Outpost by Adam Baker Read Free Book Online Page B

tail-lights. His boots barely reached the footrest.
    Franz
Josef Land was a chain of volcanic archipelagos. A series of pumice islands
capped with permafrost. There were jagged boulders beneath the ice ready to rip
the skids from the snowmobiles.
    They
should have arranged a signal, thought Punch. If his Yamaha stalled, Ghost
would drive on heedless.
    The
sky began to lighten. The cold, blue light of an Arctic dawn. They cut through
drifts sculpted into strange dune shapes by an unrelenting wind.
    Ghost
accelerated. Punch revved and kept pace.
     
    Jane
fixed breakfast for the crew. She made porridge. Punch had left a plastic spoon
on the desk of his kitchen office. There was a note taped to the spoon.
    Sixteen
level scoops of oats. Five and a half litres of water. No sugar or honey. No
waste, no second helpings, no alternative food .
    She
spilled a few oat flakes on the counter. She carefully gathered them up and
put them back in the porridge box.
    Earlier
that morning Jane went to the kitchen to fix a sandwich. She discovered the
refrigerators locked and the food store padlocked. She found herself tugging on
the refrigerator door like a desperate junkie denied their fix.
    The
crew ate in silence. Ivan sat with the TV remote and flicked through a series
of dead channels. A dozen different flavours of static. CNN was off air.
    Fox
showed the stars and stripes fluttering in slow motion, grainy and monochrome.
    BBC
News showed a union flag. 'God Save the Queen' over and over. The location of
refuge centres scrolled across the bottom of the screen.
    'One
by one the lights go out,' murmured Ivan.
     
    Ghost
swerved his snowmobile to a halt. Punch drew alongside. They were at the edge
of a wide crevasse. A jagged fissure of blue, translucent ice. It went deep.
    They
pulled off their ski masks.
    'Shit,'
said Punch. 'We've blundered into a crevasse field.'
    'Yeah.'
    'Bike
and rider. Nearly quarter of a tonne. We could drop through the ice any time.
We should head back.'
    Ghost
spat. He watched the gobbet of phlegm fall into darkness.
    'No.
Just as risky to go back as to press on. I'll ride ahead. Anything happens to
me, lower the rope.'
    'Okay.'
    The
crevasse stretched to vanishing point either side of them.
    'Could
be a long detour.'
    They
pulled on their ski masks and set off.
     
    Jane
washed the bowls and spoons. She put the porridge box back on a food store
shelf and, on impulse, stole two packets of M&Ms. She wondered how long it
would be before fights broke out over food. She locked the kitchen and gave
Rawlins the keys.
    She
returned to her room to get some sleep. She heard paper crumple as she lowered
her head on to her pillow. A note from Punch.
    IN CASE I DO NOT COME BACK.
     
    Jane
ripped open the letter.
    Jane,
if you are reading this, either I am dead or you have no self-control. If you
have looked in the storeroom lately you may have worked out we don't have
enough food to last six months. I've checked and re-checked. We should have
been resupplied by now. Two freight containers of edibles. As it is, we have
empty shelves and an empty freezer. At the present rate of consumption we will
run out of provisions mid-winter. There simply isn't enough food to go around.
Keep it secret. I don't want to start a panic.
    There
is a map in this envelope. Hang on to it. You and Sian might find it useful in
weeks to come .
     
    The
internal door that connected the heated accommodation block to the rest of the
rig was draped with silver, quilted insulation ripped from an airlock. Jane
zipped her coat. She pulled the curtain of insulation aside and hit Open. The
door slid back. She shone her flashlight into the dark. The corridor walls
sparkled with ice. She closed the door behind her and set off, treasure map
held in a gloved hand.
    Jane's
route took her through miles of unlit rooms and passageways. She felt like an
ARVIN drone exploring the silted dereliction of the Titanic.
    Eerie
silence. The hiss and hum of climate control, the