Crawford Kilian - Icequake - A Prophetic Survival Thriller

“Sure.”

They wrestled the stretcher to the crew door. Al jumped a metre to the ground and carefully hauled the stretcher out into the pounding rain. The air was dank and cold, colder somehow than Antarctica had ever been. The light was failing fast.

Two fire trucks and three ambulances braked a few metres away, on the edge of the tarmac. The men who emerged from them wore dark-green rain ponchos over combat uniforms.

“This fellow need help?” one of them asked Al.

“He’s dead. But there’s a new born baby and her mother somewhere over near the rear cargo door.”

The man turned and gestured violently to the driver of one of the ambulances; it drove off at once towards the people milling about near the tail of the Hercules. The man turned back to Al. “Well, we’ll put this poor fellow in the ambulance. Better get in yourselves, before you’re soaked. We’ll have you all indoors in a jiffy.”

“Thanks.”

“Oh, wait a sec — is there fire on board?”

“No, at least not yet.”

“Right. See you later.”

Al and Gordon carried Ben’s body into the ambulance and sat awkwardly on the jump seats beside it. The driver smiled at them through the window behind his seat. Kyril clambered in after, and a moment later Hugh looked in. “Everyone all right?”

“ Okay - khorosho ,” Al nodded.

“Good.” He looked expressionlessly at the stretcher. “Thanks for getting him out. I’ve got to find whoever’s in charge here, and get in touch with the local CARP office.” He pushed rain-soaked hair off his forehead. “God, and I thought snow was a nuisance.”

They sat dripping in the ambulance, not saying much. A few minutes later the Dolans and Herm Northrop were escorted in by the man Al had first spoken to.

“We’ve got the rest of you in the other vehicles,” the man said as he climbed in. He offered Al his hand. “Ewan McDermott.”

“Al Neal.” He introduced the others and then asked, “What’s the military doing here?”

“We keep asking the same question. Christchurch is pretty quiet; it’s Wellington and Auckland that need us. A riot a night up there.”

“What in hell about?” Terry asked.

“Food, mostly.” McDermott looked surprised. “Or don’t you know what’s been happening? D’you know New Zealand’s under martial law?”

“No,” said Herm.

“Too true. That’s why I’m in this monkey suit — in real life I’m a physician. Between the weather and the ultraviolet and the energy shortage, it’s been pretty nasty. Not so bad as you fellows must have had it, of course, but—” He looked at Kyril, who gave him a toothless grin. “Are you all from New Shackleton?”

“Most of us,” Al said. “Kyril here, and a couple others, are from Vostok, and there are three Americans from Outer Willy.”

“From where?”

Al patiently explained. The doctor shook his head.

“Well, I’m afraid you’ve come from the frying pan into the fire,” he said.

“More like the freezer into the fridge,” said Herm.

There was a brief pause at the terminal building. Hugh and the officer in charge of Harewood had a hurried conversation before one ambulance was sent off to a nearby hospital with Jeanne, the baby, Will and Katerina. Dr. McDermott said to Al that everyone ought to go in hospital at least for a check-up, but there were just no beds available; they would have to be put up at a local hotel and examined the next day.

Hugh stayed at Harewood while everyone else was put on a wheezing bus, escorted by a couple of noncoms carrying side arms. The bus drove slowly away from the terminal building; there was no other traffic, and the parking lot in front of the building was empty.

“Gee, it looks dark and deserted,” Penny said. “It was a lot livelier last Christmas.”

“Not much need to come out to Harwood,” a noncom said. “No regular flights anymore, at least not for civilians.” He looked at his watch. “And it’s nearly 1700 — that’s when curfew starts.”

“Curfew?” Penny echoed.

“Till 0700. Makes life a lot easier. Nothin’ to do after dark, anyway.” He looked at her incuriously, clearly preoccupied with greater concerns than explaining the facts of life to naïve outsiders.

The bus stopped three times at military checkpoints before arriving at the Hotel Avon downtown. Across the deserted street was a park on the banks of the Avon River; the willows beside the water were obviously dead. Penny saw a statue in the park, looming dimly in the growing darkness. The noncoms escorted them out of the bus.

The hotel’s plate-glass doors were criss-crossed with heavy tape, and only a couple of lights burned in the lobby. The noncoms shepherded them inside and left without a word. A gaunt, sallow young man in a dirty brown polo-neck sweater came out from behind the reception desk.

“You’re the explorers, right? Well, Colonel Chase himself told us you were coming, but we didn’t have much notice. Anyway, uh, welcome back, and I hope you enjoy your stay with us.” He gave them an uncertain smile.

The restaurant, just off the lobby, was dim and obviously neglected. Two teenage girls were hastily setting a few of the tables and gawking over their shoulders as the newcomers came in and hung up their anoraks.

Penny sat down at one of the tables and looked warily around the room. “Not very festive, is it?” she muttered to Steve.

“Feels colder than the cab of the Sno-Cat.” Then he grinned and squeezed her hand. “Here I’ve been moaning for months about how awful it must be on the outside — but I always expected we’d get parades, TV interviews, a big fuss—”

“You really are a total egomaniac. Oh God, Steve, we’re really back.”

“We’re really back. Oh, thank you.” One of the girls was serving bottles of Kiwi Beer.

“You’re welcome. But I’m afraid there’s only one to a customer.”

Howie O’Rourke, at the next table, looked dumbfounded. “Only one? You’re kidding!”

She wasn’t. The meal itself was a local form of frozen TV dinner, with slices of lamb in a rigid gravy, scalloped potatoes and mushy peas. There were no second helpings. “Thank God for small favours,” Herm grinned sourly. The coffee was terrible, and there was only saccharin to put in it. Howie was recruiting for a raid on the kitchen when Hugh came into the room, accompanied by a badly sunburned colonel.

Someone started clapping, and then they were all on their feet, cheering, pounding on tables and whistling. Hugh, who had begun to speak to Carter, looked up; his surprise turned to embarrassed pleasure. When the uproar ended, he said:

“Thank you. I — can’t tell you how happy I am to see us all here. Before — before I say anything else, let’s remember Ben Whitcumb. We might never have got here without him.”

The room was silent; dishes clattered in the kitchen, and a girl sang as she worked.

Hugh looked up again. “And I must thank all of you. It’s proud that Shackleton would have been of you…” He hesitated and smiled shyly. “I could go on, but I’d sound like an ass. Would you mind if I shut up and let this fellow have a word with you? He’s an old friend, Colonel Tommy Chase.”

They thumped and applauded as Hugh sat down. Colonel Chase was a tall, heavy-set man in his forties, with a pink and peeling scalp and a pale strip around his eyes.

“Hugh — everyone — I wish we were able to give you the welcome you deserve, with bells ringing and reporters pestering you. But you’ve returned at a very bad time, as I’m sure you expected.

“New Zealand has been under martial law since May. I have the doubtful honour to be the military governor of Canterbury District, including Christchurch. Our job is to maintain order and to ensure that everyone gets a fair share of the remaining food and energy. Even returning Antarctic heroes. I won’t burden you with the details of our problems — you’ll learn them soon enough — but I should tell you that we’ve lost virtually all our agriculture. Our harbours were wrecked in the tidal waves last summer, and sea level has risen almost two metres since then. We’ve been able to import very little oil, and the price is about ten times what it was a year ago. Our overseas markets have vanished. We’re almost as cut off from the world as you were down on the ice.