Dark Winter

CHAPTER TWENTY

Amundsen-Scott base came awake with a collective hangover, wrung out from alcohol, the temperature extremes of the Three Hundred Degree Club, and emotional depletion. Clouds had moved back in, the outside was ink, and the temperature rose to eighty-nine below and settled there. Norse sent a message to Washington, D.C., explaining that Tyson had disappeared and that the base was in the process of recovering its emotional equilibrium. Some of the research would slip for a day or two. In his professional opinion, the survivors could still endure the winter. Personal e-mail and satellite telephone messages were still on hold until the group completed its catharsis.

Their mood was fragile. They needed time.

Lewis lay awake for most of the night and then fell into an exhausted sleep that lasted until early afternoon. He woke feeling wearier than when he'd gone to bed, and he scratched morosely at the frost of the Ice Room. He supposed that with four people gone from the base he could move to an interior berth, but the thought of occupying the space of a dead man seemed ghoulish. He sat on his bunk, euphoria replaced with depression. I have no friends. Norse had undercut him by pursuing Abby. Abby he had betrayed. Poor Gabriella he'd abandoned.

He dressed and went to the galley, dreading meeting either woman. Fortunately, neither was there. He ate a few leftovers without appetite, his mouth like cotton, and then went outside into the dark, hoping to assuage his guilt and regret with the rote labor of collecting data. The cold was bracing, a sharp reminder of where he really was. The surroundings were so black that the meteorology building looked like a hovering spacecraft as he approached it. He climbed the stairs, shed his parka and boots, and duly recorded every decimal point: a robot on assignment. Lewis wished he had the control of a robot. He'd been welcomed into the fold only to drunkenly embarrass himself in front of the person he cared about most. Now that he'd made the club, he'd become a fool.

Why was connection so difficult? He'd learned the superficialities like anyone else: the hearty hellos, the solicitous sympathies, the psychological bargaining of favor and position that made up casual friendship. It was true communion that eluded him. Honesty brought a wary reaction and confession seemed regarded as weakness. Sex seemed the enemy of love. Lewis had hoped that by coming to the Pole he'd find an isolated commune in which barriers would shatter: a forced encounter group in which the environment would encourage people to share their souls. Nothing of the sort had happened. If anything, people seemed to grow thicker shells to protect precious privacy. The nicknames were armor, signaling the role each had been chosen to play through the false dance of winter.

If he couldn't make connection with another human being, he thought, he was going to go crazy.

"Well, Buck, old boy, it's time to find an Exxon station."

The gauge on the Spryte still showed a quarter tank of diesel in reserve but Tyson had been thinking of refueling for the last twenty miles. He'd just been putting off getting out in the cold. The cabin altimeter showed the plateau had swollen to eleven thousand feet here and the thermometer read one hundred and three below zero. Inside the machine it was a relatively cozy sixty-three above, a cocoon of habitability maintained only by the full-blast roaring of the cabin heater. The wind was beginning to pick up, too. Pretty soon it might blow hard enough that he'd be fighting ice on the windshield.

Damn, it was lonely.

Beyond the pool of his headlights he could see nothing.

Tyson checked his GPS again. A compass was so useless down here that he'd thrown the damn thing away, but the satellite readings were faithfully keeping him on track. According to his latitude and longitude beamed from space, he'd come about two hundred miles from the American base and had five hundred to go. Vostok! Better than being lynched by a bunch of polar nutcases, perhaps, but just barely.

Someday they were going to know his innocence. Someday they were going to find the real killer and wish they had big bad Buck Tyson around to help bring him down. But right now he was out on Pluto, the underworld, hoping hard as hell that he could get back someday to the green hills of earth.

He knew Norse didn't give a shit about him. The shrink was just trying to keep the lid on and prevent everyone else from going loco by flushing Mr. Unpopularity away.

And old Buck? He'd have a right jolly time with the Russkies the rest of the winter, eating pickled herring and black bread and counting the seconds until he could get out of collapsing Commie-ville. Get back to clear his name.

"Not until you gas up, Bucky-boy." He stopped the rig, letting the engine idle.

Grunting in the tight cab space, he pulled on his parka and ski gloves and face mask and goggles and pulled the lever on the cab door. It had frozen shut, natch, so he had to pop it with a hard butt of his shoulder. "Ow!" When he stepped down to the metal footrest, the cold squeezed him like a frozen lake. My balls are going to implode. As quickly as he could he slammed the door shut and peered back inside at the cabin thermometer. The interior had plunged fifteen degrees from that brief blast of cold air before steadying. Wouldn't take long to freeze up completely if his dear old diesel stopped chugging. Well, he'd babied that mother for weeks, now. It should tick like a clock.

