The Chilling, page 9
‘No,’ she repeated. ‘We’ll die of thirst before then.’
•
On day three, the Petrel crew knew they were in trouble when the wind finally picked up. At first, it made its presence felt as a continuous rolling swell beneath the ice. They could see and feel the swell of the waves, rising and falling in gigantic breaths.
Then the realisation dawned: the ice was coming apart.
When the blow finally came, the group was blindsided. The crack appeared in an instant.
Marion and Curly had been standing near a fuel stove, huddled together with steaming cups in their hands, when a cry went up. Marion looked over and watched, dumbstruck, as the sea ice parted, separating one man and the lifeboat from the main party. The bulk of the group were on the stable ice and stayed where they were. But the free-floating segment was drawn away by the current, leaving a widening gap.
With a start, Marion realised that the man on the isolated floe was Tom Priestley, the captain of the Petrel. He was wearing goggles and a balaclava, but his black-and-white scarf gave him away. Tom had worn the same Collingwood Magpies scarf when she first met him in January. It seemed like only yesterday when he’d greeted her together with Curly, Jason and Nick, as the four of them boarded the Petrel. Tom had been proudly displaying his team colours, and Nick had made some quip about the ship giving him the collywobbles. Tom had chuckled and shaken his hand.
When Tom realised that his floe was moving away from the group, he panicked and tried to leap across the divide. He stepped back, then launched himself into the air. He landed heavily against the side of the ice and slid into the water.
Flinging his cup to the ground, Curly scrambled to the edge. On his stomach, he spread his body flat over the icy surface and reached down to the water. Tom tried to grab his hand, lunging and splashing about. But then he vanished, the current pulling him under.
The group reacted with mute anguish and disbelief. Curly remained lying on the edge of the ice for a full five minutes until someone went over and helped him up. Some people clutched at their beanies in shock, while Marion covered her face with gloved hands.
Only Thorn was calm and collected. ‘We have to move,’ he said. ‘We have to move people, now. We can’t stay here. Strong winds are headed our way, probably a storm, and we don’t have much time—we need to aim for the coast, where the ice is stronger and thicker.’
They knew they weren’t far from the fast ice, the frozen sea water attached to the coastline. Unlike pack ice, it didn’t move with the currents and the wind. In winter, it provided a breeding ground for penguins and seals. It was stable and trustworthy.
Yet there were murmurs of protest among the group. The second mate suggested a return to the ship.
‘You don’t get it,’ insisted Thorn, stuffing gear into a bag. ‘The ice is coming apart. Even if we can find the ship in this fog, it isn’t safe. It isn’t safe inside, and it isn’t safe outside. We need to move to firmer ground, and we need to move now.’
They packed up and headed towards the coastline, praying the ice would harden the closer they came to land. It was no comfort that Thorn had been right: a great snowstorm arrived that very afternoon.
•
In the bivvy, Marion tucked the gun away as Curly stirred beside her. They had stayed awake all night as the wind moaned and groaned outside, tugging at their shelter.
‘Hey,’ he said in a hoarse voice, ‘how are you?’
‘Not good.’
He let out a weary breath. ‘Yeah, me neither.’
‘I keep thinking about Tom—I just don’t know why he jumped,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘He had the lifeboat, so he would have been fine. The raft would have provided him with shelter and protection. He might have even got the emergency beacon to work. It could have been spotted by a SAR team.’
Curly didn’t reply.
‘Perhaps Tom thought his chances of surviving were greater if he stayed with the group …?’ she speculated, glancing at Curly’s profile against the light.
Still, he remained silent.
‘I guess it was just a split-second decision—’
‘I want to go back to that moment,’ interjected Curly. ‘You know, the moment when Tom fell in the sea.’ He looked wild-eyed at the sky, an arm flung over his head. ‘I can see myself grabbing the collar of his immersion suit. I can even feel myself hauling him up onto the ice. It wouldn’t have been a big deal. Tom would’ve been grateful, and we would’ve laughed about it later. But instead, he’s dead, and it’s the biggest deal in the world.’
‘You did everything you could,’ she said with tenderness.
