It didn't even really register with Shriver at first. You may as well have told him a wagyu cow was grazing on the Northern peninsula. Weather data, storm reports, the continual shifting of parameters. A man as deathly optimistic as Shriver could shake off all the world's inpredictabilities for the nebulious future. Until they were in the open doorway, staring at him.

"What do you mean 'Gone', Nigel?"

"Vernadsky called it in. Yelcho, Palmer. They're just gone."

The air weighed heavy between the two of them. McMurdo's radios and terminals continued to bleep away, spinning archaic machinery that weathered the storm scores better than they. Neither said a word. There was no sensory connection between the information and reality. Just words floating out in the aether. Nigel continued, if only to try and bridge that gap.

"Fyodor said its like it was never there."

"Sheet of ice, a kilometer high."

"Its even blocking out the sun." Every piece was another cold reality. Shriver pursed his lips tight.

"No refugees? Survivors?" Nigel shook his head, unwashed hair shifting on his shoulders.

"Fyodor said its just ice."

Shriver tried to imagine it, bring it to reality. Make it something he could face. But nothing worked. Yelcho was on the brink, Palmer too. They all suffered, but the peninsula was closer to the Gray than any of them, right on the doorstep of the Argentine Islands. Everyone knew it would have to be evacuated soon, flash estimates were a month before life supports on the outer stations would begin to falter. But to just be erased like that? It still wasn't something he was used to. It wasn't something anyone was used to. His mind adjusted. 900. 870. 3%. After a minute, Shriver spoke.

"We have to get the Ukrainians out of there. The whole peninsula must be a timebomb."

Nigel's face shifted, fear of the unknown gave way to frustration with the familiar.

"To where?? Fyodor wont even talk to the Argentinians after their weather drone screwed them. He can't let anything go..."

"Well you gotta get through to him Nigel. We need to get them and any survivors to San Martin. We need people centralized."

Nigel's frustrations grew. He threw his headset down on the table, clacking errant keys and knobs on impact.

"You don't GET it Shriver. He would rather sink into the fucking shelf than listen to me!!! Why is he like this... Why didn't he come back here when he had the chance????" Misplaced anger peppered Shriver, standing in the doorway. Miscalculations, letting humans be humans. Nigel slunk back, exasperated. He sighed.

"Yelcho, Palmer, they're all dead. A few kilo's away from him. And he doesn't wanna even think about it. Big fucking macho man, won't even act like he's scared out of his mind..."

Nigel threw his hands over his head. Sensing what was to come, Shriver finally moved out of the doorway and into the comms room, putting a hand on his shoulder.

"Hey hey, c'mon. That won't do any good, talking like that." Shriver spelled. It wasn't helpful, but it was the best he could do with the distraught man before him. His skills were limited, with human emotions even moreso.

"I told him, I keep telling him its not safe out there... But he won't listen. And now look, two more colonies just wiped out... right next to him..." He sniffled softly. Shriver wanted to excuse himself, to take himself out of this messy tangle. But he knew that such was not his fate, whether he liked it or not.

"Why don't you take the day off nige, huh? We'll put Clara on the chair. She knows russian, maybe she can win him over, get him to give the order."

"Ya, or maybe he'll scream at her to speak english" Nigel chuckled between small sniffles.

"Ya... Maybe" Shriver reflected with a small exhale. Patting his back, he signalled him to take a breath in his quarters. Nigel rose up and away.

"Even if we get the Ukrainians to Martin, he'll still be a thousand miles away..." Nigel sighed, glumly making his way out of comms. Shriver stood there for a few, the knobs and lights clicking their flickers against bright white walls and beaming overheads. Last renovated, 2045. He looked over the control panels, rows of buttons and switches, rows of musicians demanding the attention of an esteemed Maestro. A Maestro scorned. He hurried along. Not only was Clara on the other side of the station, she would want to talk his ear off before even considering covering for Nigel. The warm halls of McMurdo breezed by him, his head full of calculations and recalculations. Timings and pinpoints. No way he could let himself stumble today, he had work to do.

Yelcho. Palmer. 30 dead. Move on. Focus on the living.

He didn't like how accoustomed it was getting. The North wing door squeeked and echoed, leading down the ramp into the research labs. Maybe he could get a plane across the pole. Once enough people got to San Martin.

++++++++++++++

Hills. White as the Devil's snow. White bars of light across the plains, winds strong enough to topple a freight train. The sun stared down with a malice never known in the days before the storm, beating rays that failed to melt a single snowflake. It must have been frustrating, to be the sun over Earth.

The towers of McMurdo held fast. For how long? Was anyone's guess. There weren't any veterans on the ice to give their professional estimates, just a collection of nervous first years. His eyes became thin as he stared out into the hills. Clouds beyond the Ross sea continued to swirl, up into the edges of the stratosphere. Wavy walls of gray, as if they were the ends of Earth itself. Certain death, standing ramrod still a hundred miles away.

