David Gilman - Ice Claw

The wind gusted; the cold metal van creaked. The clock was ticking. There was no time to scale these mountains to try and get past the barriers. Max climbed up the van’s rear ladder and yanked the restraining straps on Bobby’s covered surfboards.

The one that lay flat in the back of the van, where Sayid had worked out the message from the magic square, stayed as Sayid had intended-unnoticed by anyone, including Max.

It took twenty minutes of backbreaking effort to climb the eighty-odd meters to a narrow plateau. Once there he cast aside the windsurfer’s cover, readied the board, pulled on his goggles, shoved his feet into the supports and heaved up the sail. It crackled with energy. The wind funneled through crevasses and curves, snatched at the board’s wing and hurtled him forward. He nudged the sail, pulled the wishbone control bar to him and shredded the face of the snow wave. He needed speed, direction and a jump-off point to clear those inhospitable fences. This was Bobby’s own windsurfer. The champion had the fastest and the best, and Max didn’t know if he could handle it. Built for speed, the short board skimmed across the snowfield. Max tugged on the wishbone and the twelve-square-meter racing sail responded, the rigid aerofoil holding him on course. The wind gusted and he trimmed the sail again; it pulled at his shoulder sockets, while the cold air stung his cheeks. This was flying! He was really moving now. But it was no joy ride. He was speeding towards the lip of the rock’s curved snow face. When he hit that he would be plucked into the air, thrown like a sycamore seed into the wind, spiraling away-how helplessly he didn’t know. The angle of his takeoff dictated he would gain a lot of height quickly and then somersault. He was suddenly back in Mont la Croix and his snowboarding failure. He had to get a mighty lift here; control the topsy-turvy spin or he was finished. The razor wire could savage him and leave him bleeding to death, or, if he hit the electric fence, he was toast.

The board hissed across the snow. The wind chased him, white flurries tumbling ahead of the board’s snout. Max saw the void, the wind’s swirling confusion, the point of no return. Wham! The wind socked him, nearly wrenching the wishbone from his hands.

Silence. The board left the ground. A whoosh of air. The blurred, transparent sail creaked with pressure as it cartwheeled through space. Giddying images of the wire and electric fence swirled below him. Could he clear them? Did he have the distance? He seemed to be in the air forever. The board righted itself; he shifted his weight instinctively, helping the board find its balance. He thumped into the ground, nearly lost control, exactly as he had at the snowboarding competition, but this time he let the seat of his pants drag down in the snow and used the sail’s wishbone to keep the board steady. He had cleared everything by barely a few meters.

Max yelled a triumphant cry. That was better than any competition prize.

With a quick glance behind him, he saw Tishenko’s defenses. He’d beaten them. It gave him an added boost of strength. Nothing could stop him now. He was getting closer to the mountain and the man who held his friend. And closer to impending disaster.

Tishenko descended inside his mountain. Machinery and piping lay snug against the rock face: this was where the engineers and construction workers left all their equipment. The hoist lift was far removed from the supersmooth lifts that usually whisked him to his high lair. The open platform was used for bringing equipment down into this cavernous chamber.

Running water ran between the back of the cages and the wall, a sluice carrying melting ice that had tumbled into underground caverns and, as water will, sought out the line of least resistance. This was where Tishenko had kept captured animals over the years-before he honored them with the hunt.

Tishenko walked along the cages, the strong animal smell drawing him closer to one in particular. The additional chill of the cold water soothed the heat that seemed to always lie beneath the layer of his burnt skin. This was the last beast held captive. There had been no need to build the big square cages at this end of the cavern. Only the front wall, from where Tishenko’s men could toss dead fish and blubber-rich seal to the great creature, was rigid with bars. The remaining walls were translucent sheets of ice.

The near-freezing water from the sluice spilled into a pool before continuing on its journey. Ideal for one of the most fearsome creatures from the far north. The polar bear’s head broke the surface of the water, and it gazed at him. With a flurry of water the giant dragged itself clear and raised itself up to its full height.

Tishenko measured him with his eyes. He was magnificent. Over three meters high, weighing six hundred kilograms. Massive strength and unrivaled hunting skills. Frightening. Take the DNA of a wild hunting beast and merge it with human intelligence. What creature might be born from such a genetic union?

Climate change meant the bears were losing the ice earlier each year in the frozen wastelands of the Arctic. Their food resources were becoming scarcer and their aggression towards humans more pronounced. Tishenko had paid a small fortune to have him captured and brought here. He was the biggest, most aggressive male they could find. His DNA had been taken; now he would be the last animal Tishenko would hunt down before …

The thought of tomorrow stopped him. Tomorrow would be the most awesome of days.

His phone rang.

Sharkface had returned.

Max climbed around what appeared to be a massive entrance at the base of the mountain and, as he clambered hundreds of meters up the side of the mountain, he saw Sharkface’s 4?4 pass beneath him and disappear from view. He told himself he’d made the correct decision by stealing the boat. Sharkface must have been held up by traffic.

Max scanned the uninviting rocks. There were several fissures in the almost sheer face of the north wall. This coldest and darkest side, encrusted with snow and ice, offered no easy climb, but Max spotted a cleft that would allow him to edge towards one of the chimneylike funnels. Of all the ridges and crevasses only one did not have snow or ice on its rim. Warm air was coming up from somewhere. It had to be an opening. That was Max’s way in. Don’t go where your mind hasn’t been first . Max studied the route, visualized where to climb, identifying footholds and fist-jams.

It took almost an hour to free-climb across the treacherous face of the mountain. As he edged higher he saw the distant sun devoured by jawlike peaks. To the north a rumble of thunder heralded the beginning of a storm. It was at least eighty or ninety kilometers away, but Max knew that if it advanced rapidly this was the last place he wanted to be. A crevasse on a mountainside was a favorite place for lightning strikes.

Max squeezed down into the chimney, his headlamp casting its light a few meters beneath his feet. The sharp rock split about ten meters below. Bracing his back and legs, he edged downwards. From the void to the left, too narrow to clamber through, was the unmistakable smell of animals-like a zoo-pungent and rich. There were no sounds, but it was this rising air that had warmed the chimney. The tunnel below his feet on the right was wider and he might be able to squeeze down, but he could see the dull reflection of ice. An ice crevasse is impossible to descend without the right equipment. What was the choice? Climb back out? No. He’d get down the ice chute somehow.

Max wedged his legs against a sliver of rock, unslung his backpack and searched for a small plastic container, no bigger than a matchbox, that was tucked in a Velcro pocket. Sharp edges of rock caught his knees, sweat ran into his eyes, and if he slipped from this tenuous foothold he would plunge into the narrow pipe of rock and shatter his legs. Shock, pain and loss of blood would mean he’d be dead in less than an hour. The claustrophobic chimney started to get to him. He hated small spaces at the best of times, but imagination can make matters worse. No! The rock walls were not moving closer! He steadied himself, taking comfort from the headlamp’s glow.