Tyson dropped to the snow and apprehensively looked around. He couldn't see shit. The only thing visible was a curtain of knee-high blowing snow, rippling at him out of the dark and zipping on, waving goodbye to the lights of the Spryte. Beyond was dark and profound as a cave. Five, six more months of this insanity before the light returned. Jesus, he'd been stupid! Yeah, he'd needed the money, but this place…

He walked to the sled he towed behind, stiff from sitting and awkward from the thick clothes and the cold he involuntarily shrank from. They'd used the sled to drag construction materials on base and Norse had commandeered it for Tyson's escape. It was loaded with fuel in five-gallon jerricans. The mechanic grasped one, feeling the cold of its metal even through his gloves, and tugged. It was like pulling on bedrock. Everything was frozen to everything else.

"Fucking Antarctica."

He trundled back to the Spryte and shoved open its toolbox, kept marginally warm by its proximity to the engine. He took out a ball peen hammer and pointed tire jack and went back to the sled. A few whacks broke the outermost container free enough that he could yank it off. It took more hammer blows to get the metal screw-top loosened, everything clumsy in the cold. Finally he had it off and a fuel spout screwed on. Grunting, he lifted the can and began emptying its contents into the tracked vehicle's gas tank. The process was excruciatingly slow. At this temperature, the fuel was like syrup.

When the can was empty he unscrewed the spout and heaved the empty container away. The garbage would mark his spot, like a bobcat pissing on pine needles. Like that stuff they left on the moon. Puffing, cursing, he went back for the next one.

Christ, it was cold! His lungs were raw, his head aching. Despite the exertion he felt like he was stiffening up. He stopped after fifteen gallons and climbed back into the cab to warm up, letting the ice on his face mask melt before he ripped it down, gasping. He sipped some water to battle dehydration. Cameron had told him once that studies showed everything at the Pole took three times longer to do than normal. Then the asshole asked him to do things three times faster than they reasonably could be done.

"Rest in peace, you sonofabitch." No one deserved a knife in the chest but jeez, he'd been an ineffectual prick. He wondered who murdered him. Half the base would qualify, near as Tyson could tell.

He climbed out again and went back to work. The hammer shattered like glass on the eighth can, its metal brittle from the incredible cold. Tyson wearily got a spare from the toolbox and went back to work. Glug, glug, glug. Terrible task, but this stuff was his lifeblood. Without fuel, he was a dead man.

At forty-five gallons he called it a pit stop. The tank was still slightly shy of full but he couldn't take the cold anymore. He'd drive several more hours, nap, and fill up again. As long as the plateau stayed flat and featureless, he'd be drinking vodka toasts in a few days. Until then, stay calm, stay focused. Stay alive! He climbed back aboard the rumbling Spryte.

Tyson gave himself a few minutes to warm up, savoring the heat of the cab, and finally stopped shivering enough to take off his parka and gloves. He gave the engine a couple of experimental blasts with the throttle, slipped the vehicle into gear, and set out with a lurch. The scattering of empty jerricans slipped away behind to be quietly entombed by the snow.

An hour of dark tedium passed. It was like driving a submarine across lightless mud. Except this was far colder than the deep sea. He was right, his windshield was beginning to ice up, so he turned the defrost higher and beat at the skin with the feeble scritch-scratch of the wipers. Not that there was anything to see!

Then the engine coughed.

Don't scare me like that, you cheap-ass hunk of machinery.

It coughed again.

Tyson chilled. A breakdown out here could be lethal. These diesels liked to run until doomsday, once you got them warmed up. What the hell could be wrong?

The engine began stuttering, as if something were caught in its throat, and he goosed the throttle to clear it. It roared, gagged, clattered wildly. Then, as if drowning on its own phlegm, it guttered out.

"Shit!"

He crawled behind his seat and lifted an access panel. There was nothing obviously wrong. No smoke. The fluids were normal. He checked the oil and there was plenty of that, too. It sounded like there was water or some other contaminant in the fuel.

Had that moron psychologist given him the wrong stuff? Reluctantly, he opened the cab again. The wind had risen, and although the temperature had climbed ten degrees with it, the cold's bite was worse than ever. Tyson was instantly chilled. He slammed the door shut and looked longingly back inside. Again that fifteen-degree drop, but this time there was no heater blowing to maintain cab temperature. Even as he watched, the mercury continued to slowly descend. Have to hurry!

If it was the fuel, the two filters should bleed it out. Maybe they needed to be emptied of water. Maybe they'd iced up. He crawled under the machine with a flashlight to open a panel and check the fuel line, muttering imprecations at every mush-minded beaker he'd ever met. Norse wouldn't know a carburetor from a camshaft, he was sure of it. Shining the light around, he was momentarily puzzled. Where the devil were the filters? It was like he'd never seen this machine before.

Then he looked closer and realized. The filters had been cut out of the line. Excised like a bad appendix. Snip, snip. The breaks had been bridged by tubing.