Shriver stepped away from the window, turning. New faces from Scott base were walking through the halls. They spoke briefly, something about coming in to help tune photovoltaic outputs. They soon departed, and gave him a wave as they left. Smiling softly, he returned. He made a note to make sure Clara sends them home with a crate of cabbage and collard. Lord knows they need it. His eyes thinned once again. Thats Right, he thought. Stepping away from the Window, he hurried down the hall.

"McMurdo Hydroponics Department. Est: Jan2049"

While the regulators held the humidity within McMurdo stable, hydroponics was uncharted territory. Anything less than a sauna was enough to spark panic in the department, especially now with their regular foodstuffs drying up fast. Shriver took off his flannel and tied it around his waist, walking out the airlock and into the misty maze of vine filled tubes now surrounding him.

Hanging rows. Vibrant greens, deep purples, reds and oranges rising up from white plastic grow houses. One would hardly believe that the blank void of tundra was less than a few meters away, with a bonafide jungle like this. Cabbage, Carrots, Chard, Beets, Bokchoy, Spinach, yet no Clara. Peaking between columns, Shriver continued seeking the woman in charge. But his footsteps were the only ones to echo.

"You piece of fucking shit. Fuck you, I HATE YOU. MUDAK YOBANI."

Ah, there it was. Shriver floated to the source, pushing past great big bellowing leaves and long winding tubing. Finally, He came across her. Arms stretched out over exposed floortiles, black hair in a loose puffy tie behind her shoulders.

"DONT MAKE ME GET THE IMPACT CHORTNAYA SUKA, FUCK."

He brushed another vine out of his view. The floor was hissing steam out of a loose pipe, clouding Clara in a hot frustration as firey before her eyes as behind them.

"FUCK. YOU."

With a twist, she was flung backwards, wrench flying out of her hand, clankering at his feet. The flow of steam had stopped, soft sounds of puttering irrigation channels coming back to the garden. She did not relax, once all was clear. Instead she rose back, sitting on the floor. Shoulders slumped. There was no victory in something like this. Just tepid neutrality. It almost felt rude to interupt. Clara simply stared out into nothingness, deep breaths between the rattles of hydropumps. One machine ceases, the other just begins.

As if on a motor, her head snapped back, eye in eye with Shriver. A fire erupted, whatever steam she was fighting with had fully possessed her.

"What??? Just standing there? Didn't think to help huh???" She sprung up from the floor, ready to strike.

"Clara..."

It was no use. He knew more than anyone else: this was an oil fire, the only thing to do was let it burn itself out. He could only stand there, thanking the Lord the wrench lay on the floor and not in her hands.

"YOU. You were here for five fucking years!!! You couldn't ask them to bring some rice seeds? potato spuds? mushroom spores?"

He opened his mouth to speak, in spite of his best judgement. But she was already a step ahead.

"YA YA YOU WERE JUST THE JANITOR, WHATEVER. YOU COULD HAVE TRIED HARDER."

"IM SICK OF IT. IM SICK OF CABBAGE AND BEANS EVERY FUCKING DAY. WHY CANT WE CRACK OPEN ANY OF THE RATIONS?????"

"PENGUIN TASTES LIKE SHIT. AND I HATE FISH SHRIVER, I FUCKING HATE FISH."

She slammed back down to the floor like someone had cut her strings, motors coming to a screeching halt. Knees to her chest, eyes cast down. Neutrality given way to fire, given way to defeat.

"I just want potatoes... like how mama made them..."

She ran her hands through her hair, refusing to make eye contact again. Shriver squatted down, a knee on the floor, leveling his face even if she didn't want to look at him.

"I know kid, I know..."

"this isnt fair for anyone, especially you."

"I'm sorry."

Short, grizzled words from a rough neck. She looked up at him, eyes wet with tears.

"THIS PLACE IS FALLING APART AND ITS ONLY SUMMER. IT WAS NEVER MEANT FOR THIS LEVEL OF OUTPUT. WHAT THE HELL ARE WE GONNA DO WHEN WINTER HITS??? WHY DIDNT THE OTHER BOTANISTS EVER MAKE IT HERE, THEY WERE SUPPOSED TO TEACH ME SHRIVER!!! I DONT KNOW WHAT THE HELL I'M DOING."

With an almost parental gentleness, Shriver leaned forward, swift as sea, and wrapped her in his arms. Tears flowing freely, dampening his shoulder.

"I don't know what I'm doing Shriver..."

They sat there for a while, sat there until his knees started hurting. But he didn't dare stand up and away from her, not until she was ready. The poor girl was only supposed to be here for a semester. But this would make month number 7.

"You know more about plants than anyone here, Clara." Shriver spoke softly, relaxing his embrace of her. She inhaled sharply, her sobs cutting in and out.

"god, thats depressing." She laughed between tears, pulling away from him a little bit. The woman was barely out of her teenage years, but Shriver would never be the one to point that out.

"Only if we make it that way."

