The Last Hunter - Descent - Jeremy Robinson [19]
The door clanks open. A burst of air and snow slams into the cabin but then quickly abates. A lot of people make loud “brrr” sounds and start rubbing their arms. I head for the door.
The captain gives me a once over. I’m dressed in black pants and a black turtleneck. As I realize my hair is floating around my head thanks to a buildup of head-rest static, I expect the captain to make an Andy Warhol joke, but this man is sinister. He aims below the belt.
“This isn’t a beatnik poetry session,” he says. “Get in the heated cab and bring a coat next time.”
What he doesn’t know is that I have a coat. I’m sure my mother is fishing it out right now. But I can’t wait. And I want to do this on my own. If something happens, I don’t want anyone to see it. I don’t want anyone to be in striking distance, either.
I nod to the captain and head outside. A burst of Antarctican air hits me before I’m halfway down the steps. I breathe it in. I let it out. My muscles relax. A smile creeps onto my face.
I stop at the last step, looking at the packed ice just ten inches away. I move to step on it slowly, as I would ice that was a half inch thick, but am bumped from behind by one of the other passengers I did not meet.
“Are you nuts?” the woman says as she rushes past me, headed for the Sno-Cat transport waiting ten feet away.
I lose my balance and fall forward, landing hard on my feet.
Nothing happens.
I wait.
Still nothing.
More people are rushing past now.
Relief floods my system, further relaxing me. Maybe Clark was wrong about me? Maybe my parents had nothing to hide?
Then I look up at the plane and see Dr. Clark. He’s looking out the window at me, a big grin on his face. Nothing happened, I think, so what’s he so excited about?
Another passenger rushes by, this one dressed in a thick coat, but just as chilled as the others.
That’s when I realize what Dr. Clark has already figured out.
I’m not cold. Not at all.
7
The next day is so rushed and chaotic I rarely have a chance to remember I’m on Antarctica. It’s more like a snow camp for adults. I spend the first half of the day in a distracted stupor, trying to figure out how I seem to be immune to temperature changes. I know I felt cold at home. I remember feeling hot on the plane. But here, where I should be shivering with everyone else, I feel nothing beyond a comfortable warmth I peg around seventy degrees. With no explanations forthcoming, and no chance to discuss the development with Dr. Clark, I set my mind to my surroundings, and I absorb what I can of Antarctica.
There are more people than I expected. A few hundred populate Willy Town. At the center of the town are a few large, but moveable, buildings. Surrounding the buildings are rows of large metal shipping containers that store supplies, serve as homes and utterly devastate the landscape. The rows of bright red, green, orange and yellow look like the Breakout video game I used to play on my Atari.
After everyone is dressed, we shuffle from building to building, suffering through hours of briefings on weather, safety and schedules. Even Dr. Clark, who has spent more hours on the continent than most, must endure the endless lectures. The one interesting bit of news I learn is that my family is an official part of the Clark expedition, at least temporarily. We’re not here as tourists. None of these people are. We’re here to work, or at least that’s what everyone has been told. By the time we’re done, most people have warmed up, but now everyone is hungry and night is beginning to fall.
When given the option to eat food from our supplies or visit Willy Field Tavern, both my parents vote emphatically for the tavern. This comes as a surprise to me. In my lifetime I’ve never seen either of them take a drink. And they certainly haven’t gone to any bars. But they seem eager to visit the tavern and become slightly jovial as we maneuver through the Jujubes-colored