‘Yes, but my everything meant nothing.’
‘That’s not true.’ She patted his sleeping bag. But she understood how he felt.
Jason’s beaming face emerged in her mind, his handsome features not yet blurred to memory. He gazed at her with love and amusement, his tanned skin and honey-coloured curls radiating youth and good health. He’d always looked more at home on a surfboard than a Ski-Doo.
Oh, my darling, she thought in despair. My everything meant nothing. There was nothing I could do.
9
Using ski poles, Kit gingerly walked away from the wharf area, looking up at Macpherson Station’s gigantic Lego-block buildings. The primary colours of red, yellow and blue were reassuring. In the midst of so much white—white sky, white sea, white land—there was no doubt where her new home stood. The station was on the stony hill at the curved part of Wineglass Harbour, a dumping ground for the katabatic winds that incessantly roared down the slopes from the ice plateau.
The Star had arrived at base a full five days after discovering Nick on the Petrel and a tardy twenty-one days after leaving Hobart. For Kit, it was a relief to be on firm ground. The wind had immediately come to greet her, a stream of dense cold air raging past the buildings and out into the bay. It roared past her hooded head now like a low-flying jet. Then it quietened down for a bit, before coming back as a throng of demonic lovers, each one wanting to embrace her. They pulled her this way and that, fighting to hold on to her coat. She’d been told the weather could stay like this for days.
The ship was being unburdened of its cargo before heading back to Prydz Bay, to resume the search for survivors. The Star crew were about to complete the last run to the Green Store, the main supplies shed, and a few straggling members were standing about waiting, hugging their chests.
Kit had returned to the wharf to retrieve Dustin’s medical supplies—a few replacement drugs and fluids—to ensure they went straight to the surgery. The goods now tucked in her backpack, she nodded and waved to Blondie, who was securing a crate to a trailer up ahead. From a distance he was indistinguishable from the others, but when he turned to steady the crate, she could see ‘Blondie’ in black marker pen on the back of his vest.
She drew near him, her legs dragging like lead weights. ‘Hi there,’ she called out, breathing heavily.
Blondie swung around. ‘Hi there yourself,’ he said with a broad smile.
‘Can I hitch a ride with you?’
‘Sure, hop on board.’
He secured his load, and they climbed into an enormous Hägglunds, the favoured mode of taxi on the Antarctic continent. Resembling army trucks, Häggs were box-shaped vehicles with rubber-track wheels that could be relied upon to traverse both hardened sea ice and soft loose snow. This one would take them to the largest Lego-style building, known as the Red Shed, where the winter expeditioners had each been allocated a bedroom or ‘donga’.
The Red Shed dominated the station landscape like the towering citadel of an ancient city. The heart of domestic life on the base, the scarlet building was the size of a small factory and situated at the highest point above the harbour. It housed the dining room, the kitchen, the lounge area, the sleeping quarters, and all the medical facilities on base.
The gravel roads leading from the wharf fanned out like lines on the palm of a hand. The main lifeline went straight past the Green Store, while an orthogonal headline led to the tradies’ workshop in the west. At the forked point where those two roads met was a single heart line trailing up the hill to the Red Shed. Various smaller structures—including the operations building, the water tanks, and the emergency vehicle shelter—were scattered around the rocky outcrop, amid a swathe of dirt and snow.
Nick would be joining them in the Red Shed later that day.
‘Has Nick been told?’ asked Blondie, staring ahead at the road.
‘Yes, he knows about the change of plan,’ said Kit with a frown.
The original plan had been to take Nick via helicopter to the ski landing area near Macpherson, then to Wilkins Aerodrome and back to Hobart, where he would undergo proper medical treatment. They’d expected him to be back in Tasmania in less than forty-eight hours.
That morning, however, the Antarctic Division had made a difficult call. They had cancelled Nick’s flight.
‘The decision wasn’t made lightly,’ said Kit, echoing Dustin’s announcement only a few hours earlier.
Prior to finding Nick, the Division had already shut down the aerodrome for the winter season. The runway was typically open only in the summer months. His evacuation had been planned as a special one-off trip, but that plan had always been dependent on the weather, and the weather didn’t want to cooperate.