"We're proud of you kid, you are doing better than anyone could ask. This lab would be a hole if it wasn't for you." Shriver said, holding her by the shoulders as if the support beam, keeping a tangled tower of vines high in the air.

"Thanks Shrive..." Clara said breathlessly, leaning back into him, exhausted. She clung there for a little while, Shriver doing his best as an object of comfort. It was a role he was subject to time and time again now, as those who knew more than him stewed in the dismality of their situation. But such was not his burden. Atleast not for now.

"Do you need any help around here?" He asked, as they both made to their feet. Clara put her hands on his arms, lifting him up as his aging legs readjusted.

"No, no I don't think so. Well, here let me check." She turned on her heels, grabbing a tablet off the table. With a few taps, Documentation and figures, schematics and descriptors, all manner of information flew past her fingertips.

"Lets see. Now that the growing stage for most of the legumes is tapering off, we can take down the PSI a few notches. Redirect it to the herbs and tubers, keep pressure off the mainlines..." diagrams danced in front of Shriver from holographic projectors, beaming lines and vectors eminating from the back of the tablet. It looked more like a circus trick than hard data, and to Shriver was about as comprehendible as the former.

"Hey, you wouldn't happen to know if we have more of that L12 booster from the prototype runs would you? Scott Base might be able to isolate the compounds I need for target germination, because our yield is still way too low for the kind of solution we're pumping. I think its because they can't synthesize properly off of-"

This was more Shriver's speed, standing there nodding politely as two years of enthausiastic college eduction flew right over his head and into the foliage behind him. Openly, he was glad she was back to her old self. Innerly, his eyes kept glancing up over her pacing figure at the clock hanging above the doorway.

07:56

07:57

08:05

08:10

"So, ya. we'll be good. Good for the next 24 hours atleast... Ya. Ya..." Shriver could see the calculator in her brain turning multiples and divisions. Silently, he braced himself for another deluge. But with the turn of her eyes, he could see that the accounts had balanced. A smile, and a breath out.

"Now what brought you all the way out here anyway?" She put her hand on her hips, tablet hanging loosely from her other arm.

"Well, I wanted to see if you could take a crack at comms for the rest of the day. Something came up, Nigel had to take the day off."

"Mmm, you mean someone, right?" Shriver's eyes darted. The last thing he wanted was to be in the middle of all this, which Clara knew all too well. With haste, he deflected.

"Its real easy! All you gotta do is sit there and scan the frequencies, and keep a line open to Vernadsky." Shriver tried to sell it as best he could, tried to find a way to interject what he needed from her without heaving a shock, but Clara was intelligent.

"Ya, and if its so easy why don't you cover it?" She could tell, Easy was just a very poor anagram for Boring. And doubly, that Shriver was leaving something out.

"You're telling me that Nigel, who stays up to 3am talking to his crush, suddenly wants off the comms?" She pressed him, thinking to push his buttons on Nigel's preverbial roommate, unaware that his discomfort stemmed from something else entirely.

"boy troubles, huh?" with crossed arms and a smirk.

"Clara, Yelcho and Palmer colony are gone." The words carried an arctic chill, even in the high humidity of the growhouse jungle. The smile dropped from Clara's face, eyes widened slightly. Shriver continued.

"We need to get the Ukrainians off the peninsula, atleast to San Martin. But Fyodor won't listen to Nigel." Clara continued to listen, a serious expression staying on her face.

"You mentioned that your dad was from Kyiv, maybe you can use that to get through to him?" The question tangled in the water particles between them, the unsuredness of Shriver's tone hanging in the air.

"Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuucks sake, shrives..." Clara laid down her tablet and grabbed the windbreaker hanging off a nearby coat hook. She began making her way through the maze towards the airlock, Shriver following closely.

"So, what? You want me to convince Nigel's loverboy to tuck tail and run away to the guys who fucked him over in the first place? You're right shrives, real easy." Shriver cursed under his breath, he never could understand how word got around so fast.

"You clearly don't know men." he heard her say, as they turned a corner.

"No, no I don't. But you're a stranger, I'm sure theres a lot he can tell you that he doesn't want to tell Nigel."

"A Stranger and uh, a woman..." He added sheepishly, as they passed through the halls of South wing. Shriver opened the door to the radio room.

"Men and their fucking bravado..." Clara sighed as she dropped down in the chair, picking up a headset.

"Look, tell him over and over again that the peninsula is dangerous. Hell lie if you have to, tell him we have some new weather data or whatever. From brand new machines, ones that never got to Vernadsky." Clara listened from one ear, looking down the radio codes that hung from the wall.

"Well, he might be dumb enough to believe it if he's fallen for Nigel." She said, flipping a panel on and switching through the knobs. Her actions started inquisitive, then got more confident as she familiarized herself.

"Alright, I'll see what I can do." Shriver sighed in relief as her hands glided over the buttons, turning and tapping as if on their own.

"Now get going, aren't you late for the haul? I cleared the payload hours ago." Shriver looked up at the clock. 8:28. He raised his eyes slightly, and then made for the door.

