Blood and Ice

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

December 19, 2:30 p.m.

UNTIL HE'D GOTTEN SIDETRACKED by that blood sample Charlotte gave him, Darryl thought, things had been going great.

He'd been hard at work on the blood and tissue samples from the Cryothenia hirschii -the discovery on which he was going to make his scientific reputation-and the preliminary results were remarkable: The blood from the fish was not only entirely hemoglobin-free, but also mysteriously low in the antifreeze glycoproteins he had been studying. In other words, this species could thrive in the frigid waters of the Antarctic Sea, but only so long as it remained extremely careful. It had even less protection against the ice than all the other species he had studied-a mere touch of actual ice could propagate across its body like lightning and flash-freeze it on the spot. Perhaps that was why he had discovered the first one-and the two others now swimming in the aquarium tank-relatively close to shore, and hovering near the warm current from one of the camp's outflow pipes. Or maybe they had just liked the shafts of sunlight, dim as they were, that had been admitted to the depths by the dive hut holes. Whatever the reason, he was grateful to have them.

He was reveling in all the new data, which made his find increasingly distinctive and newsworthy, when he remembered the favor he had promised Charlotte. He fished the sample out of the fridge and noticed then that the label had only initials on it- E.A.-and no name. He quickly ran through the beakers in his mind, but none of them had those initials. So it had to be from one of the grunts; he wasn't familiar with a few of them, and a couple just went by nicknames like Moose or T-bone. The other thing Charlotte hadn't given him was any specific instructions on what he should be testing for, and that was more than a little irritating. Didn't she know he had his own work to do?

Fortunately, the marine biology lab was provided with everything a hematologist could ask for, from state-of-the-art autocrits to a high-volume analyzer that could incorporate monoclonal assays, fluorescent staining, and advanced optical platelet readings in pretty much one fell swoop. He ran the whole battery of tests, from ala-nine aminotransferase to triglycerides and everything in between, and while he'd expected to simply shoot the results back to Charlotte, he had to stop when he read through the printouts. Nothing in them was making any sense, and in some respects he could just as well have been looking at the results from one of his marine samples. While a normal cubic millimeter of human blood contained an average of 5 million red blood cells and seven thousand white, this sample was nearly reversed. If the results were right, Charlotte's patient made his newly discovered fish look positively red-blooded and vital.

That convinced him that the results couldn't be right, or that he had somehow inadvertently mixed up the samples. Jeez, he thought, maybe you're getting the Big Eye and don't even know it. He'd have to ask Michael for a reality check. But just to see if the equipment was functioning properly, he ran a sample of his own blood, and it came back fine. (His cholesterol, he was happy to see, was even lower than usual.) With what was left of the E.A. sample, he ran the tests again

… and got back the same results as before.

If this was human blood, the toxicity levels alone should have killed the patient off in a heartbeat.

Maybe, he considered, he had to get out of the laboratory for a while and clear his head. Ever since his last visit to the dive hut- where Danzig had nearly drowned him-he'd been holed up in his room or the lab. His scalp and ears still itched from frost nip, and as a precaution he'd been taking blood thinner and a course of antibiotics. At the South Pole, inattention to the slightest thing-a blue spot on your toes, a burning sensation at the tips of your fingers- could wind up costing you a limb… or even your life. Nor had the relentlessly bad weather made outdoor activities any easier; he wondered, as he stuffed the lab printouts into the pockets of his parka, how the Point Adelie personnel who “winter-overed,” as it was called, managed to survive. Six months of foul weather was bad enough, but six months of foul weather with no sun was hardly conceivable.

Outside, the wind was so strong that he could lean completely into it and still remain upright. He put his head down and plowed slowly ahead, clinging to the guide ropes that had been strung along all the concourses between the labs and the communal modules. Off to his left, the lights were burning bright in Ackerley's botany lab. He hadn't seen Ackerley lately, it occurred to him, and he thought it might be nice to drop in and say hello. Maybe even snag a fresh strawberry or two.

When he got to the wooden trellis in front of the door, he had to hang on until a particularly powerful gust of wind had passed, then he swung himself up the ramp and into the lab. Ackerley had rigged up a double sheet of thick plastic to stop the drafts from the door, and once Darryl had parted the curtains, he found himself in the familiar heat, humidity, and bright light of the lab. I should come here more often, he thought- it's like a vacation to the South Seas.

“Hey, Ackerley,” he called, while stomping his feet on the rubber mats. “I need some salad fixings!”