Kit continued. ‘The authorities felt that conditions were too dangerous, and they refused to let the evacuation flight leave Hobart. Dustin said they weren’t willing to risk the lives of multiple employees to airlift one passenger who doesn’t have life-threatening injuries.’
‘S’pose that’s understandable. But what’s gonna happen to Nick?’
‘Well, the long-term weather report indicates that things will be better next week. So, fingers crossed, the plan is to send an evacuation flight then.’
‘Why aren’t they just shipping him back with the Star?’
Kit shook her head. ‘It’ll take too long. The ship’s services are needed in Prydz Bay for the SAR effort. And even a delayed flight will be quicker than returning with the ship—the Star might not be back in Hobart for another three weeks.’
With the ice closing in, it was imperative to find the Petrel crew as soon as possible. The SAR team were still hopeful, despite dire speculation in the media. In breaking news the day before, a Chinese helicopter had discovered the orange lifeboat to the east of the bay. No one had been on board, but it was anticipated the crew would be found on a larger icefloe nearby. Choppers were out searching scattered floes in the area.
•
At lunch that day, their first meal at Macpherson, everyone was discussing the lifeboat news. In high spirits, a noisy group of new arrivals and existing expeditioners swapped stories of Antarctic survival. They recounted epic tales of the Heroic Age of Antarctic Exploration in the early twentieth century, during which stranded men with crude equipment and rudimentary clothing had endured months on the ice, surviving everything from food poisoning and crevasse falls to frostbite and scurvy. The conversation was intended to raise everyone’s hopes for the Petrel crew. But to Kit’s mind, the tales only unscored how insanely easy it was to die in Antarctica. Only one thing had to go wrong, one misplaced step or miscalculation, and the ice would take you.
She wasn’t surprised when the conversation turned to bleaker subjects. With sadness, Alessandra recalled the fate of five British men who’d gone missing in East Antarctica only a few summers before. Their Twin Otter had gone down in relatively accessible terrain not far from Macpherson, but despite an extensive search by air, the plane couldn’t be found. Eventually, the weather had become so horrible—the winds so strong and visibility so poor—that the search had to be called off. Then winter had settled in, and all thoughts of a recovery operation had been abandoned. There’d been multiple follow-ups since, but the wreckage had never been located.
With each passing day, everyone on base was aware that the Petrel crew potentially faced a similar fate to that of the British expeditioners. If a SAR team didn’t find them in the next few weeks, there would be little chance of finding them in the next seven and a half months. Come the dead of winter, the continent would be enclosed in ice and blanketed in darkness.
Kit was glad that Nick wasn’t at that first meal to hear the speculations about his colleagues. Physically speaking, he’d regained much of his strength. His heartbeat was regular, his lungs were fine, and he was no longer experiencing jaw pain. But he still had no memory of preceding events or of his identity before he’d been found in the coolroom. In his own words, it was like ‘a bloody big ice sheet’ in his head.
To Kit, the prolonged memory loss was strange and a little suspicious. Again, at the back of her mind, she could hear a crackling, hissing note of caution. She was reminded of when her mother first became ill. She’d heard similar alarm bells, but had dismissed Daphne’s personality changes, bizarre comments and memory lapses as the effects of old age. Later she’d learnt about why dementia often went undiagnosed in the early stages: the sufferer and their family were complicit in explaining away the symptoms. Kit now wondered if she and Dustin might be explaining away Nick’s symptoms. She didn’t suspect him of harbouring an illness or a cognitive disorder; but still, something didn’t seem right.
After lunch and their first briefing on daily routines and station rules, Kit took Dustin aside in the mess. A sprawling communal area, its main feature was an industrial-size dining table in the centre. On one side, the room opened into the stainless-steel kitchen; on the other, it hosted a line of lounge chairs facing floor-to-ceiling windows. Moving to one of the chairs, Kit sat down, and Dustin joined her next to a formica coffee table. She waited till the others had left before airing her thoughts.