"Hey make sure Scott's people don't go back without a crate of greens, ya?" Clara gave him a thumbs up from her free hand as she scanned through the clipboard, before setting right back down to the control panels. Slight pace, Shriver made his way to storage, the whiz and whirls of comms gradually trailing far behind him.

Chapter 2: The Haul

It was the difference between Heaven and Earth. MAINTENANCE ACCESS 2. Deep block letters soaking up all the hallway light, bright bulbs and warm air dancing around it. A headstone. Through those doors the clinicism of McMurdo ended. Shriver looked to his right and left, as if out of shameful paranoia. It was clear.

Heavy duty double layered doors squeeked and banged behind him. Blank sterile walls covered in maps and graphs gave way to deep blue concrete, painted for utility and durability. The lights were dim, edges of butane blue. Flourescent throwbacks with short steady pulses against the brickwork. Between the winds of tundra void and the halls of life lay this imaginary space.

The sharp stagnant moisture and industrial cleaner became more apparent as Shriver's boots echoed through the tunnels. A miasma as buffer solution between haulman and scientist. Shriver was the solitary cell, moving through these forgotten arteries. If he stopped for a moment, he could probably hear the clatter of keyboards or weather machines from beyond the brickwork. Maybe the howl of winds from the tundra. But he kept forward, this was no place to stop.

After some twists and turns, he finally arrived. VEHICLE BAY 3, spraypainted next to the double wide doors above the keycard reader. He could already hear the strits and hums from beyond, a piece of cardboard keeping the doors seperated, slightly propped open.

"Hey!! did you put the cardboard back?" heavyset huffs shouted out from the middle of the bay. It was an older addition, beams of wood crisscrossed overhead, mesh cagepens keeping various large tools and tarped machinery from falling into the walkway. It was as if Shriver had walked through three centuries in ten minutes.

"Ya" Shriver replied, grabbing his coat and overalls off a nearby hook. Art didn't look back to confirm, just kept loading boxes onto the snowmobile trailers. Icy breath poured out of his mouth like a chimney, spare mass and longshirt bulging slightly from the top of his backbelt. Shriver made his way to the pallet and began unloading.

"Hey hey no no no!!" Art quickly started, making his way to Shriver.

"The fava beans onto number three, biscuits to number two. Veggies and penguin to one. Remember it ya?" Art said annoyingly, blocking Shriver's access to the pallet.

"Its the load Shriver, each one gets a hundred kilos. Any more than that, we're gonna be burning more battery than we can get off the panels." He pointed at each snowmobile as he spoke, like a professor addressing a clueless child.

"I know, Art." Shriver said coldly, it was stupid to argue with the stupid. They were the same age, Shriver had been on the ice far longer than him, but that did little to stall his arrogance. Art turned and continued to load the trailers, three boxes in a lift to Shriver's one. The two quickly got into tempo, finding the natural beat to stay out of eachother's way.

"Ugh, sorry I'm late" The keypad door creaked open again, as a sweaterclad woman walked in. "Ugh jeez, its alway so cold in here." She shivered, as she went to grab a toque and gloves off a shelf.

"Hey the cardboard the cardboard Polly!!" Nasally squeeks banged around the bay. Polly turned and grabbed the handle, reaching down.

"Ya ya I got it I got it..." the woman said before fitting her toque, wool resting above flighty eyes and wrinkled cheeks. Art sighed heavy, setting down a crate of penguin, putting his hands on his knees.

"I've been doing this all morning, you two wrap up number three." he said, wiping his brow and peeling off the backbelt with a velcro rip. He walked between the two and set himself down in a nearby chair, fixing his glasses back to his eyes and letting his arms dangle to the side.

"You're welcome, Art..." Polly said as she smiled slightly at Shriver, shaking her head as Art waved dismissively at the two. The pallet was down to just a couple dozen boxes, the payload dissapearing between them.

"So whats up with Crary?" Shriver asked, fixing a belt on the left side of trailer two.

"Ugghhh, the outage is going nowhere." She sighed, putting the last of the payload on number three.

"We finally dug a spool out from Bay 2, must have been twenty years old. The two-odd was frozen stiff, starting breaking. Couldn't even get a length off. With that kind of capacity, everyone was too scared to run any current with a cracked up insulation like that." Polly slapped the top of the payload, making sure it was balanced.

"So what'd you do?"

"We took what we could and brought it to thaw in the South Wing. Once the rubbers relaxed we can roll it out tomorrow. Will probably make for pretty cozy quarters once we get it hooked up to the heating." Shriver took the left and Polly took the right, until the whole last trailer was secure.

"We'll take everything out of storage three then, ya? Until we get a better weather reading." He said, walking around each snowmobile, kicking for weakpoints.

"Ya. Probably." Polly made her way to the wall lockers, taking out a few pairs of snow goggles and ski masks. Finally, Art rose to his feet and made his way over to the two.

