Doomsday Warrior 09 - America’s Zero Hour (14 page)

The temperature dropped to minus thirty degrees Fahrenheit—made even colder by the lack of sun and by the howling wind. The field of cracks ended finally. The dogs were rehitched, none lost. But then came another obstacle to defeat. Snow, driven against scattered boulders began to form into drifts around them, making the going even tougher than before. The wind drove the snow like a hurricane of knife blades into their faces, cutting the skin, the blood freezing as it oozed out. Their nostrils seemed glued together by the cold, making breathing almost impossible. Robinson’s red beard was now covered with ice. Archer looked like he had a bib of cotton. Their feet began growing numb, and their hands frostbitten—despite the caribou-hide mittens. Secretly each man half hoped that Rockson would tell them to turn back, or at least tell them to camp down for the storm. Then they would crawl exhausted into their tents and into their fur sleeping pallets. At least to find shelter from the wind.

At last the Doomsday Warrior’s hand went up and he told them to stop. He tested a large area with his spiked ski pole and found it safe.

“We’ll make camp here.”

The howling snowstorm was now a full-fledged blizzard. Rockson knew that it would be impossible to go on now—or even to pitch tents in this wind.

He approached Tinglim. “How long does a blow like this last?” he shouted.

Tinglim yelled, “A day. Maybe two. It is imperative to construct a shelter. We must begin by digging a pit.”

Rock thought the idea impossible, but he knew he had to rely on Tinglim’s judgment. He didn’t know what the hell else to do. He gave the order to dig. All hands removed the shovels from the sleds, gathered in one corner of the snowbank, and began to dig. The snow was piling up almost faster than they could shovel. Still, they kept shoveling. Within half an hour four of the men could fit inside. It took another half-hour for the rest. Tinglim directed the piling up of snow blocks cut with knives to be passed upward from the interior. The wind raged on like a madman. The dogs huddled together like a single ball of fur in the snow to keep from freezing. Somehow the men built a crude but functional igloo.

Inside they could even remove their parkas. Tinglim lit a whale-oil heater. The emergency igloo was filled with the fragrance of unwashed men and dried blubber which the Nara chewed happily. Two lamps were used to melt water out of snow and ice. McCaughlin set up the stove. Soon a coffee smell permeated the air. Everyone congratulated Tinglim: Let the winds howl outside. They were warm.

“Is there actually dinner?” Rock asked McCaughlin, who was rapidly setting up the small cookstove.

“I’m cooking already,” McCaughlin answered. “Rabbit legs in pea soup. Ersatz coffee will be ready in a few minutes, as soon as the ice has melted and boiled!”

They spent the night in something less than luxury surroundings—but their stomachs were full and they weren’t freezing to death.

It was twenty-four hours before they could again venture out. The blizzard at last moved on, leaving behind it a starry moonlit sky and warmer temperatures—all the way up to zero degrees. The party set off again, making excellent speed. After seven hours they were at the Draco River which was frozen solid. They started making their way up it, as the ice was a good six inches thick.

They sped along like they were being pursued by the devil himself, not quite positive the ice river was going to hold them up, and wanting to get off it as soon as possible. The river at this position headed nearly directly north, parallel to the Al-Can Highway, and they were making up precious time, moving thirty or forty miles along in a matter of hours. Suddenly there was a yelping and howling from the lead dogs of Rockson’s sled and they skidded to a halt, the other dogs tripping and bumping into one another.

The two dogs at the head of Rock’s sled sunk in to their haunches through cracked ice. Steam rose. They howled as their paws hit the near-boiling temperature of the waters under the ice—an underground hot spring had melted the ice cover to the thickness of a pane of glass. They splashed about vainly trying to get out of the deathtrap, but couldn’t get their footing. Rockson gingerly stepped from the sled—even this small movement caused cracks to appear under his boots—and he looked down and saw rushing blue waters just inches under his own feet.

“Take to the ground,” Rockson yelled to the other men. But they were already doing that—the sleds behind being driven toward the safety of the snowy banks.

“Throw ropes to Rockson from the rear and help pull the lead dogs out of the water,” the Nara chief shouted as he pulled back to a safe distance and brought his team to a stop.

Rockson saw the two lead dogs going deeper. He heard a cracking and a hissing as a lower layer of the ice cracked and buckled all around him. His slightest movement caused more cracks to open.

