My Last Continent: A Novel(65)
Another flare bursts above, and as it fizzles in the sky, Thom turns to me. “If you want to keep going,” he says, “I’ll take care of these folks.”
“You’ll need help with the Zodiac,” I say.
“I’ll get Nigel. Go on. Be careful.”
I turn toward the flickering light of the flare and begin walking gingerly in its direction, the ice here still sturdy and unbroken for as far as I can see. Yet appearances are often deceiving—the pack ice that surrounds us, formerly attached to the continent, has been blown around the sea all winter by ocean currents and winds, broken apart and thrust together again, and now that it’s covered with a layer of snow, it’s impossible to tell where weak spots are until you’re right on top of them. Worse, the winds are picking up again, which means that, no matter how stable the ice may look, conditions could change in an instant.
Up ahead I see another group of passengers moving toward me in a blur of blue. “Stop!” I shout at them. “Stay where you are!”
But they can’t hear me; I need to get closer, to tell them to wait for Thom. I stab at the ice as I move forward. Then I hear a sharp, cleaving echo and freeze.
The sound is not beneath me but up ahead, and I look up in time to see one of the blue jackets disappear. The other tourists stop in their tracks, one of them screaming. I force myself to proceed slowly, testing the ice as I move forward. After a few more steps, the tip of my trekking pole sinks into slush.
It’s not much of a hole, but it’s wide enough for a human body. I back up, then flatten myself on the ice and shove my right arm into the water. Most of the passengers are wearing life jackets, so I extend my arm laterally across the ice ceiling, less than two feet below, hoping that underneath the current isn’t as strong as the wind indicates.
My hand makes contact with something, and though my arm is quickly growing numb, I grab on and pull, seeing a flash of blue as I drag the body toward me. When it’s closer, I plunge both arms into the water and pull as hard as I can, using my legs to propel myself backward, away from the hole. I’m gripping an arm, and I quickly find my way to the jacket’s collar so I can pull the body out facefirst. I catch a glimpse of the man’s face, gray and frozen in shock, and I continue to pull, heaving the body up as I inch backward, the ice chipping away at the edge of the hole.
I get the man’s shoulders above water, but I can’t get him out. I turn and call out for Thom, for Nigel, for Amy, hoping one of them will hear me. Then I hang on, waiting. The man seems to have stopped breathing, but between the current and the violent shaking of my arms, it’s hard to tell.
At first I think no one’s going to come, but then I feel a body edging close to mine. “I’ve got him.”
It’s Nigel. I slip backward and let him pull the man farther out of the water. When the torso emerges, Nigel gets to his knees and drags the man all the way out. He turns the man onto his back and kneels over him, feeling for a pulse as he simultaneously pinches the man’s nostrils shut and bends down to force air into his lungs. With a sputtering cough, the man’s lungs empty of seawater, and his eyes flutter open.
The man is shivering uncontrollably, and just because he’s now breathing doesn’t mean he’s out of danger. Nigel radios for help.
I myself am shaking, and I wrap my arms around my body to steady myself. The other passengers are still huddled close together on the ice, very near to where the man had fallen in. “Back away,” I call to them, though I know their instincts and fear and the cold are drawing them together. “You’ll have to stand apart from one another—three feet, at least.”
I watch them separate—slowly, reluctantly, dubiously.
Nigel’s talking to the man who’d fallen in, asking him his name, age, where he’s from, anything to keep him conscious. But it’s not looking good; the man is incoherent, sputtering fragmented words, his teeth drumming violently together.
In my mind I’m assembling a chain of events: the Australis trapped in ice, desperate efforts to push its way out, ripped hull, ice floes crashing together, people jumping, fog, chaos, death.
Amy arrives, responding to Nigel’s call, and the two quickly strip off the man’s jacket, sweater, and shirt and wrap him in a fleece blanket, which will have to do until someone else arrives to help Amy take him back to the ship. Already we are too few rescuers, with too few resources, too late to the scene.
I turn to Nigel, who waves me ahead, and for a moment I hesitate. The sleeves of my jacket are soaked through. My arms are still numb, and water courses from my sleeves down the front of my chest. The fabric against my skin is wet and cold. Yet I start out again, clenching my jaw tightly shut to keep my teeth from chattering—as much from nerves as from cold—and I move my arms up and down as I walk, to keep the blood flowing.
A shadowy ridge of icebergs rises like giant incisors in the distance. I continue slowly, cautiously, watching for signs of movement in case any of them, like ancient trees, decide to tip over and crack the ice I’m standing on. Despite the thickening fog, I can tell I’m getting closer to the Australis; I hear the sounds of tortured, twisting steel and muffled human voices. As I navigate the ice, I place flags marking my route, the places that are safe to walk—for now, anyhow.
And then I see her.
Still shrouded in mist, about a hundred yards straight ahead, is the Australis, listing heavily to port. I pick up my pace.