But the voice that answered him wasn't Ackerley's-it was Law-son's-and it came from behind some metal partitions. Darryl shrugged off his parka and hat and gloves and goggles, draping them on a rickety coatrack fashioned from a whale's bone, and went in search of Lawson.

He found him on a stepstool, tending to a cluster of ripe red strawberries hanging from a latticework of misting pipes. All around his head there were other clumps of gleaming wet fruit, and on tables there were clear containers holding a veritable jungle of other plants-tomatoes, radishes, Bibb lettuce, roses, and, most wonderful of all, orchids. The orchids came in a dozen different colors, from white to fuchsia to golden yellow. They rose up on strangely tilting stalks that looked like the legs of cranes.

“What are you doing here?” Darryl asked. “Isn't that Ackerley's job?”

“Just helping out,” Lawson said, noncommittally

“It's like Hawaii in here,” Darryl said, putting his face up to the bright, warming lights that were mounted in the ceiling above the pipes. “No wonder Ackerley hates to leave.” Darryl eyed a particularly succulent-looking strawberry and said, “You think he'd mind if I tried one?”

Lawson glanced down from the stool. “No. Go ahead.”

Darryl reached up and plucked the lowest of the hanging berries, then popped it into his mouth. Uncle Barney turned out a lot of good food from the commons galley, but there was nothing to beat the flavor of a strawberry fresh from the vine.

“Where is he, by the way?”

Lawson shrugged. “Ask Murphy.”

That seemed odd to Darryl. Why would Murphy know? And it was also odd that anyone else was there when Ackerley wasn't; he was a lot like Darryl in that way-he didn't like strangers roaming around his lab when he wasn't there.

Come to think of it, the place didn't look right, either. Usually it was spic-and-span. But off to one side, Darryl could see a clumsy path where a couple of cabinets had been overturned, spilling dirt and lichens and moss samples onto the floor. A broom and dustpan leaned up against one of the racks, along with a black plastic garbage bag that appeared to be full of refuse. What's going on? Has Lawson been appointed the new assistant gardener?

Darryl tried a couple more conversational gambits, but he got the distinct impression that Lawson wanted him out of the lab. Normally, the guy was pretty friendly-even, at times, positively gregarious-but not today. Maybe he wasn't happy about his new duty and just wanted to get it over with as quickly as possible.

Darryl thanked him for the strawberry and put all his gear back on. Sometimes it felt like he spent half his time at pole just taking off and putting on the same layers of clothing.

Leaving the botany lab, he slogged toward the main quadrant, holding tight again to the guide ropes. The snow was so thick in the air it was hard to see more than a few yards ahead, but when he approached the administration module, he saw Murphy and Michael, their own heads down, forging their way across the concourse and toward some of the storage buildings. He'd have called out to them, but he knew his voice would be obliterated by the wind. Instead, he just followed in their path. They were heading for one of the ramshackle sheds, where they unfastened the padlock on the corrugated steel doors, then slipped inside.

Darryl's curiosity was aroused. Never, he thought, present a scientist with a mystery that you don't then expect him to try to solve.

Darryl sidled into the shed, and after whipping off his snowy goggles, looked around. He was in a kind of anteroom, but even it was filled with crates of kitchen and camp supplies. There was another pair of steel doors just beyond, and they were open, too- leading into what Darryl guessed had once served as a huge meat locker and storeroom.

He stepped inside, then stopped dead when he saw Murphy whirl around on him, with a gun extended. Michael was armed, too, with a speargun.

“Mother of God, what the fuck are you doing here?” Murphy said in an urgent whisper.

Darryl was still too shocked by the weaponry to reply.

Michael lowered the spear, and said, “Okay, what's done is done. Just stay back and be quiet.”

“Why?”

“You'll know in a minute.”

With Murphy cautiously leading the way, they moved down an aisle stacked ten feet high with boxes and crates until they rounded a corner and Darryl saw a long wooden crate marked MIXED CONDIMENTS: HEINZ and, above it, inexplicably hanging from a thick pipe, a bloody handcuff.

“Shit,” Murphy muttered. “Shit, shit, shit.”

What the hell were they looking for, Darryl wondered? What had they been expecting to find? For a second, he wondered if Danzig had returned. Hadn't the speargun through the chest sent him safely to the bottom of the sea?

“Ackerley” Murphy said, in a slightly raised voice. “You in here?”

Ackerley? That was who they were looking for? In there, of all places? If so, what the hell were they so afraid of? The man was as harmless as one of his cabbages.

