The Last Hunter - Descent - Jeremy Robinson [1]
Three hundred fifteen miles separated Mawson and his two men from camp; three thousand more from civilization. No man had ever ventured further from home, and only one of them would make it back.
Mawson, commander of the expedition, stood before a white glacial expanse. His angular face, typically clean-shaven but now covered by an inch-thick beard, hid behind a dirty tan scarf. The scarf did little to protect him against the Antarctic cold, which grated his lungs. The rest of him, bundled in a thick, beige snowsuit, felt warmer when moving. Not so much when standing still.
Dr. Xavier Mertz had stopped. He was the point man, riding on skis while Mawson followed with a dog sledge team and Lieutenant Ninnis brought up the rear with a second team and the majority of their indispensable supplies. That Mertz had stopped meant he’d seen something. Most likely something dangerous, like a snow-covered crevasse. They looked solid enough until you put weight on them. Then they could fall through like a trap door.
“What’s the problem, Mertz?” Mawson shouted.
But the man didn’t reply.
Mawson removed his hood in case the man’s words were being muffled. He asked again, “What is it, Mertz?”
The only sign that Mertz had not frozen solid on the spot was his head, craning slowly from side to side.
Mawson signaled for Ninnis to remain behind and stepped off his sledge. He petted the nearest dog as he passed, then headed for Mertz. His feet crunched over the snow and ice, signaling his approach. Still, the man did not move.
Five feet away, Mertz finally responded, his hand snapping up with an open palm. The sudden movement sent Mawson’s heart pounding. But the message was clear: Don’t. Move. And he didn’t. Not for three minutes. Then he spoke again. “Bloody hell, Mertz, what is it?”
Mertz turned his head slightly. “Saw someone.”
“Saw something?”
“Some-one.”
Ridiculous, Mawson thought. They were the first human beings to set foot in this part of the world. So sure was he of that fact that he spoke his mind aloud. “Ridiculous.”
He stepped up to Mertz’s side. “The land is frozen. Not only is there no way a man could live here, there’s nowhere to hide.”
Mertz turned to Mawson. “He wasn’t wearing clothes.”
Mawson frowned. Mertz had a reputation for being a humorous fellow. “My lip is split. My knees are sore. My stomach is rumbling. I’m not in the mood for jokes, so let’s go. I want to be off this glacier before dark.”
“His hair was red. As red as the blood staining your beard. But his body was pale.” Mertz returned his eyes to the snow. “Wouldn’t have seen him if not for the hair.”
Mawson’s patience wore thin. “Mertz,” he growled more than said.
The man turned to him and Mawson saw wide-eyed fear. “I’m not joking.”
With his eyes shut, Mawson took a deep breath. The energy he’d exert losing his temper would drain him later on. He’d need that strength to survive. Calming his voice, he said, “Mertz, look around. What do you see?”
He glanced at Mertz, who was indeed looking. “White. From horizon to horizon. White! There is no one there. Not now. Not before. And if we stand here one more minute, we will—”
A sound like a howl rolled across the frozen plain. Mawson’s voice caught in his throat. It sounded...human. But it wasn’t. “The wind,” he said quickly, noticing the deepening wrinkles on Mertz’s sunburned forehead.
Why hadn’t the man covered his skin? Mawson thought. Before he could ask, a second, louder howl echoed around them.
Before Mawson could once again dismiss the sound, Mertz spoke. “There’s not a breeze to speak of.”
Mawson held his breath. Mertz was right.
Mertz looked at him again. I told you so, his expression said. But as he turned away, his head spun back around, past Mawson, toward Ninnis. His eyes popped wide. His arm reached out. A high pitched, “No!” shot from his mouth.
Mawson turned around in time to see the last of the sledge dogs pulled toward a hole in the ice. It whimpered, digging its claws into the ice. Then it was gone. Ninnis, six dogs