Robert Masello - Blood and Ice

While the other seals had looked on, still unalarmed-indeed unconcerned, about what had just befallen their compatriot-he wiped his sword clean on the snow, then dragged his prize back to the sled. There would be provisions for some time to come… though what he and Eleanor would do in the longer term was as dire a prospect as it had ever been.

Sinclair was no sailor, but as someone who had been on the run for well over two years after Balaclava, he had learned to read the weather signs as well as anyone. He could tell that the temperature, brutal to begin with, was falling even more, and the sky on the far horizon was growing darker and more ominous by the minute. Under normal circumstances, Sinclair had a fine sense of direction- more than once he had advised his fellow cavalry officers on the proper course to follow-but in this accursed place it was well-nigh impossible. There was no night, so there were no stars, and there was no day-not day as one would commonly know it; how could one gauge the movement of a constant sun, or track shadows that barely changed? And as for landmarks, at times he could make out-though inland, and too distant to be reached-a black ridge of mountains, snaking through the otherwise flat expanse, like a jagged scar on a smooth white cheek. But that was about all.

Once he had gotten under way again, the weather changed even more rapidly, the wind buffeting the sled, the dogs often having to pull straight into it. He was fortunate to be wearing, atop his own uniform coat, the new red coat, with the white crosses on the back and sleeves, that he had salvaged from the shed-and to huddle behind the windbreak provided by the sled itself. His knees ached from crouching there, but to stand up was to risk being blown clear of the sled altogether. He worried, too, about Eleanor and what condition he would find her in. He had not liked to lock her in the rectory, but he feared for what she might do. Whether she was in possession of her wits, or temporarily out of them, he could not be sure.

From experience, he knew that the fever could come and go, like the bouts of malaria that Sergeant Hatch had endured, but he also knew that the terrible craving never went away. It was always there, sometimes running like an underground stream, at other times bursting forth and demanding gratification, and he wondered how Eleanor-slim as a reed at the best of times, and so young- continued to survive its relentless pull. Their affliction was at once their salvation, preserving them from a hundred mortal frailties, and the curse that held them forever in its own dark power. Liberator and jailer, simultaneously. There were times when he doubted Eleanor's will, and even her desire, to go on under such circumstances. But the force of his own will, he felt sure, was strong enough for them both. Whether she wished it so or not, she needed what he was bringing to her-and, above all, she needed him. He shouted at the dogs, urging them on, but the wind seemed to gather his words and fling them back into his chattering teeth.

December 16, 8:15 p.m.

Michael left the infirmary with his thoughts teeming. It was all too unbelievable, too astonishing, too impossible to comprehend. Had he really just been talking to someone who'd been frozen in the ice for over a hundred years before he'd even been born?

He had to calm down, he told himself. Take things logically. Go one step at a time. And just then, those first steps, as he clung fast to the guide ropes strung between the modules, took him past the glaciology lab. He knew that Danzig was out there somewhere, but why not make sure he wasn't just hiding out in the lair where his body had been deposited? Murphy had no doubt checked on it already, but Michael needed to confirm it with his own eyes. At least that would be one thing he could nail down, beyond any doubt, and if there was anything he needed at that moment, it was certainty. Of something. Anything.

With reality threatening to slip its moorings completely, he was more determined than ever to tie it to the dock.

Betty and Tina, to his relief, were nowhere in evidence. Warily, he clambered down the icy steps into the vault where Danzig's body had been laid. The plastic body bags had been ripped apart and lay in shreds on the frozen slab. The tableau reminded him, unavoidably of some terrible version of the resurrection. Jesus rising from his tomb and leaving only the shroud behind.

Once he climbed back to the top of the stairs, there was more bad news. When he stopped at the plasma crate to check on Ollie, he found the box empty. The wood shavings in back were still shaped like a nest, but apart from a loose gray feather or two, there was no sign of the bird at all. He took some fried grits from his pocket-he'd snagged them when he fetched the food for Eleanor-and dropped them in the box, in case the bird returned. It was only a skua, considered no more than Antarctic riffraff, but he was going to miss the little guy.

Then, with his head down, he made his way back, past the rec hall, where he could hear some raucous voices and piano playing. Normally, he might have gone in and joined them, but not right now. At the moment, all he wanted was time to think, alone, and let his thoughts settle.

Fortunately, Darryl was not in their room. He drew the curtains across the horizontal windowpane and turned on the desk lamp, with a rare incandescent bulb that he had “liberated” from a tiny lounge area at the end of the hall. Then he kicked off his shoes and sweaty socks and dug his toes into the shag carpet. Work. He just needed to focus for a while on his work; he'd been letting it slide. He took the bottle of Scotch from the shelf in the closet and poured himself three fingers’ worth. With his laptop on the table, he started downloading the dozens of photographs he'd taken since first arriving at Point Adelie. There were shots of the Weddell seals, which had been whelping on the ice floes for the first few days there, and others of the birds-the snowy petrels and assorted scavengers- who frequented the base. His fingers hovered over the keyboard for a second as he wondered anew what had become of Ollie.

There were shots of the dive hut, and a couple of Darryl inside it, looking like one of Santa's elves, in his full dry suit and his red hair wet and shining; in one, he was holding a speargun like a javelin over his shoulder. There were a bunch of pictures of Danzig and the dogs, some posed, and some that Michael had taken on the fly when the team was being exercised. And there was one with Kodiak licking the ice crystals from Danzig's beard. Selecting a few of the best shots, he moved them to a separate file. Then he downloaded another batch and found himself looking straight into the face of Sleeping Beauty.

Or Eleanor Ames, as he now knew.

Her eyes were open, and she was gazing out through a thick film of the ice. He enlarged the photo, and her green eyes came into even greater relief. It was as if they were looking right at him, and he felt as if he were looking right back. As if he were looking across a chasm of time, and the gulf between life and death. He took another sip of the Scotch. Was that indeed what he'd been doing?

The wind came up another notch and battered the sides of the module. The curtains stirred; the window would have to be closed more tightly.

Michael sat back, staring at the photo and wondering what Eleanor was doing now. Was she sleeping? Or was she awake and terrified by her new captivity?

And then he thought he heard something-a lot like a human cry-mingled with the howling wind. Rising from his chair, he parted the curtains, hooded his eyes, and looked outside, but in the swirling snow he couldn't see a thing. For that much, he was grateful. What could he have done, he wondered, if it had been Danzig…