There was a scratching sound, like a pen on paper, and they crept toward the next aisle. It, too, was empty, but the scratching sound grew louder. Murphy, the gun out in front, moved to the next aisle, and there they saw Ackerley-or a close facsimile of him. He was gaunter than ever, his ponytail loose and hanging down like a dead squirrel on the back of his neck. Draped around his shoulders, he wore a shredded plastic garbage bag. He was sitting on a crate of Coca-Cola, and all around his feet there were empty soda cans and various papers-printed invoices, ripped from the boxes-that he had been scrawling on. With a clipboard on his lap, he was scribbling on the back of another one even then, working with the concentration of a physicist straightening out an especially complex equation.

“Ackerley,” Murphy said, and Ackerley, his little round spectacles creeping down his nose, said, “Not now,” without looking up.

Murphy and Michael exchanged a look, as if to say What next? while Darryl simply looked on, aghast. What had happened to Ackerley? His throat, partially revealed under the plastic bag, looked ravaged, and the wrist of his left hand, which limply supported the clipboard, appeared broken and bruised. Flakes of blood crusted the skin.

“What are you doing?” Michael asked, in a deliberately innocent voice.

“Making notes.”

“About what?”

Ackerley kept writing.

“What are you writing about?” Murphy repeated.

“About dying.”

“You don't look dead to me,” Darryl said, though it wasn't entirely true.

Ackerley finished a sentence, then slowly raised his eyes. They were red-rimmed, and even the whites were tinged a pale pink.

“Oh, I am,” he said. “It just hasn't taken yet.” His voice carried a low, gurgling sound. He took a swig from an open can, then just let it drop from his hand.

Murphy had allowed the barrel of the gun to drift toward the floor, and Ackerley gestured at it.

“I wouldn't do that if I were you.”

Murphy quickly raised it again, and Ackerley let the last paper waft to the floor to join all the others.

“I've numbered them,” he said, “so you'll be able to follow along.”

“Follow what?” Michael said.

“What happens,” Ackerley replied, “afterwards.”

There was silence, and then Ackerley dragged the plastic bag away from his throat; the skin was so mangled that Darryl was surprised that he had been able to speak at all. The vocal cords could be seen pulsating.

“Now,” Ackerley said, nodding at the gun, “you'd better use that.”

“What are you talking about?” Murphy said. “I'm not gonna shoot you now. We'll figure something out.”

“That's right,” Michael interjected. “We'll talk to Dr. Barnes. There must be a way to help you.”

“Use it,” Ackerley said, in a ghastly rasping voice, “and afterwards, just to be on the safe side, cremate my remains.” Slowly rising to his feet, he took a faltering step in their direction. “Otherwise, you might wind up like me.” All three fell back. “It apparently passes from one host to another quite easily.”

“What does?” Darryl said, bumping up against a shelf of pots and pans that clanged in their boxes.

“The infection. Either through blood or saliva. Like HIV, it seems to be present, to some degree, in all the bodily fluids.” Staggering closer and focusing on the gun, he muttered, “Do it, or I will kill you. I'm not sure I have much choice in the matter.” His eyes, behind his glasses, blinked slowly. His foot knocked one of the empty cans toward them, and it spun in a lazy circle on the concrete.

Michael tried to prod him back with the tip of the speargun, but Ackerley brushed it aside.

“Use the handgun,” he said. “Do it right.”

He kept on coming, and there was less and less room to retreat. Darryl stepped back, past the kitchen equipment aisle, but at close range he could see the demented, though utterly determined, look in Ackerley's eye. He meant what he said.

“Shoot!” Ackerley cried, a bubble of blood popping from his open throat. “Shoot me!” and with his hands extended he deliberately lunged at Murphy's arm.

The gun went off with a blast, echoing for several seconds in the cold confines of the locker. Ackerley's head snapped back, his glasses flying off, and he dropped to the concrete floor.

But his eyes were still open, and he was mouthing the word “shoot” one more time before he suddenly grew still, and the last bloody bubble rose, then burst, on his throat.

Murphy's arm was shaking, and he lowered it to his side.

Darryl started to kneel by the body, but Michael said, “Hold on.”

Darryl held back.

“Yeah,” Murphy said, his voice quavering, “give him some room.”

“I think,” Michael said, solemnly, “we just need to wait a while.”

And so they sat, on the wooden crates, their heads down but their eyes on the corpse, huddled around it in a ragged circle. How long they waited, Darryl wasn't sure. But it was Michael who eventually knelt down to feel for a pulse and listen for a heartbeat. He shook his head to indicate there were none.

“But I'm still not going to take any chances,” Murphy said, and Darryl knew enough to leave it at that. Murphy would do what Murphy wanted to do, and it was best not to inquire too deeply.