Dread realization began to descend. Well, well, Doctor Bob. Savior of the Pole. More mechanically savvy than I gave you credit for. And, with a little tune and lube, my judge, jury, and executioner.

If he got going again, he'd turn around and strangle the bastard.

Tyson crawled back out and stood in the wind, trying to think. He had to not just fix things, but fix them fast. He had to get that engine going before he froze.

He boosted himself up on the step and looked back in the cab. It was down to forty degrees. Tyson opened the door, fished out some chewing gum from the console, and shut it again. Then he dropped back to the snow.

His only hope was that the other fuel was good. How many cans could the fucker have doped? Tyson had no tubing to siphon the bad stuff out, and no drain hole. His only choice was to make his own. He opened the toolbox, took out a cold chisel-now, there's an appropriate name, he told himself- and placed it against the fuel tank. Then he swung with a hammer. It took a furious set of blows, which had the advantage of warming him, before he punched a hole through the dented tank. Diesel began running out onto the snow in a pulse like a cut artery, warmed by its proximity to the engine. Once it hit the snow it congealed.

What had Norse put in it? Water? Sugar? Some weird chemical shit?

He took out the gum, having to painfully bare his hand to unwrap it, and stuffed every stick into his mouth, chewing furiously. Then, slipping his glove back on, he began to break the other cans loose from the sled. Even if these worked, were there enough to get back to Amundsen-Scott? Would the others help him if he got there?

Cursing, clumsy from the cold, he got one top off after another. The wind kept rising, biting at him. Frantic, he left off for a minute to check the fuel tank. It was still emptying in a now-sluggish stream. He stepped up on the Spryte to look at the thermometer inside the cabin.

Eighteen degrees above zero. Heat was leaching from his survival capsule like gas from a balloon.

At last the fuel tank emptied. The area under the machine was slick with it, half frozen, a petroleum lake. He took the gum from his mouth and wedged it, steaming, over the hole he'd made. The gum wrapper went over that. Shit-poor work, but the cold instantly hardened his patch like putty.

Then he began lugging the newly opened cans to the opening and pouring them in. Diesel spilled on the side of the tank, streaming into the snow, and he didn't care. If he could light the damn diesel he'd get warm in a hurry, and that sounded almost pleasant right now. Baby will you light my fire…

He could hardly feel his damn feet.

But he couldn't afford a bonfire. He needed every drop to get back for a little counseling session with Robert Norse.

You saved 'em all, didn't you, Doctor Bob? Talked to me with sympathy just before you pushed me off the plank. So what's going to be your solution when there's another murder and you realize that, oops, Buck Tyson didn't do it? What happens to your tidy little social theories then?

At fifteen gallons he left off. Had to get the engine going before he froze. Once he had respite with the heater, he'd dump the rest in. That's if the engine started. If this crap wasn't as poisoned as the other batch. If just once in his pathetic life he'd get a single fucking break.

Tyson climbed in the cab and slammed the door. It was a relief to be out of the wind but the temperature inside was already close to zero. It was like escaping to a meat locker. Without hesitation he turned the key. Please. Please please me…

It cranked, stuttered, died.

He turned it again. The cab light dimmed as the engine labored.

And again.

Duh-duh-duh-duh.

He looked at the cab thermometer. Zero! Even with his body heat the temperature inside was falling like a rock. He needed heat, and fast.

It occurred to Tyson to use the radio. Not for rescue- there was no possibility of that- but just to inform Norse's many admirers at Amundsen-Scott base just how well and truly the psychologist had fucked over naive Dakota farm boy Buck Tyson. Wouldn't they like to hear about Norse's therapy in action? Of course, maybe they'd cheer that their ex-mechanic was about to turn into USDA-grade frozen- gee, the Doc sure took care of that little social problem- but they should at least know what their paranoia had led to, just to interrupt their slumber at night. And so he picked up the radio. Hello, this is your old buddy Buck and I'm about to die…

Click. Nothing. Not even static. He wormed under the dash. All the wires had been cut.

Checkmate, Jimmy. And you can't even flip over the game board, can you?

He flicked off all the lights and turned the key and cranked. And cranked. And cranked. There were a couple pops and snorts, just enough to give him a moment of cruel hope. But the damned engine wouldn't turn over. Wouldn't even properly fart.

Finally the batteries died. It was quiet and dark.

He turned on the flashlight kept close to his chest to avoid the cold draining its D cells and took another reading. Minus eight and still falling. Going for equilibrium with the great outdoors.

Well, this was it, then. His nowhere life had come to ground in nowhere.

He began to shiver.

Tyson knew his body would shake only so long. Then it would be out of energy like the Spryte's batteries, his core temperature dropping, a surrendering drowsiness taking over. How many hours of torture before that sleepy relief? Minutes, if he opened his coat. Which was worse?

