The unveiling, p.9
The Unveiling, page 9
Damn, girl! Is that what you learned on Zinnia Trace?
“Red boats, yellow dry suits, they’ll find us within the hour,” Striker said. “In this landscape we’re hard to miss.”
“Elaborate,” said the Baron. After a full minute of silence, he added, “Please.”
“They’ll launch a plane from McMurdo or one of the other research stations,” Striker said. “What’s the Argentinian one?”
“Esperanza,” said Anders. “It means ‘hope’ in Spanish.”
“Yeah, that. They might even use drones.”
“Assuming nothing also happened to them,” said Bobbi Sue blankly.
“I see something,” said Anders. The teen had been tooling around with their binoculars.
“Is it the ship?” asked la Grande Dame.
“Is it your brother?” asked Bobbi Sue.
“It’s an island,” said Anders. “Could be Paulet.”
“Can I take a look?” The teen handed Striker the binoculars. She was surprised by their heft. They felt like military issue, heavy enough to kill a man, a pair of binoculars built for Armageddon. Through them you could probably see up to a mile away, maybe more. Maybe all the way back into the distant past where everything gleamed 20-20, crystal clear. Past-Striker standing on the forward bow of the Yegorov waving her arms in the air and jumping up and down, warning Present-Striker not to push off.
She took a nice long look. There was indeed an island visible in the distance. It appeared bigger than Paulet and more rugged, a volcano rising up in the air, but the cone looked intact, not like the one on Paulet where one of the sides had caved in. Also unlike Paulet, this volcano was positioned in the center of the island and not closer to the shoreline.
“Well?” asked the Baron.
“It’s an island all right.” Striker scanned the ocean, searching for the tiniest reflection on the water. The Yegorov had to be out there. Their group hadn’t just materialized out of thin air and landed here smack dab in the middle of nowhere. A couple of hours ago they’d been passengers on what was once a Russian expeditionary research ship turned tourist venture now based out of Turkmenistan. They’d each paid an extra few thousand dollars on top of the $25,000 base price to channel their inner marine biologist and pretend they belonged out here on the big blue southern sea—wasn’t that what happened?
“May I?” asked la Grande Dame.
Before giving up the binoculars, Striker deferred to Anders, who shrugged. “Knock yourself out.”
The old woman took them in both hands and twisted the main focal ring, then began twirling other parts Striker hadn’t realized were adjustable.
“You a birder?” asked the teen.
“As a matter of fact, I am.”
“You here to see an emperor?”
“Emperor penguins breed mostly in the interior of the continent,” la Grande Dame explained. “The chances of seeing one here on the peninsula are basically zero.” She continued to study the landscape, periodically adjusting the various focal rings. Suddenly she sat up straight, a pointer dog signaling a grouse. “There,” she said. She handed the binoculars back to Striker.
“What am I looking at?”
“People,” said la Grande Dame.
“Where?” said Striker. Already she could feel an uneasiness working its way through her limbs. She peered through the binoculars. Two red kayaks were pulled up on the shore.
“More people means more mouths to feed,” said the Baron.
“Who has any food?” said Anders.
“I’m merely pointing out the repercussions of increasing our numbers,” he replied.
Yeah, thought Striker. Mo’ money, mo’ problems. Unless these new people had a satellite phone, more players in your hunger games didn’t necessarily make for a good time.
“Do you have any food?” Anders asked the Baron.
The old man dipped a gloved hand in the water. He appeared to be writing something, possibly taking a tally of his enemies. “Your mommy wouldn’t want you to have what I have,” he said, doing his best to sound avuncular but failing miserably. “Though I’d be happy to share.”
Just then a loud crash rattled the landscape. Striker almost dropped the binoculars.
“Are we far enough away?” said Anders.
It was hard to tell. Already Striker could see a spot where the ocean was angry from a few tons of ice hitting the water, the swell growing more and more ferocious as it raced toward them at upward of 50 mph.
Mesmerized, they sat and watched.
The wave wasn’t getting any smaller.