‘Aren’t you surprised that Nick is still showing such profound memory loss?’ she asked in a quiet voice. ‘You’re right that he doesn’t appear to have a severe brain injury—he’s communicating well. I would have thought a period of rest would have helped his recovery by now.’
‘Well, I don’t know about that.’ Dustin shrugged. ‘It’s early days yet. Let’s see if being on the ground jogs his memory.’
‘If he’s still showing symptoms of post-traumatic amnesia in a few days,’ said Kit, ‘we may have to consider other reasons for his loss—his apparent loss—of memory.’
‘Well, yes, you’re right. There might be psychogenic reasons for the loss. There might be emotional or psychological explanations for the brain’s inhibition of certain memories. As in, he might be repressing something traumatic or distressing. That’s entirely plausible.’
Kit was impatient with Dustin. She stared at his bright, unsuspecting eyes. ‘There is another explanation, though, isn’t there?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Oh, come on, Dustin,’ she said in disbelief. ‘Has it really not occurred to you that he might be faking it?’
Dustin’s surprise looked genuine. He blew air into his cheeks and exhaled loudly. ‘I suppose that’s a possibility. But his disorientation and confusion seem pretty real to me. Don’t they seem real to you?’ He searched her eyes for some agreement. ‘And why would he fake it? What possible reason could he have?’
‘I don’t know,’ she admitted. ‘But I would’ve thought he’d at least remember who he is by now.’
‘Oh, but Kit,’ Dustin’s brow creased, ‘keep in mind the effect of all those painkillers. He’s been on a rather high dose—he was in an induced coma only a few days ago.’
‘Okay. So why don’t we try taking him off the drugs?’
‘Yes, yes, we will … eventually. A complete withdrawal isn’t advisable, not just yet. He’s lucky not to have a broken jaw, and—’
‘It might not be advisable, Dustin, but it might be necessary if we want to find out the truth sooner rather than later. This man might be able to tell us something that helps the SAR team find the Petrel crew.’
Bowing his head, Dustin looked at the floor. When he spoke, his tone was wearier. ‘Everything suggests Nick’s just some poor bloke who got left behind and shut himself away to die. Kit, has it occurred to you there might be nothing to tell?’
Though she knew the doctor might be right, she couldn’t shake her doubts. ‘There are twenty-three people out there in the freezing cold, Dustin. I think we should take Nick off his meds and see if his memory clears. If it doesn’t, we should seriously consider the fact that he may have something to hide. You and I should see if we can get him to tell us what happened. We might even think about contacting the federal police.’
Dustin’s manner softened, and a smile played at the corners of his mouth. He clearly thought she was overreacting. ‘Okay, okay,’ he said, holding up his hands. ‘Let’s not get the police involved just yet, shall we? Let’s try a gentler approach and see how he responds to a teleconference with his ex-wife. Perhaps seeing her and speaking with her might jog his memory. We might also start reducing his meds.’
Kit was satisfied. The teleconference and the meds would be a good start. At least they wouldn’t be waiting around for something to change.
10
Once Kit had left, Dustin tossed his ballpoint pen on the coffee table. It bounced a few times and then rolled off the edge, landing with a satisfying clatter. He crossed his arms in frustration. Nick needed more recovery time. People with severe hypothermia could go on to have serious difficulties—an irregular heartbeat wasn’t uncommon and could even be fatal. Dustin wanted to err on the side of caution.
Plus, if Nick stayed on the base, he might make a good control subject for Dustin’s research project. Nick hadn’t been a participant in the pre-departure regime, and he hadn’t had any supplements or light therapy—not that Dustin knew of, anyway.
It seemed strange that Kit suspected Nick of lying. Once again, Dustin found himself wondering how she’d get on with the other expeditioners during their stay. Only an hour earlier, she’d questioned him at their communal lunch. It was the first meal among the Macpherson winter team, but the last with key members of the Star—including Richard, Hank, Jamie, Dr Sidebottom and the helicopter pilots—who were heading back to help in the search. In front of their fellow expeditioners, Kit queried Dustin’s request that everyone take the vitamin supplement as part of a daily toast, now that the phone apps were disabled. ‘Do we really need one every day?’ she asked, frowning as he poured tumblers of juice.