Or he could find a match and try to light the mess outdoors. A quicker, more painful, pyre.

"What's it to be, Bucky? Fire or ice?"

Norse! Does that fucker have any idea what horror he's inflicted?

"Yep, Doc, you saved 'em all."

Tyson considered, trying to think clearly. If he didn't burn himself up, they'd find him someday. Maybe piece together enough to determine what had happened. Maybe even catch that slimy psychologist and make him pay.

Maybe. Or maybe give Norse a medal.

He slammed open the door, letting the last of his heat escape. Best to get it over with.

Then he closed the cab again and settled deeper into his parka, trying by muscle strength to control his shivering. He couldn't, of course.

One last peek at the thermometer. Minus twenty-eight and accelerating. Plunging downward to match the bottomless cold outside.

Even at the bottom of the world, solitude can be interrupted by the telephone. Lewis's at Clean Air rang with buzz-saw insistence, as harshly demanding as a baby's cry, and his guilt over ignoring Cameron's calls at the onset of the blizzard made him habitually pick it up now. His reverie of isolation, watching the lonely ice cap as fire lookouts once held vigil on their mountaintops, was shattered. "Lewis here."

"Got a minute?" It was Norse.

"I'm busy, Doc." The reply was sullen. The psychologist was the last person he wanted to talk to. He'd moved in on Abby. Started this mess, really. And it was beginning to annoy him that Norse carried his air of authority, of leadership, so easily. Annoy him that he'd let the man establish unspoken rank.

"You've been hiding out there."

"I've been working."

"Even the weather takes a break."

"Data to catch up on."

There was a pause as Norse thought about what to say. "Look, I called because I figured you might be sore about the other night. Abby, the party. Guilty as charged. Trouble is, she isn't attracted to me. I guess it caused some trouble. We were all drinking too much."

Lewis, his pride wounded, thought any apology was condescending. "You can dance with whoever you want. We weren't a couple. As near as I can tell, she doesn't like me, either."

"That's where you're wrong, sport."

Lewis was curious what had led Norse to say that and was not about to admit it. "And don't call me sport. Or friend, or son, or buddy, or sweetie. I don't like the Father Superior act."

"No offense meant." Norse's voice crackled over the phone. "Just trying to repair the damage."

"Why?"

"Because today's the first day of the rest of our lives. The post-Buck era. Remainder of the winter. All for one and one for all."

Lewis inwardly frowned, knowing he'd voiced the same thoughts. Had Abby repeated them to Bob?

"Look, how about a meeting on neutral ground?" Norse went on.

"What do you mean?"

"The KitKat Club after dinner tonight. I've got an idea to help continue patching things back together under the dome. There's a bunch of crap out there that people leave behind. Hobbies, toys, eccentric gear. It's stored there. Might be something good for morale."

"You're recreational director now?"

"I'm just trying to keep the station on keel."

Lewis knew he was sulking. "I've never even been out there."

"That's the whole point. It's the station's start-over place."

Lewis thought about it, fighting with his pride. "Who said I need to start over?"

"Okay, maybe I do." Norse waited.

"You're a manipulator, you know that? You manipulate people."

"Of course I do. Any effective person does. But that doesn't mean I'm not your friend. I'm trying to help, dammit."

"Help what?"

"Help the winter progress. Help make up for my own mistakes."

Lewis was mad at Norse because he was still mad at himself. "So why did you take her away at the party?"

There was a long silence. "Look, I said I fucked up, okay? I cut in on you, I came on to Abby, I was feeling cocky that people were turning to me, and high that Tyson had split. I was drunk. Conceded. But it was a game to me and Abby saw through that and she shot me down. She told me she liked you. I should have known better. I did know better. And I woke up hungover like everyone else and not feeling too good about myself. So now I'm trying to move on from here."

Lewis was silent. He was jealous of this man trying to hold things together. Jealous of Norse's glib rationalizations. Grow up, he told himself. He's trying to apologize.

"I'm a shrink and I've wound up as temporary, de facto… point man. Okay?"

Boss, Lewis thought.

"That's not a recipe for popularity, and I feel pressure like anyone else," Norse continued, "but we need each other and we need to get through the winter. Together. I think Abby really cares about you, Jed. She knows that other thing with Gabriella- she knows that was bullshit. So give me a chance to fix things. Manipulate, like you said. That's not always a bad thing."

Lewis sighed. "I just feel this whole winter I've been jerked around, with the meteorite and everything else. I'm tired of it."

"This isn't easy for me, either, you know. If you haven't guessed yet, I've got quite an ego. When push came to shove, she chose you. That stung. But you, me, her- all of us getting back together is the right thing to do."

"The right thing? I'm losing my bearings on that one, Doc."

Norse laughed at himself. "Okay. The best plan I have at the time." There was a click as he hung up the phone.