“Paddle!” Striker shouted. She put her weight into it, lunging at the water with her oar. Instantly she felt her kayak lurch forward and then just as quickly snap back. The rope went taut between her boat and the Baron’s, his kayak seemingly loaded with bricks. It would take precious seconds to stop and cut the old man loose, time she didn’t have.
Striker paddled for all she was worth. It was as if a hurricane had arisen at sea. Everywhere the day roaring. Waves slammed her boat. She felt herself starting to tip. Oh god! She had never learned to roll. Last year before heading to Norway she’d taken a few lessons at a public pool in the Bronx. She’d assured the instructor she didn’t need to learn how to flip, that she wouldn’t be shooting any rapids where she was headed. Please god! She was almost completely sideways. The ocean raced past under her shoulder. She closed her eyes and braced for it.
Suddenly her boat snapped upright. Frigid water splashed her face but her spray skirt held. The Dame was by her side, a gloved hand steadying her kayak. Then the old woman let go and went back to paddling. The group kept up their sprint. The world slowly quieted. Finally Striker felt it was safe to turn around and look.
The sea lay flat as concrete, calm as milk. She collapsed in her boat, breathing hard as if she’d just run a marathon.
“You okay?” asked Anders.
Striker looked around. The others seemed fine, perfectly unperturbed. The Baron picking at something underneath his fingernails.
Her heart was still rattling the bars of her ribcage, the blood sluicing through her veins. She ignored the question and lifted the teen’s binoculars to her face, scanned the island one more time as she struggled to catch her breath.
There. On the shore. Twinkling among a group of penguins and the occasional Weddell seal. A tiny being in a bright yellow dry suit stood facing the ocean. A small gray oblong hunched on the little girl’s shoulder. The oblong’s teeth glinting.
“Well I’ll be damned,” said Striker.
“What is it?” said the Baron.
“Nothing,” she said.
She wasn’t sure why she didn’t tell the others that creepy kid was standing onshore with a full-grown rat perched on her shoulder. Something in her gut said don’t, so she didn’t, not a word.
That instant across a half mile of ocean, the child looked up. The thing on her shoulder did too. Together they met Striker’s gaze. Striker was never one to read lips, but sometimes you get a feeling. You can just tell. She could practically hear the little girl’s affectless voice.
“Ready to rumble you ready to rumble.”
The kid held something up in the light as if gripping a sword. Striker adjusted the focus. It was the tuning fork the child had pilfered from the ruined shelter on Paulet. The little girl smiled wide, then tapped the fork against her front teeth. Striker jumped, almost dropping the binoculars in the ocean for the second time. The note rang in the air. She knew not to ask if anyone else could hear it. The sound clanged on and on in her head.
A pitch-perfect concert A.
“What’s going on?” asked Bobbi Sue, her teeth chattering. “Is it Mikey?”
Striker realized where she’d seen someone shaking like that. It was the albatross with the ten-foot wingspan, the broken creature convulsing on the deck of the Yegorov as though zapped with an electrical current. That’s what Bobbi Sue looked like. Her body conducting a million volts.
“It’s nothing,” she replied. “We’re almost there. There’ll be safety in numbers,” she lied.
“Safety in numbers, madness in crowds,” cooed la Grande Dame.
Before Striker handed the binoculars back to Anders, she took one last look at the island. She wasn’t surprised.
Lucy and her little gray friend were nowhere in sight.
The group floated offshore surveying the beach. After the mad sprint, Striker’s arms felt like jelly. The others acted like they were on a leisurely outing. If anything, the Dame seemed revitalized, her internal engine all revved up. Striker was just grateful for land. She recalled a documentary she’d once helped find interview locations. A bearded academic standing on a wooden pier in Bangor explained that early explorers in wooden ships would sail around a cape for days, sometimes weeks, the men searching for spacious harbors with aquamarine waters where they could row ashore in their flimsy dinghies without worry of being smashed to pieces on the rocks.
