Borealis(8)

He looked away, focusing straight ahead. Backlit by the trawler’s floodlights, Charlie’s shadow, projected onto the iceberg, loomed enormous. Arms outstretched for balance, he crossed the finger of ice quickly then mounted the incline, dropping down on all fours to scurry up the slope. Behind him, he heard the cracking ice peel away from the floe. He turned to see chunks of gray ice float away on the inky waters.

“Perfect,” he grunted.

Still on all fours, he spied the young woman’s frail figure fallen slumped, face first, in the snow. Maybe ten, twelve feet away. Mesmerized momentarily, he stared at one narrow buttock, the flesh so white it was almost translucent, before Joe’s urgent cries sent him scrambling toward her.

Sitting up on his knees, he touched one of her shoulders and rolled her on her back. Her head lolled, as if filled with ball bearings. Charlie gasped. Her eyes were still open, milky and cataract blind. Her thin lips had purpled and split in the cold; blood from open sores had frozen in spidery calligraphy down her chin. She wasn’t breathing.

“Come on, hon.” He managed to hoist the girl up in his arms while standing simultaneously. She was as light as an empty husk, her arms and legs already beginning to stiffen. He shouted out to the Borealis, and Bryan Falmouth gave him a thumbs-up. A second later, the mechanical hoist reeled the extra cable up into the hydraulic arm, pulled the rope taut. Charlie hugged the girl against him, squeezing his own eyes shut. The rope around his waist tightened and pulled up. The cable was set at an angle, causing him to swing violently the moment his boots lifted off the ground. Keeping his eyes shut, holding tight to the girl’s rigid body, he felt his stomach lurch with the swinging of the rope. On deck, a couple of the guys cried out and someone told Bryan to steady the rope, steady the rope, steady the f*cking rope.

The arm retracted and swiveled over the deck, dangling Charlie and the girl like two fish caught on a line. Overzealous, Sammy Walper struck the release too early and sent Charlie and the girl crashing to a sopping wet heap on the floor of the deck.

The girl’s stiff body sprang from Charlie’s arms and rolled like a mannequin away from him. Scrambling backward on his hands and feet, Charlie slammed his back against Joe’s legs. Joe reached down and tweaked his ear, clapped him on one cheek.

“She’s not breathing,” Charlie said, struggling for breath himself. “I don’t know CPR.”

McEwan dropped to one knee over the girl. He reached down to roll her over on her back but jerked away the moment his fingers touched her bare flesh, as if shocked by a current of electricity.

“What? What?” Joe yelled.

“She’s freezing,” said McEwan.

“And not breathing,” Charlie said again, struggling to his feet. Joe helped him, slinging one arm around his shoulder. “Does anyone know CP-f*cking-R?”

Surprisingly, Sammy Walper came bounding off the crank rig and hurried over to the girl. Without a word, the kid shouldered McEwan out of the way. He peeled off his gloves and placed one hand atop the other, braiding his fingers together, and proceeded to pump stiff-armed down on the girl’s chest.

“Go to it, kid,” McEwan muttered, standing and sliding out of Sammy’s way.

Mike scurried down the pilothouse steps, breathing just as heavy as Charlie. Briefly, their eyes locked across the bow. Mike nodded once. Charlie wordlessly returned the gesture.

McEwan pulled back his hood and grabbed his knit cap off his head. Eyes locked on Sammy Walper and the girl, he raked thick fingers through his corkscrew hair. “Jesus, Sammy, she breathing?”

Sammy didn’t answer. When he dropped his face down toward hers, pressing his lips against hers, Charlie turned away. He was thinking of how her lips had ballooned up and split at the creases…the way the blood had dried on her chin…

Bryan sloughed off the crank platform and staggered over to Charlie and Joe. He seemed unable to look away from the spectacle. In a small voice he said, “How the hell did she get out here?” When no one answered he said, “And what happened to her clothes?”

Mike bent down beside Sammy, who was back to administering chest compressions. “You’re doing real good, kid. Real f*cking impressive. Come on, Sammy. Come on, Sam—”

Sammy cried out, high-pitched as a schoolgirl. Startled, Mike staggered backward a few steps, his arms splayed, his knees wobbly. With unmatched agility, Sammy Walper popped to his feet and practically moonwalked back across the deck.

The girl’s eyes were open. Stiffly she turned her head to one side, appraising the crew one by one. When those cold, black eyes fell on Charlie, he felt something tighten in the center of his gut.

She sat up. Color was already beginning to filter through her veins. Clumps of ice slid down her wet hair and splashed to the deck in muddy pools.

Mike clapped his hands. “Come on, guys! Let’s get her downstairs, warm her up!” He grabbed Sammy’s sleeve and dragged him back down toward the girl. “Help me get her on her feet, Sammy.”

Sammy jerked his sleeve free and pulled his arm up to his chest, as if injured. In a small voice he said, “I ain’t touchin’ her.”

McEwan rolled into place. He slipped two hands beneath the girl’s armpits and, after a quick one-two-three count, lifted her off the deck. Upright, her body was as pale as moon glow, slender yet muscular, fragile as glass. Mike rushed to assist McEwan, each of them grabbing one of the girl’s arms. They proceeded to lead her to the hatch. At one point the girl turned and looked over her shoulder. Charlie thought she was looking directly at him.