"You both been spending too much time with the eggheads..." he said, grabbing a pair of goggles from Polly as he slipped on a longsleeve and parka.

"What do they say anyway, huh Shriver? You're always around, babysitting those labs..."

"North Peninsula. Two colonies wiped out." He said flatly. Quick and cold, one mitten after the other. The charade wasn't needed, the feigned softness wasn't needed. These were not the types to need comforting. Polly glanced at his face quickly, trying to read his expression. Blank as his words. Nervously, she glanced then to Art. His eyes were set forward, unblinking. Polly could swear there was just the littlest bit of fear in them, right off to the side.

"Huh, matter of time ain't it..." Art laughed a bit, as he grabbed something glass from the top shelf of his locker. The amber liquid bounced around half full, stealing glints from the wooden sidebeams as he fiddled with the cap.

"Hey, no no no. Cut it out." Shriver's hand snapped out and snatched the bottle of crown royal from his arm, slotting it in and slamming the locker door.

"After the haul." He said, turning. Art sneered at him, making childish grunting sounds in protest, glancing at the door as if debating to open it back up. He looked back Shriver, who was fitting a comms helmet up and over his ski mask, like a sergeant in his squad. Sighing, Art finished suiting up.

Before long they were all ready. Ready for what lay ahead of them. They looked more like intrepidoures of far flung space than citizens of the Antarctic. Goggles sealed around knit wool masks, hovering above heavy duty plastic jackets with tuffs of fur around the necks. Plastic helmets on their heads. Flared woven windshield stretching down and around their knees. Not a square inch of human skin shown exposed, otherwise they would become aware of it very, very fast. The three looked up at eachother's artificial faces, muffled grunts of agreement. Art and Polly manned their snowmobile, as Shriver brought the chain down. Even with the helmets covering their ears, the howling screams of Antarctica grew screachier with every foot of door lifted, blinding white growing brighter with every second. McMurdo Station revealed herself to them.

The New York of the Antarctic. Crew lodgings rose several stories high, several in width, pocksquare windows between the earthbrown sheeting. Overhead walkways trailed between each bonafide skyscraper, stretching into the central complex and beyond. Sinewy strands made stiff, hanging between the buildings like rigor mortis had set in. Waste Handling, Geothermal, Heli bay, Data and Processing. Each stood two stories high, metalhat roofs stealing the glow of the beating sun. Each commanded the respect of a world whose word was growing less trustworthy by the day. Much of the outdoor equipment was brought in, leaving the streets vacant. And if there was business in another department, people took the overheads. Even in the heart of it all, the only evidence of life was deep within the walls. If it wasn't for underground heattubes elucidating the dirt road grid, one might think the buildings were dropped down from On High without a care in the world. The Renedeer stood in place at port, locked by the frozen ocean. Gray swirling clouds out over the water, keeping their distance.

"McMurdo to Haulteam, McMurdo to Haulteam, come in over." Shriver's radio sprung to life, Clara's voice popping in on wayward sinewaves. Mittened hands reached for the mic, pulling it down to where his mouth should be.

"We're not in the movies Clara, you don't have to say over." He heard a trail of giggles, a warmness crackling through the receiver.

"Just checking in shrives, your frequency is online and good to go. Good luck today!!!" Shriver smiled beneath the mask and tenfoured, turning his back to McMurdo and finding the seat to snowmobile three. He waved to the others and taxi'd them out of the bay, out onto the ice before dismounting and closing the garage doors. He couldn't even hear the chains dangle anymore, biting winds slammed past as steady static.

"All clear?" Art's voice came through the helmet. They all turned to eachother, Shriver giving a short nod before starting up the electric motor.

"Okay, I'm taking point. The coast is off limits, I don't trust the wind. We're going by the mountain pass. Watch your turns and don't tip your trailers. Stay close." Two thumbs up from his compatriots, and the snowmobiles bounded forward.

Mount Erebus sailed far behind them, eternal sun beating down seemingly from all directions. Up to Mount Discovery, down past Mount Morning, and soon enough they'd be riding the Frostplains.

The route was straight forward, as far as the curvature was concerned Ross Island blinked out of existence within the hour. Hums of electric motors soon came to match the wind's constant howling. Rhythmic, hypnotic, encompassing all other senses. The music of the ice, the music of nothing. Shriver listened intently, as blank void hurried past him to either side. There wasn't much need for the eyes or the ears in a place like this. A flat plane of nonexistence, after a while not even the cold registered as stimuli. The sun hung high above. If one stared into it, they could see the same void within the snow as above it. And in the dried frozen atmosphere between earth and sun, they rode; Scurrying along, trailing indents as their only evidence.

With the sun out in full force like this, even the trailers failed to bring down their speed. Whatever was lost was quickly regained, as mounted solar panels drank up what the sun was throwing. With speeds hovering around 120km/h, they would be at Leningrad within the day.

