saw him zipped into the body bag.”

“Well, somehow he got out,” Murphy insisted. “That's all I can tell you. Wilde and Lawson both swear to it.”

If she didn't know better, she'd have asked if they were drunk at the time, or flying high on something even more potent. But she knew Michael and she knew Lawson and she knew they would never make up anything so awful. And this was indeed about as awful as it could get. The throat and shoulders had been savagely torn, and the gushing blood had saturated his shirt and pants. Somehow his glasses, though spattered with gore, had managed to stay on throughout the attack. Whoever, or whatever, had done this, was something far worse than anything she had encountered even on the worst night in the Chicago ER.

“I know you'll want to do a more thorough exam,” Murphy said, nervously pacing behind her, “but in view of what's happened to Danzig, I'm not taking any chances.” She had already noticed the telltale bulge of a gun and holster under his coat.

“What's that mean?”

“I'll show you.”

What it meant, Charlotte discovered, was that the body was to be packed up and then loaded, by the two of them, onto a toboggan, which they then dragged, as inconspicuously as they could, around the back of the out buildings and to a seldom-used storage shed and meat locker. The old meat locker turned out to be a cavernous, dilapidated shed. In it, there were crates of Coke and beer and culinary supplies. Murphy went all the way to the back, then with one arm swept a couple of cans and utensils off a long crate about three feet high. A thick metal pipe, with flaking red paint, ran along the wall just above it.

“Let's lay him down here,” he said. Murphy took the shoulders, and Charlotte the feet, and they put the body down as gently and respectfully as they could. As Charlotte straightened up, she saw that the crate was stamped, in black letters, MIXED CONDIMENTS: HEINZ.

“And why is this better than taking him to the infirmary for the autopsy?” Charlotte said.

“Because we can keep it quiet,” Murphy replied, “at least for a while. And it's safer here.”

“Safer from what?” Whatever that Danzig situation turned out to be, did the chief really think that this mutilated corpse was going to make a comeback?

Murphy didn't answer that, but she certainly didn't like the look in his eye, or the pair of handcuffs-handcuffs? — that she now saw dangling from his back pocket. “Give me a minute alone, will you?” he said. “I'll be right out.”

Charlotte went outside and stood on the ramp. The wind had really kicked up-a storm was blowing in. What in the world was going on here? Two dead in a matter of days? And though she felt terrible even thinking about it that way on a personal note she did have to wonder-was this going to look bad on her record as resident medical officer of Point Adelie?

“All squared away” Murphy said, coming up behind her and securing the door with a padlock and chain, wrapped in a tight plastic sleeve to keep the moisture out. “Needless to say, I've told Uncle Barney that this unit is off-limits till further notice.”