Stranded (34 page)

Connor stepped through while Noah held the portal open. Jack and Kevin followed. He watched Nevins and Mickle, waiting to see which exit they went for. Nevins gave a light pound on Mickle's shoulder with a fist and jogged off to catch up to the others. Noah raised his eyebrows and gave it one more moment. Mickle pushed his hands through his hair and groaned. “You're going to get us all killed,” he said, pushing past Noah.

*   *   *

Noah regretted his idea as soon as they were standing outside, preparing to climb into the hard-shelled orange lifeboat. It wasn't hard to imagine what would happen to them inside whether or not the craft withstood the impact of a four-story plummet to the ice below.
We'll be strapped in,
he rationalized. He tried to comfort himself by focusing on structural integrity standards and safeguards designed around gravitational forces on the occupants during free fall. But images of 1980s PSAs featuring raw eggs and frying pans looped in his head. “This is your crew. This is your crew on Noah's Plan. Any questions?”

He climbed down the staircase beside the vehicle and peered over the railing into the void. It should have still been light outside for another couple of hours, but there was no sun. It wasn't behind black storm clouds or setting; it wasn't there at all. It was dark as night and Noah couldn't see the surface below.

Above him, Connor yelled, “Come on! This is your idea!”

Yes it is,
he thought. He climbed like a man ascending the scaffold. Swallowing the lump in his throat, he climbed in and chose an empty seat near the center of the craft—the others had filled in the back, presumably farthest from the worst of the impact forces—and strapped himself in. In the aft-facing seat, he tried to find a calm center within himself, but was on the verge of hyperventilating.

Connor closed the hatch and spun the wheel, sealing the vessel. He took his place in the helmsman seat and asked, “Ready?” as he buckled himself in. Shouting to be heard over the two-tone alarm beacon indicating the boat was ready to drop, Connor's voice bounced off the solid walls of the boat, reminding them exactly how enclosed they were. Noah opened his mouth to suggest they trade places. Maybe he should be the one with his hand on the release lever since it was his idea. Before he could utter a sound, the harness holding him tightened, his stomach lifted, and he felt that sick sense of weightlessness before his brain caught up to the fact they were plummeting.

They slammed into the ice like a car hitting a brick wall. The sound of the shell rending in the collision echoed deafeningly inside the molded plastic interior of the vessel. The impact itself sent a jolt of pain up through his back into his neck and down both legs. The boat was normally self-righting … in the water. On the ice, it lurched and tumbled once end over end until it slammed onto its side with a massive jolt that wrenched the men's bodies in their harnesses.

The men shouted, unable to hold their voices through the fear and pain. Mickle's voice carried above the others, “God damn you, Cabot!” The escape boat slid across the ice with a grinding sound that blissfully deadened any further prayers for Noah's eternal punishment. At least it had stopped tumbling and was steady at a mostly upright angle. When it finally came to a stop and the grinding died into silence, the shouting started afresh. Noah unhooked himself from his seat and fell across the aisle into the empty chair, cracking his shoulder against the molded steel and plastic. His joint ached and it hurt to lift his arm, but nothing was broken. He set to work helping the others out of their restraints more gently.

Mickle shoved Noah away and rubbed his neck, while Jack and Nevins both pressed their hands against the sides of their heads, squinting against the painful ringing that lingered in everyone's ears. Noah feared something bad had happened to Kevin until he saw the man turn his head to look around. He was stunned, but alive. Jack helped him out of his harness. Connor freed himself from the helmsman's seat. His nose was split across the bridge, blood covering his upper lip and running down his chin. He'd broken it despite his stiff-armed attempt to avoid smashing his face into the steering wheel.

Connor unsealed the door and it fell open. A gust of freezing wind blasted into the compartment, pushing him back before he regained his footing. He pulled down his snow goggles and shambled out of the sideways opening. Noah stayed behind to help the rest climb out. Connor, on the other side, guided them safely onto the ice. Noah emerged last, and only Connor offered a hand to help him down.

The fall had rattled them all down to bone and marrow, but they were all alive.

