Chris Wraight - Dead end

Infants had to be carried. A group of young hunters formed a cordon around the older members of the community, trying to shield them from the full force of the growing wind. Many had to be helped along. Even after a lifetime of living in the deep freeze, some of the Forgotten looked perilously cold. Sheppard worked his way back down the column, looking for any individuals in trouble. Most were coping better than him, but for some the trek looked like a nightmare. One man was almost bent double against the searing wind. Sheppard went up to him, and put an arm under his.

“How’re you doing?” he said, as cheerily as he could.

The old man looked up sourly. With a grim inevitability, Sheppard recognized Aralen.

“Not as well as I’d like,” he said, his voice choked by the snow. His facemask had slipped slightly, revealing some of his ice-blasted face. He looked in pretty bad shape.

Sheppard propped him up as best he could, anxious that the old man should keep moving. Conditions would only get worse.

“You still think this is a mistake?” said Sheppard, raising his voice against the growing volume of the wind.

“What does it matter what I think?” he said, his voice sour. “Everything I thought was right has been turned on its head. Everything I counseled has been undermined. Even my own daughter has turned against me. There’d be no role for me in Sanctuary, even if we could get there.”

He looked up at Sheppard, and his expression was savage. “But we can’t get there, can we? We’re going to die out here. Is this what you came to do? To destroy us all?”

Sheppard was taken aback by the old man’s ferocity. He began to speak, but the wind snatched his words away. Looking into Aralen’s eyes, he began to doubt his decision. Rodney had given him the same look. And Ronon. He should have left. He should have allowed the Forgotten to make their own way to Sanctuary, on their own terms.

Above, the last patches of open sky faded. The maelstrom had closed. With it went his hopes. Without speaking further to Aralen, Sheppard slogged his way further up the line. He’d made a call, and right now it looked pretty bad. Unless they reached Sanctuary soon, they would pay for it with their lives.

Teyla awoke. Her head throbbed and she could feel pain all down her side. For a moment, she had no idea where she was. But then the memories came rushing back. She was in Sanctuary. The rock fall, Sheppard, Ronon. The sequence of events was confused and she felt a surge of anxiety. Where were the others?

Teyla raised her head, ignoring the pain. She was lying in her hut, down in the fertile plain. All around was tranquil and quiet. The light from outside was warm and soft. Inside the darkness of the small chamber, a single figure sat, waiting for her to recover.

“Miruva?” said Teyla.

“No,” came a man’s voice. “She has gone out to the surface to bring the others back. More of your friends are here. They are restoring the tunnel to the outside.”

The voice was familiar. Teyla felt a sudden tremor of alarm. “Geran?” she said. “Why are you here? My friends…”

“The one you call Ronon is securing the breach. The others have left for the settlement.” Geran’s voice was subdued. The certainty he’d displayed in the past had disappeared.

Teyla pushed herself upright. She had no idea how much time had passed, but she’d seen the holographic weather projection in the control room. If they weren’t off the planet soon, then they might never escape. “How long have I been asleep?”

Geran shrugged. “Hours. You were taken here when Miruva left.”

“Then I ask you again,” she said, her voice hard. “Why are you here?”

Geran had the decency to look ashamed. “To make amends,” he said. “I was wrong. Even I cannot believe the stories about the Underworld now. I wanted to come and say that to you as soon as I could. I am sorry.”

Teyla didn’t find the words of much comfort. “You should be sorry, Geran,” she said. “Your actions delayed me. I do not yet know what that has cost.” She started to get up. Her head throbbed and her vision was cloudy, but she could keep her feet.

“You must rest! Ronon asked me make sure you were cared for.”

“Ironic, that he chose you,” she said. “My friends will need me. You have no idea what is happening.”

“There is no hurry,” protested Geran.

“Maybe not for you.” Teyla pushed past him, still woozy, out of the hut and into the artificial light of Sanctuary. “You can muse on your mistakes later,” she said. “I am going to find Ronon. Much as I might envy your life in this place, I do not wish to share it.”

Sheppard shielded his eyes against the worst of the driving snowfall. In the distance, far down the long column of trudging people, he could half hear the cries of children. It was hard to make out anything beyond a few dozen meters. His fingers were numb, and his eyebrows were already crusted with ice.

One of the Forgotten loomed towards him out of the swirling haze. It was Miruva.

“This is pretty bad!” yelled Sheppard, his words snatched away by the tearing wind. “We should be there by now.”

Miruva shook her head. Covered with furs as she was, the movement was slightly comical.

“We must be close!” she shouted back. “Some of the old folk are nearly frozen. We must find a way to pick up the pace.”

Sheppard winced. His legs already felt as heavy and unresponsive as iron. The trek to the settlement and back had taken it out of him. The way was short, but the environment was murderous. What was worse, he knew that he had a third journey ahead once the Forgotten were safely stowed in Sanctuary. He felt like he had been criss-crossing the surface of Khost for days.

“OK!” he shouted, and began to move down the column, exhorting a final push from the struggling lines of people.

Miruva passed in the other direction, towards the vanguard, making sure that none got separated in the white-out and that the column retained as much cohesion as possible.

The wind remained fierce. The snow piled up around them in thick swathes, and it soon became impossible to have any idea about footing. Many of the Forgotten stumbled. Sheppard and the other able-bodied members of the exodus were soon employed full-time in keeping the stragglers on their feet, keeping them moving, preventing the seductive collapse into the inviting banks of powder snow. Despite their long exposure to Khost’s harsh environment, some of the older folk were beginning to show the first signs of hypothermia, and Sheppard had become very worried about the smallest of the children. When not being carried by their exhausted parents, some of them had to wade at nearly waist-height through the snow to make any progress at all.

Then, suddenly, the breach became visible. Looming out of the driving snowfall, dark shapes became gradually apparent. A perimeter had been constructed around the opening. Some of it had collapsed in the howling wind, but enough remained to prevent them blundering blindly down into the workings.

“Bingo!” shouted Sheppard, trying to keep everyone’s spirits up. “Keep going! The worst is over.”

As if angered by their imminent escape, the storm threw one last desperate flurry at them. Sheppard felt the blast barrel into him as he turned to lift a child from the snow, and he stumbled badly. The heavy furs hindered him, and he sprawled face-down on the ground. The heavy snow cushioned his fall, but the wind was momentarily knocked from him. He staggered back to his feet, vision swimming. There were others staggering in the gale. They had reached the Sanctuary only just in time.

As they began to descend into the breach, fur-wrapped figures from below emerged to help them down the shaky ladders and into safety. Sheppard found himself yearning for the warmth of the tunnels, and would have given almost anything to get out of the frigid wind, but there were those weaker than him who still needed help. As he staggered over to a huddled group of older people, shuffling along painfully in the howling maelstrom, several tall figures surrounded him.