Hours passed by, clinging to memory as much as the void did. Shriver wasn't much of a thinker, the peaceful nothing of the haul never much inspired his mind to wander. While others drew straws to make the hauls, Shriver was never pressed. It was the day by day, the folks he spoke with, the jobs he did, all of that acted as reflection to his self, wayward mirrored images crisscrossing eachother in distortion. Dilution. When there was nothing in his reflection, when it reflected as outwards as what he put in, then all the confusion of day to day ceased. He could see himself in that swirling frost. Speckled across the valleys in crystaline flakes, he too resided.

"/////////////////////IVES\\\\\\OME\\N\\\\\\\OW///////////////////SH\\\\\\\\"

Shriver shook out from his stupour. The sun had set several notches down from where he remembered it, He looked back to his comrades. They didn't seem bothered. Neither had their mics down.

"\\\\\\\\NO\\\\\\\\\\\\\||||||||WER//////////////////ER\\\\\\\\\\\"

"Haulteam this is Haulteam, you're scrambling. Please repeat yourself" Shriver grabbed the microphone and screamed into it, doing his best to beat out the wind.

"||URDO|||||||//////OUT, OFF THE\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\" It was Clara's voice, and it was fighting the wind all itself.

"Haulteam to McMurdo repeat, please repeat"

"\\\\\OFF THE///LAINS||||||ET\\\\\\\\THE \\\\\\\OAS\\\\\\\\\\\\////////" It was a puzzle, vowels pieced together trying their damnedest to form a coherent message, sewing in consenants and praying he knew where the spaces were.

"\/////E COAST, GET\\\\\T\\THE COAS\\\\\\\\\\\\///"

"Ten-four McMurdo I repeat Ten-four" Shriver switched the feed to local and turned to his crew. Raising his right hand, he motioned towards the coast. He checked the odometer. They should be about half way there. Zucchelli station shouldnt be far. He rerouted the sled GPS. He would have a much stronger signal at Zuchelli, there he could find out a whole lot more. But first he'd have to get there.

"shrives, whats going on?" Polly's voice robotized over the comms, as they all gradually tuned their tragectory.

"McMurdo called in, said get to the coast. No idea why." It wasn't Shriver's position to question things, especially with so little information. They weren't far from the coast, it would be maybe an hour's ride. "We're going to Zucchelli."

The three of them rode on. Cardinal directions were a running joke on the ice, but by the arbitrary map they were heading east. Soon enough the peaks started to show through the snow, and the plains dipped down to the ice sheets. Twenty minutes maybe, and they would be within a stronger signal.

"SHRIVERRRRRRR" Art screamed through the comms, the shock causing him to nearly fall off. Turning back, he grabbed his mic ready to tell the son of a bitch off. But the words caught in his throat, as his eyes fixed on what Art was staring at.

Dustbowl. Tall and white. It wasn't gray, thank the Lord it wasn't gray. But it was fast approaching. Billowing clouds of rushing frost, trampling over eachother. Trampling over the plains, gaining. Gaining on them.

"FULL SPEED AHEAD" Shriver slammed down the throttle. 140. 150. 160. 180. Irresponsible speeds. He looked behind him, his comrades were keeping pace and so was the storm. They dashed down the mountain pass, the rumbling of a thousand frost spirits soon overtaking the screams of the wind. Their vision began to fade, snow kicking up all around them. They had minutes if that, before they'd be up in the air.

"WE'LL NEVER MAKE IT, WE'RE GOING TO GONDWANA" Shriver made a sharp left, nearly toppling his whole payload. Wayward boxes of cabbage and steaks spilled out from underneat the tarp, Polly and Art weaving out the way. Gondwana was small on the horizon, but it was there. The stout couple of buildings stood sanctuary against the clouds, sitting soundly in a bed of rock and cliff. But like a fading angel, it was falling from view second by second. They closed in, by some miracle the garage door was wide open. Against every instinct they had, they began to slow themselves, lest they punch a hole straight through the back wall. At last, when they could barely see their own gauge clusters, Gondwanan walls closed around them. Jumping up, scrambles towards the garage door, madly grabbing it and slamming it shut as fast as strength could afford. The howling muted. The rumbling thrashed against the door. The void was gone, replaced with workbenches and sheet metal walls. They ripped off their masks and goggles, as if their lives could not be believed unless a face was attatched. Bare skin stared at eachother, pink and breathing heavy. Confirmation.

"Why.... Why was the garage open?" Polly was the first to speak, eyes darting around the interior.

"And where are their sleds?"

She was right. The only sleds that stood in the station were their own. Art looked Shriver in his eyes, as if expecting him to have an answer.

"ALEX???" Shriver called out, echoing down the covered hallway. No response.

"ALEX??? MARIA????" Still nothing. The halls only became darker and darker, the ambient light dissapearing in the swirling clouds beyond. Shriver dug out his flashlight, clipping it to his jacket. The others followed suit.