Noah looked around, trying to orient himself. The Niflheim was behind them. Large as ever, but dark. No longer like the city he'd first seen, now it was like an ancient structure left behind by another civilization. He found himself happy to be leaving it—perhaps not happy, but unburdened of the oppressive hostility he hadn't realized he was feeling until he was no longer aboard.

He turned and looked for a sign of his ship—a light in the distance or even a dim shape along the straight line of the landscape, the way they'd first noticed Connor's ship. But both vessels were miles away and the snow was blowing in the strong wind, making it hard to see into the distance.

“Which way?” Mickle shouted.

Noah didn't know. “How do you find the way to your ship?” he asked Connor.

“I follow the sun. It rises right over it and tracks back to the Niflheim at the end of the day.” He raised his hands to the sky as if Noah hadn't noticed that there was neither sun nor moon to orient them. The wind kicked up snow, but the sky above was clear and dark. A band of the Milky Way shone above, but the stars weren't familiar. There was nothing in the sky he could recognize and use to keep them on the path. They could set out and become irretrievably lost, freezing to death, or stay put and wait to be murdered. There were no good choices left.

Connor pointed to a spot under the platform where a bashed part of the elevator cage still rested. He turned and tracked his finger away from the rig until settling on a point on the horizon to the left of the emergency boat's bow. “When I step out of the elevator, I walk between those two pylons, that way. It's a straight shot right to my ship. I don't know how we'll keep a straight line without something to fix on though.”

“It's better than nothing. It was more or less a direct line from the
Promise
 … my ship to yours. We changed course only a little from there. Let's head toward your ship, and the closer we get, the more likely we'll see my ship's lights. We can adjust our bearing once we do.” Before Mickle could break in again and ask a question undermining his reasoning, as simple as it was, Noah started off. The others fell into line behind him.

He pulled up his face mask and set the snow goggles over his eyes. He was better equipped for the walk to the
Promise
than he'd been leaving it. They'd survived the easy part: the first step. Now it was time to run.

 

35

While Noah was physically tired, his mental and emotional exhaustion were larger threats to their progress as they walked together on the line. As long as he wanted to survive more than he wanted to just be done, he could keep going. “A step at a time,” he repeated under his breath as he lifted a foot and dragged it forward. The rope in his hand pulled and tightened periodically as the tired and jangled crew followed. They never found a rhythm together. Another step away from danger. Another toward the unknown. After maybe a mile or more of pushing against wind and snow, they had no better sight of either ship—if either were actually ahead of them and not off to one side or another. For all he knew, they could be passing between them both, never seeing either, blindly marching into nothing. Noah looked over his shoulder from time to time to make sure the rig was in the same position behind them, assuming its presence where he expected it to be meant they were on the same bearing Connor had set. As it grew smaller, his worry increased. When it finally fell out of sight, he knew if they didn't have sight of their destination ahead they would be marching blindly.

He looked again to reassure himself they hadn't strayed since his last check, maybe two minutes ago. He saw a yellow ball of fire grow and had time to say, “No, it can't…” before the low thunder rumbled across the plain, stealing his words.

The men stumbled and cried out.

“Jesus Christ!” Connor yelled. “There were still men there!”

“This is your fault,” Mickle said, grabbing Noah by the shoulder and rearing back with a fist. Noah ducked the punch, but still stumbled backward as the ice began to tremble. It shuddered under foot and they heard distant cracking coming closer.

“Run!” Kevin shouted. Noah scrambled backward as the Twins hurried past him. Mickle stared, his face hidden behind the balaclava, but his eyes filled with rage. Nevins brushed past his shipmate, breaking the man's trance. Noah turned, and despite his fear, ran ahead of Mickle.

They fled as fast as they could, trying to outrun something that had already outpaced them. A fissure opened beside Noah and he staggered, losing his balance as it tried to swallow him. The ice pitched, time slowed, and he felt that same sense of imminent falling so painfully familiar to him now. Connor grabbed him by the elbow and yanked him away from the lip, shoving him toward the others. Before he'd taken more than a dozen steps, he felt hands on his shoulders again. Mickle yelled in his ear as he whipped him around. “
Your
fault!”