“Once they found a suitable harbor, their next worry was the natives,” said the scholar. A stupid little grin played over the man’s face. The guy was clearly hungry to tell the story of first encounters, bloodlust twinkling in his eyes, but the director didn’t ask him to elaborate. At least this island was making it easy for them, the beach peppered with penguins. Thank god for small, feathery favors. If need be, they could kill any of these natives with a rock.
From her vantage point Striker studied the pair of kayaks beached on the shore. Had whoever landed here first reasoned it out or just gotten lucky? All you had to do was follow Mother Nature’s lead. Most rookeries were situated in spots with handy water access. It was prime real estate. At the far end of the coastline, a rocky promontory erupted where the island curved, a series of sea-level ridges quickly staggering upward into towering cliffs. The setup couldn’t have been better. The rocky bluffs protected the beach from strong winds.
Look at me, Percy, Striker thought. I’m thinking like a naturalist. Location location location.
“What are we waiting for?” called la Grande Dame.
Why you asking me, Striker thought, but she pointed toward a spot where the land gently sloped down into the water, the rocks worn smooth from thousands of penguin feet. She took a deep breath. It was this island or bust. Their only alternative was the endless sea. When Antarctica turned on them, hadn’t the early explorers abandoned their ships in order to make their fortune on solid earth?
One if by land, death if by sea.
Striker flashed the group a thumbs-up. They began to paddle in. Already she could smell something in the air, like garbage spilling out of a dumpster. More likely it was the ammonia tang of fifty thousand free-range creatures. How long would it be before she stopped noticing?
The natives gave way as the party came ashore. Unlike on Paulet, every species of penguin seemed to be wobbling around on this island. The Adélie and the gentoo were the most similar in appearance, the birds conventionally penguin-looking, nothing strange or out of place. It was the exact opposite with the rockhoppers, the smallest of the various species, a fringe of flamboyant blond feathers framing their faces like ’90s actors with bleached tips. The chinstraps had a black line running horizontally over their throats. To Striker, it seemed like a bad evolutionary move as it was basically a dotted line showing hungry predators exactly where to cut.
Whoever was already there had beached their kayaks end to end, creating a long red line on the rocky shore. It was a smart move. Someone was thinking ahead, the boats maximally positioned to be seen. Hopefully it wouldn’t take long. What little sand there was gleamed, dark and sparkling, volcanic in origin. The only footprints were webbed.
Striker detached her spray skirt. It had only been a few hours since she’d strolled around on the decks of the Yegorov. For the foreseeable future, she expected to feel like she was still on the water, the earth rolling beneath her feet. Once, after a ten-day cruise, for a solid week she’d had the sensation of floating weightlessly every time she crawled into bed. It was amazing what water could make you believe. Water was the original trickster.
“One small step,” she whispered as she clambered out, “one giant—”
Her foot touched sand. A sudden blast of cold shook the day. A chorus of voices whirled around her as if she were standing in a glass box at a carnival, the box swirling with words. What do you want, she thought, but they were all speaking at once, voices softly burbling like water.
That same night out over drinks with Riley and their friends, one of the women in the group had told the story of a premonition she’d had the first time she met her now husband.
“Don’t tell me,” said Riley. “Birds suddenly appeared.”
“Nope to that,” said Imani. “I had a vision of me lying on a tile floor, like in a mall or something. Dead. Marcus was holding my hand.” Concerned gasps rippled around the table. “That’s why I now only shop online,” she said.
“You think you’re gonna die at the Galleria?” Riley asked.
“Why push it?” Imani replied.
“Who here thinks she’s fixating on the wrong thing?” asked Riley. “Your being dead probably had nothing to do with the place. More likely it had to do with who you were with.”
Riley was obviously only half kidding. Fortunately, the waiter appeared with their appetizers and in—
The vortex of voices died out as quickly as it had arisen. One word hung in the bright Antarctic air before the breeze carried it away.
Help.
It’s just the wind again, Striker thought. If she stopped to listen every time it kicked up, she’d be standing around all day with drool trickling from her mouth, her head stuffed with gibberish.