Gondwana was a small station. Besides a utility shed, the garage and main quarters were the only other buildings around. Had the place not been bathed in immediate darkness, they may have been able to see Zucchelli from the windows. Instead they creeped around, stepping into the main hallway and out of the garage. The air was silent. Art flipped a switch, sending the lights to burr and whirl to life. Each was out of their element, each possessed by some superstitious caution. They only knew something was not right. They stepped through the halls as a unit. Radio and lab was empty. Messhall was empty. They peaked into the living room.

Shriver couldn't tell. He knew the names of so many across the tundra, He made it his mission to. But he couldn't tell. No one could tell who was amoung the three bodies, except maybe a coroner. Parched. Dried out. Nothing distinguishable. Nothing pink, nothing pale. Only grey, as if a specter drained them of their souls. Mummified by arctic air, they lay there, bundled in blankets. it was as if ten thousand years passed since their linens were wrapped.

The three stood in the doorway, unmoving. Eyes fixed on the other three. Gaze glued. There was no strain of register to this. No need to imagine, to bring it to reality. It lay right at their feet, a meter or two away. 867. No stench, no rot, no maggots or flies or pests. Strictly, there was nothing even disgusting about it. Their mouths lay stretched open, breathing forever. Shriver closed the door. Polly walked over to the utility closet. Art just stood there, staring at the doorknob.

"The heat works." Polly whispered, almost like she didn't believe it. Shriver turned a few degrees to her.

"Keep it off the garage. And the living room." Polly worked the terminal, a hum returning to the station. Shriver was the first to leave for the messhall. They followed.

There was plenty of food left in the kitchen, from the last time Shriver came this way. There was plenty of food in the messhall, the heating worked, the sleds were gone and there were three bodies in the living room. No one could make sense of it, not even him. They sat near the west wall, floor cushions surrounding the heating element. Spoons clanking against bowls. Art broke the silence.

"It was never like this before, was it Shriver..." He said, absentmindedly scooping and mashing bits of meat and porridge together. Shriver didn't answer.

"Whens it gonna end, huh? The storm."

"Dunno. Till the sun breaks." Shriver's eyes were on the window, tracking specs of frost sailing by in the artificial light.

"Not this storm Shriver, the big one. The one way out there." Art gestured, out to the gray expanse beyond the horizon.

"You're always hanging around the eggheads. What do they say? Whats even going on there?" Shriver had explained it dozens of times before, but it never seemed to stick. Or maybe he just wanted something to replace the silence, something to take their minds off what was in the living room. He looked over at Polly, she shrugged.

"Tell us a story, shrives" She said between uninterested spoonfuls.

"Okay..." Shriver readjusted himself, trying to find a comfortable spot.

"The truth is I barely understand it either. Geomagnetic, tectonics... something about meteors. Maybe all three." Shriver tried to grasp at the words, tried to put them together. But it was a scrambled transmission, he could only piece and pick what he understood and just hope it was right.

"Whatever it is, that dust cloud cooks anything that gets near it. Rough estimates are its about 500 degrees celsius, and its everywhere. Every country, every continent. Theres no one alive except us. Its not going anywhere anytime soon." The wind howled. Frost pelted small clanks against the window. It wasn't something Shriver liked to dwell on.

"So why us, huh? What makes Antarctica so special?" Polly's voice surprised him a little, coming off from his side. Shriver shrugged.

"Same answer. Could be, I don't know.... Wind patterns? vortexes? But for whatever reason the dust cloud wont come within a hundred miles of the coast." He picked away at his bowl, trying to parse out a more edible piece than the last.

"I was talking to some lab people a while back, they think it might be the same in Greenland too, but they're not sure." He stood up and walked out, returning with a mess of blankets from a storage closet.

"Alright, who gets the couch? He asked the other two, finishing up their dinner.

"Me. I got a bad back, you all know that." Art stood up and took a blanket from Shriver. Neither of them protested.

"Take this, I'm gonna see if I can't find any pillows lying around." Handing the stack to Polly, Shriver headed back into the hallway, rummaging through closets.

"/////////\\\/\/\///|||||||||||||/////////" Sound trickled out from Shriver's belt. The radio on his helmet was gurgling a messy something. Grabbing it, he put it back on his head and set the comms to broadband.

"Hello? This is McMurdo Haulteam responding, come in."

"Oh thank fuck! I was worried sick over you!" Shriver smiled. Clara's voice come in through the speakers, hitching a ride on Zucchelli's radiowaves. "I was starting to think you never got the message, where are you anyway?"

"We're at Gondwana, right outside Zucchelli." Shriver replied, shuffling through random cardboard boxes.

"Aaaaaaaaaand that is...?"

"North, its North kid. 500 kilos North."

"Gooootchyu, gotchyu. Well listen, weather department said that the duster came out of nowhere, something is going on at the pole. But the word is that its clearing up in about 10 hours. You all are safe, ya?"

Shriver's eyes narrowed behind him, turning his head slightly in the direction of the living room.

"Ya, ya we're safe."

"Okay good, you rest up now ya?"