Noah staggered away. He fell, landing on his back, and slid toward another crack opening behind him. He felt Mickle's stomping on the ice coming closer. Noah shoved with his heels, but didn't move, his boots slipping impotently on the slick surface.

Kevin hit Mickle in the side, knocking him off course. “He got us off there! He saved our lives!”

Mickle pointed at the burning platform. “He brought that down on us! It's his fault the other Brewster was on the rig. His fault the generators got shut off and the oil spilled. It's all his god damn fault my friends are dead. And now I'm going to kill him!” He looked from Noah to Jack and Kevin. “You all did this. Every last one of you!”

Jack grabbed Mickle's arm and twisted him around, trying to draw his focus away from the platform and Noah. Kevin took hold of his other arm, but the second officer broke free of his grip and whipped Jack into him. The Twins fell together in a tangle on the ice. Mickle ran over to them, grabbed Jack by his belt and dragged him over the side of a fissure, dropping the man into the water below.

Kevin screamed, scrambling for the edge. He reached into the fissure for his brother, but Jack was gone. Kevin rolled onto his back and howled at the indifferent sky. The sound was the worst thing Noah had ever heard.

Connor shoved Mickle away a second before he could throw Kevin in after his friend. “What are you doing?” he cried out. Mickle had no answer. He swung wildly at Connor, landing a fist on the side of his neck. Connor staggered back, clutching his neck with a hand as his shoulder cramped up.

“You helped them!”

“You've
lost
it, Sean,” Nevins said. “It's
not
their fault.” He grabbed Noah's arm and tried to help him up, but let out an explosive whoof of air and fell limp before he could get Noah to his feet. A crack sounded as he crumpled. Nevins collapsed on Noah's legs, pinning him. Noah pulled himself out from under the man and pushed him onto his back. “Marty, what's wrong?” Snow stuck in a clump on the front of his survival suit. A dark spot appeared and grew until all the snow on his chest went dark. Beneath him, a stain of black blood spread like a gently unfolding wing.

“What—” Mickle started to say. Kevin had a hold of him, punching and dragging him toward the edge of the crack in the ice.

“You killed Jack!” Kevin's voice was shrill. He'd come undone.

There was a faint pop and a light bloomed in the sky, hovering above them for a gentle second before beginning to slowly fall. Another distant crack followed.

“It's a flare! He's lighting us up with flares.” Noah pointed at the light above, trying to track it down to its source. If there was a launch trail, he couldn't see it in the dark.

“Who?”

“Brewster!” He looked for the Old Man in the distance, but couldn't see anyone beyond their team. Except, they were no longer a team. Jack was gone and Marty lay dead at his feet. Kevin and Mickle fought, and Connor stood paralyzed in the light of the flare. Behind them all, in the distance, the platform burned. Noah moved in to pry Kevin and Mickle apart, but the rig exploded again in an even bigger ball of flame and the thunder that followed was louder and sent more vibrations through the ice. Though it was far off, Noah backed away.

He heard another crack and a cloud of red mist erupted from Kevin's shoulder. He screamed and twisted to get away. His arm hung, bleeding and ruined, but Mickle held on. Connor screamed for them to run; no one but Noah seemed to hear.

Noah turned to flee and saw it. In the light of the flare, he could make out the distant distortion in the icescape. Connor's ship was maybe a half mile away. It had tilted up more than before, and without power, it wouldn't provide them any lasting refuge. It was only good as a landmark, a sign that they hadn't wandered astray. Noah scanned the horizon, searching for his
Promise.
“There!” He pointed.

Connor screamed again. “Don't stand there. Run!” Noah looked back in time to see a flash of white like a pulsing star. A muzzle flash. It was far off, but not as distant as he would have hoped. The crack of the rifle echoed across the night and he felt the bullet tear across his cheek. He flinched and pawed at his mask, fingers searching for where the bullet had grazed him. Although he felt nothing through his gloves, his fingers came away bloody.