Anders was staring at her, the teen’s eyes narrowed and wary. “Time to get to work,” Striker said, eager to move on. She untied her kayak from the Baron’s. “Everyone add your boat to the lineup. Let’s cover this whole beach in red.” It wasn’t cold, the air still hovering above fifty, but all the same she did ten jumping jacks, ten squats. She knew that the temperature could change on a dime. When the real Antarctica appeared, a thousand squats wouldn’t be enough to warm her.
“Ah, the thin red line,” said the Baron. He remained seated. “A line that must be respected at all costs.”
“What are you yammering on about?” she asked, instantly regretting it.
“The thin red line is the line between sanity and insanity.”
Jesus Christ. Five minutes in and already the guy was acting like they’d been snowed in for the winter at the Overlook Hotel. Still, the old guy wasn’t wrong. You could either go off the deep end or keep it together. But why present people with options?
“Who do you think beat us here?” asked la Grande Dame, ignoring her husband.
“It’s probably the people from San Francisco,” said Anders.
“Mikey! Jim! It’s Mommy!” yelled Bobbi Sue. The lady was already off on her own planet.
“Mom, it’s not them,” said Anders in a small voice.
The kid was perceptive. They glanced around for help. In the moment, Striker felt cowardly and looked away, already tired at the prospect of having to constantly wrangle Bobbi Sue’s uterus back to a fixed position. The thin red line was indeed thin in that one. It was not a line Striker was eager to navigate.
Anders, on the other hand, was still with the program. That counted for something. The teen read the lay of the land same as Striker. It was obvious who was there. The position of the boats stretched along the shore was likely the work of the Tech Titan, Taylor like a world-class pool player who never makes a shot without thinking about the next shot to come. If you want to win at pool, you have to set yourself up, leave yourself with a play, otherwise it’s game over. Striker had a hard time imagining any of the dads strategizing like that, well, except for the brown dad—he seemed to have a clue—but these boats weren’t tandems. That meant that like Mikey and Jim, Lucy and Hector were also out of the running.
Striker took a closer look. One of the kayaks was high-end glossy, like it had never seen the ocean, the other battered from paddling to the moon and back. Yup. It was Taylor and Kevin. She wasn’t sure if that was good or bad.
In the back of la Grande Dame’s tandem, Vadim remained out cold. A chinstrap stood staring at him. The penguin tipping its head from side to side, waiting for him to wake up and come out and play. Sorry, little fellow, Striker thought. Your boy’s playing days are long over.
Striker had once dated the consultant on a weekly hospital drama. One episode had mirrored a real-life surfing accident the consultant had suffered at Manly Beach in New South Wales, the consultant’s shoulder coming out of the socket when a first-time surfer smashed into him. The gist of the episode was the main character had taken a much-needed vacation to California far away from the Windy City, but the second he landed at LAX, he ran headfirst into every conceivable medical emergency possible—dislocation, gunshot wound, not one but two women going into labor, even a horse in need of treatment. While filming the surfing accident, Striker learned that the longer a limb is dislocated, the harder it is to get back in the socket. The consultant said that in his case, it took three male doctors plus two assistants, a whole bunch of morphine, and a scalpel to guide his shoulder back into place, a ragged scar now patterning his scapular. The skin shiny as if once upon a time he’d had a wing growing there but somebody ripped it off.
“We move him, he’s gonna be in a world of hurt,” Anders said as they stood studying Vadim. Striker sighed. It wasn’t what she wanted to hear. “Health class, first aid,” the teen added.
“I don’t doubt you,” she said.
All Striker could dredge up from health class was how to stabilize someone’s neck if you were prepping to perform CPR on them. Place one hand on their forehead, lift the chin with the other. Everything else she’d learned about chest compressions and alternate breathing was wrong now too. You could kill somebody with all the wrong things she knew. Yeah, why were these people deferring to her? What the hell did she know about wilderness survival? She was Black. Antarctica was not the land of her people.