The huskies were treading near-boiling water, not supported at all by the ice.

The whole team of dogs let out mournful howls, knowing they soon would also be in the steaming waters.

A rope flew toward Rockson. He saw it out of the corner of his eye and grabbed it, just snagging the end. He tied it to the handle of the sled and secured it. Then another rope flew over his shoulder. He did the same with that just as the sled began slipping forward again. Within seconds the second set of dogs broke through the ice, and then the final two dogs went in as well.

“Pull, you bastards, pull,” McCaughlin and Chen screamed at their teams. Each Freefighter had managed to get a rope to Rockson from opposite sides of the frozen river of death. Their dogs slipped and scurried for traction, feeling the strain of the weight of Rockson’s sinking sled.

Rockson was about ready to abandon everything—the supplies
and
the dogs—to their watery grave. He was inches deep in the bubbly hot water already, his feet soaking wet, nearly scalded inside the boots. He figured if he worked his way along one of the ropes, slid himself along the still-frozen ice, he might make it—alone. Suddenly the sled stopped its plunge and slowly, ever so slowly, reversed its downward motion, began to tip back to horizontal. The plasti-nylon ropes were so tight that they vibrated in the arctic wind like some sort of mad Mozart string ensemble. Rock just prayed they wouldn’t snap.

The last two dogs of the six-dog team somehow managed to get out of the water with the sled. They shook and shivered off the most water they could, yelping and tangling the lines as they barked for their friends still swimming nose deep in the turgid steaming waters.

Rockson saw a dog stop swimming and go under. In a moment he came to the surface, belly up—dead. Then the lead gave out and went limp.

Rockson realized there was no saving the first two dogs. He inched forward and cut the reins. Oxytl yelped out a last, sharp bark and went under, probably more boiled than drowned. Rockson crawled along the ice on his belly, spreading his weight, holding onto a line. He pulled on the reins of the middle two huskies. They emerged from the water dripping like water rats, their fur plastered against their bodies. He punched each of them hard in the chest and, sputtering up lungfuls of water, both started moving.

“There, boys,” he said, trying to calm the terrified dogs. “Let’s get the hell out of here, fellas, okay?”

Once they realized they were out alive, the dogs rose to their feet and walked alongside Rockson as he carefully moved back toward the river bank.

They had to stop for nearly an hour. Rock dried his boots over a fire; the huskies were rubbed dry and reattached to their harnesses. Some of the supplies from his sled were moved to the others since he was short two dogs now. Though the men were reeling from the close call, Rockson insisted they push on. His new right lead dog took over instinctively as the “driver” of the others. Just like men, Rock thought grimly, huskies always need one dog who assumes control—or they begin trying to run off in all directions.

Considering all they had been through, the Doomsday Warrior shouldn’t have been so surprised when one man couldn’t take any more. Robinson went crazy. Robinson’s beard had grown wild and scraggly and it was covered with icicles. He started muttering to himself, pulling his sled dangerously close to Rockson’s from time to time and shouting obscenities and numerous complaints such as, “You’ve lost us,” and “We’re all going to die!”

His eyes were an odd sort of bloodshot orange. Rockson waved the men to a halt finally and they lit a set of torches and sat down in a close circle. Robinson had to be grabbed and set in place by Detroit and Chen, who sat alongside him. Rockson stared at Robinson in the glow of the orange torches. They were in the middle of an absolutely flat whiteness that dropped off like the ends of the earth in all directions.

“Robinson, I know we are all hurting,” he tried to reason. “We will get some rest and safety at the Ice City, I am—”

Robinson wouldn’t let him finish. He leapt across at Rockson, catching the commander with a maniacal stranglehold that Rockson had trouble pulling away from. Detroit leapt into the fray and pulled the madman away. Detroit and Robinson, who had been at odds years before, began slamming away at one another. Rockson jumped to his feet and tried to tear them apart. He was surprised that Detroit wouldn’t obey him. He just kept pummeling at Robinson, the madman screaming and trying to beat back at the black Freefighter with his frost-chafed, bloody hands. Neither was doing much damage to the other. At last they fell exhausted in the snow. Rockson had an awful feeling that even though this fight was over, there would soon be many more, as the men were already beyond the normal range of human endurance. Strangely, the fight seemed to have the effect of bringing Robinson back to his senses. Rock managed to make the two of them apologize and they set off again. Everyone knew now that it wasn’t just the elements, but their own minds that they were fighting. Rock himself, despite his years of mind training and meditation—necessary for his pursuit of the higher martial arts—was feeling wretched. He tried to shake a growing brooding melancholy, but couldn’t.

