Hannah Ross - The Last Outpost - An Antarctic Dystopia

He didn’t know how much time passed — it slid by in annoyingly slow dollops, with him unable to do anything but try to assume a position on the hard floor that would be a little more bearable — but all of a sudden, the lights in the greenhouse were flipped on at once, and there was the sound of footsteps, and a frantic voice called out, “Scott? Scott, are you in here?!”

It was Zoe. He pulled himself together and made as loud a voice as he could — a pathetic muffled mooing sound — while his lips were still glued together. This brought the desired effect, however. The steps hastened forward in his direction, and her voice called out, “over here, Jerry, he’s here!”

“Goddamn it,” Gordon swore, approaching and easing him into a sitting position. “Hang on, Buck, this is going to hurt.”

The duct tape was pulled off his mouth, and though his lips seared and burned, and were split in one corner, Scott’s rage prevented him from feeling any of it properly at that moment. “Nash,” he managed to rasp, while the concerned faces of Jerry and Zoe hovered over him.

“We thought so,” Zoe nodded, holding a bottle of water to his lips. “Here, drink this. Are you badly hurt?”

Scott drank, and it felt like the draught of heaven. “I’m fine,” he said, and attempted to get up, but his legs were wobbly. Jerry’s firm arm around his waist allowed him to assume a standing position.

“We suspected some sort of dirty game,” he said. “As soon as the blizzard died down, Nash and a few of his cronies took off in a helicopter, refusing to explain anything and claiming that you had given your instructions. We knew, however, that something was off.”

Scott moaned in frustration. “How long ago was it?”

“About half an hour, I think,” Zoe said, checking her watch. “We began looking for you all over the station at once, hoping you’d explain things. The greenhouse was one of the last places we thought we’d look in.”

“We must go after Nash at once,” Scott said. “The second chopper is here, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Jerry said, “but they had taken both pilots — claimed they needed the other one as backup. Stanley tried to argue, but they bullied him into obedience. Nash spewed something about ‘national security’… I doubt Stan bought this, but he had little choice.”

“Goddamn it! Does anyone else know how to fly a chopper? Try to remember, and quick.”

Zoe bit her lip. “I think that Finnish guy, Petri Karhu, has a license to fly a helicopter. He told us he did this in the army. But Buck, this isn’t really—”

“No matter. If he can keep us airborne, it’s good enough right now. We must stop Nash.”

“Do you have an idea where he might have gone, then?” Jerry asked.

“Yes,” Scott said grimly, “I believe I do.”

“Perkele,” Petri Karhu cursed under his breath, just as he did whenever he lent a hand around the station and received a blow to his fingers with a hammer. “I haven’t done this since the army, and you don’t want to know how many years passed,” he added apologetically, as the chopper made a threatening dive and straightened abruptly, shaking its passengers like beans in a dry pod.

“It’s alright, Pete. Just do your best,” Zoe said. Her voice was muffled, since she was pressing a tissue to her mouth with both hands. Jerry, too, looked slightly greensick.

“And my weapon license isn’t valid, either,” Petri went on, with a warning look at Scott. “Just so you know.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Scott said, “as long as you know how to use it.”

There were very few firearms on Antarctica, a place celebrated as a haven of international treaties, peace and non-violence, but at a station as large as McMurdo, some weapons were kept for law enforcement just in case, in a secure deposit box. When Scott looked, he realized that Nash had dipped into the stash of guns, taking four. He, too, took four — handing one apiece to Jerry and Zoe as well, despite their protests and Zoe’s declarations that she wouldn’t know one end of a gun from another. He gave them an extra quick one-minute gun-handling course, and prayed for the best.

“I wonder,” Jerry said slowly, “why Nash took guns with him. It’s not like they are hunting rifles — lately, he has kept going on about how the station is under-supplied, and we can’t be expected to survive the winter on canned and processed food, when there’s plenty of fresh meat to be found out there…”

“I never liked Nash, but I didn’t think he could be so primitive,” Zoe wrinkled her nose.

Scott was silent. He felt a sickening swoop at the bottom of his stomach when he thought what Nash might be doing with firearms in the peaceful valley of the Anai. Though, to be honest, the swoop might also have been due to another lurch of the helicopter.

“Sorry,” Petri said, launching into another string of Finnish curses under his breath.

“It’s OK, Pete. We’re nearly there anyway.”

“AN-85,” Petri squinted at the map Scott supplied him with — the GPS locator was having more blips than ever with the satellites all out of whack. “I’ve heard of the area, but I don’t have clearance to go there.”

“Neither does Nash,” Scott said. “There, see that helicopter pad down below? And there’s the other chopper, too? We’ve arrived.”

“Alright,” Petri said, “hold on, now…”

For a second, Scott was afraid the chopper would crash into a nearby wall of black volcanic rock, but Petri managed to get them safely on land, after which he leaned back in the pilot’s seat and let out a long sigh of relief. “Well, now what? I see no sign of anyone around here. Where could they have gone?”

“Follow me,” said Scott and, with the assurance of an experienced guide, started leading everyone down the trail leading into the Anai valley,

“Where are we going?” Zoe said after a while, panting. “For heavens’ sake, Scott, don’t go so fast. I nearly slipped just now, trying to keep up with you.”

“Never mind,” Scott said. “Keep your weapons out and ready, and remember which side is the one that shoots.”

Petri Karhu stopped for a second, and directed the beam of his flashlight at one of the rock walls flanking the trail. “Lichen,” he said with great interest, “and plenty of it, too. Not my field of expertise, but it seems to me that in the local climate—”

“Drop it right now, Pete,” advised Jerry. A few minutes later, however, he called out, “hey, Scott, is it just my imagination, or is it a lot warmer down here?”

Petri sniffed the air and pulled a thermometer out of his pocket. “Sulphur,” he said. “And yes, it’s definitely warmer. There must be geyser activity in this area.”

Scott gritted his teeth. “Please,” he said, “stay focused. There will be time for these observations later, once we deal with Nash.”

He practically bounded down into the valley, the other three running to keep up with him. “What on earth,” Petri panted and threw back the hood of his parka. “There’s barely any snow — barely cold enough for snow — Scott, what—”

He stopped in his tracks, and so did Jerry and Zoe. The latter gasped. They have finally seen it — the village of the Anai, with its hive-like stone houses and the twinkling lights of its oil lamps. They heard agitated voices, and a group of Anai warriors shot by, brandishing long spears. “I must be losing my mind,” Jerry said, rubbing his eyes. “Scott, what is this… this place? Have you ever been here before?”

But then there was another sound, horrible and familiar — the shot of a gun, which reverberated throughout the valley. “Come on!” Scott shouted, and ran towards the village. He had told Tahan something about guns, but the vast majority of the Anai were kept in the dark about the potential deathliness of these metallic objects.