At last they came to a valley between two hills, the first hills made of Mother Earth—or at least frozen tundra—that they had seen for days. There were even trees: short squat evergreens.

“The Ice City lies just a few miles more,” Tinglim said, “Just on the other side of the Sasquatch Forest!”

Sixteen

R
ockson and his men camped in a sheltered valley where they would be protected from the buffeting wind and driving snow, just outside the Sasquatch Forest. While the tents were being pitched, Rockson and Tinglim took inventory of their supplies. Then, at the meeting he called, Rock told the men, “All the tenting and hunting equipment is sound, and we’ve got plenty of fuel for the portable stoves. But we’ve used up the last of the food.” The tired men hardly looked interested.

“Well, men,” Rockson asked. “Do I have any volunteers for a hunting party?” Tinglim volunteered but Rock vetoed it. “We all know how hard you’ve worked on this trip. I can tell you’re exhausted. Rest. There must be men who are up to it more.”

Tinglim nodded. He added, “At least game is plentiful in this area. We can drink tea,” Tinglim said somewhat despondently, “until our hunters return.” McCaughlin had once again set up the portable stove in the main tent, and set a pot of tea on. But stomachs ached for food.

“Any other volunteers?” asked Rockson.

“I’d like to go,” said McCaughlin. “If there’s no food there’s nothing more for me to do around here.”

Robinson suggested, “He’ll need a man along who knows what he’s doing.” He stroked his red beard. “I’m all right now, sir, I swear it.”

“Are you volunteering, Robinson?” asked Rockson.

“I guess I am.”

“Good,” said Rockson heartily. “That settles it. You and McCaughlin will be our hunting party. Synchronize your watches. I want you two back in six hours, whether you’ve bagged any game for the pot or not. The rest of you men can use this time,”—the men groaned—“to get some shut-eye!”

McCaughlin and Robinson checked out the dogs in no time and loaded the sleds with hunting gear and rifles. The dogs, feeling the lightness of the load, in spite of their long travels were frisky and energetic. Soon the hunters vanished from view of the camp in the direction of the forest.

The scattered short, squat evergreens became very abundant as McCaughlin and Robinson rode. The height of the trees increased. After a half-hour, Robinson pulled over and dismounted. McCaughlin found him examining tiny footprints in the snow.

“Hare tracks,” said Robinson. His blue eyes flashed with excitement. “Over there are fox tracks, hot on their trail,” he said, pointing to prints that looked like those of a small dog. “I propose we follow them wherever they take us in the forest. We can arrange a chain of loopline traps on the hare’s route of travel. That way we might snare the hare, or its hunter, the fox.”

“Well, I suppose you know what you are doing,” answered McCaughlin. “But this terrain already gives me the creeps. There’s something sick-looking about this forest. I propose we travel for an hour more and then, no matter what happens, stop. We can check and collect the traps on our way back.” Robinson agreed.

Thus, setting the traps and loops at frequent intervals, they traveled deeper still into the brooding forest. Though the place made McCaughlin uneasy, he was glad he had come along. Robinson
did
know what he was doing, and McCaughlin was learning a lot. The old red-beard displayed an icy calm and cool professionalism as he laid the traps. In light of his blow-up with Rockson, it was easy to see that this was good therapy for Robinson. McCaughlin was also thinking that this might be good therapy for himself.

For Robinson, after the total whiteness of the landscape for days, it was a relief to see the dark green trees and other signs of life. Robinson quickly laid eight traps. At the end of an hour they turned back, to hopefully collect their catch.

The first two traps they checked were empty, but the third bore fruit. A fox! It had struggled valiantly to escape, but in the effort to get its leg out had burrowed its head in the snow and had become frozen fast by its own dying breath. The snow was stained with the fox’s blood. As Robinson was prying open the trap to extract it, McCaughlin said, “You know, I can’t get rid of this feeling of being watched. It sounds silly, but—” McCaughlin’s words were interrupted by a whoosh of a rope flung by unseen hands. It fell around his neck and then was pulled taut. His body was already being dragged away when Robinson stood up holding his catch. He was about to reply as another rope came around his neck too, and pulled him backward along the snow . . .