"You got it, make sure to let Leningrad know whats going on. I don't think I can reach them from here." He rose up from his knees, getting ready to give up on the mission.

"Yep, you got it shrives." Clara left off at that, but he could still hear the static, like she hadn't shut off the transmitter.

"Whats up Clara? Everything alright?" Shriver walked back into the hallway, the warm glow from the messhall right around the corner.

"Ya! Ya everythings good, don't worry. Its just that..."

"...That?" He could feel a shyness on the other end. Like she was guarding her words. He stood there, patiently waiting.

"Shriver, do you think..."

"Do you think that one day, we can build a green room? Like a big garden? Take some hairgrass from outside, dig up some soil, some UV bulbs from storage. Maybe a little pond. Just something to feel the grass under our feet again? I think it would really brighten up peoples' day..." She spoke the last part like she was making excuses, covering up for her own little desires, to make them seem more noble than they really were. Childlike naivety. Slipping, sliding, up and down her words. Something to serve the people, while secretly serving herself. Shriver couldn't help but smile. He could see bits of himself in her.

"Sure kid, one day." He heard nervous breaths on the other side.

"Really?"

"Really really." He couldn't see it, but he knew she was smiling too. Drafting, construction, infrastructure, the ideas flowed through and then out his mind. Thats really not what any of this was about. If only something to hold onto, to build up one day; he would not deny her that.

"Heh, Cool. Can't wait. Ring in when you get to Leningrad, ya? Nigel will be here."

"You got it." Shriver pulled up his mic, but before he took off the comms, Clara came back in.

"Oh by the way, talked to Fyodor."

"You won't have to worry, San Martin agreed to send for them. The Ukrainians will be outta there within the week." Shriver's sighs shook through the mic, even before it was fully down.

"It was that easy?"

"Oh, it is if you lie." Shriver smiled, he could only hope she would never use that special power against him.

"Glad to hear it, give Nigel my best." They both signed off for the night. When Shriver returned, Art had already turned in. Polly had made herself up on the floor, Art had given her a pillow off the couch. They all bunched up around the heater's warm glow, the rest of the lights turned off. Shriver closed the door gently, setting himself down too. From the floor, he looked out the window. It was dependent on the season, for sure. But it was February. And the night time was rare to witness.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Polly and Art stood in the garage, impact drills and thermacutters lining the now visible pale green walls. It had become the next day, by grace of the Lord the storm had passed entire. Eternal sun had taken back its place in the sky, the winds dying down just a little bit, exhausted from their tantrum. Snowmobile three had lost a good fifth of the payload, penguin meat and cabbage leaves surely tossed well over the ice sheets. The two secured ratchets over what was left of the cargo, suited up and just about ready for the last leg of the haul.

"Zucchelli will take care of the bodies." Shriver said, softly walking into the bay while fidding with his helmet. Kneeling down, he inspected three's trailer.

"Do they have any idea what could've happened?" Polly asked. There was almost concern in her voice, or maybe only morbid curiousity. He looked up, quickly shaking his head. "no."

The morning passed, and by six they were off. Zucchelli comms had been just as confused as they were, only they never had to see it. Peaks of stone gray under white blankets, the mountains high above the plains held their image. And who knows if they would even bury them. Shriver told them to, but you can only get down so far in the snow out here. Maybe it was theirs to keep as abstraction, and only nail a board across the doors of Gondwana.

The frostplains kept unveloping before them, the music of the ice in Shriver's ears. It was a straight shot from Zucchelli to Leningrad. When Shriver spoke with Nigel in the morning, he told him that whatever event was going on at the pole had subsided, and that the plains would be clear for atleast another 24 hours. Calculations ran by his head, much as they ran the ice. Would the coastal route really be any better? It was irrational, to think the sheets would come undone right beneath them. But he couldn't shake it. For the earth to open up and swallow the three straight to Hell, its something Shriver just couldn't allow. If the dustbowl white was to strike again, they would atleast be able to see it.

Five hours on the ice, before a blackmite blip grew into the horizon. A little insect stubbornly latching its teeth into a place where nothing good nor Godly would ever grow. That was Leningrad.

The structures soon appeared, and the one great mite disintegrated into smaller specks. They never bothered to clean up the old trailers that darted around the outcrop. Some had fallen off the cliff face, some hadn't. Some simply lay turned to the side, bearings long since given to the gale. They made fascinating history, if you could find yourself inside one; deep bile green wounded in rusted gashes. Some covered in rust entirely, all scattered like the bones from a long pecked creature. Their target lay to the sparkling new station in the center of it all, triple layered glass and deep blue panels that kept inhabitants comfortable and thriving. Hoisted up on stilts four meters above the snow, drilled into place with ironbeam pylons going down deep into the rock. A neo-international style, the joint operation between Rusgov Novy and the EU for deep-ice research. A symbol of progress to commemorate the revolution of 2045. Ducking and dodging the creaking stones of old, they rode out to into the center pillar.

"Leningrad this is McMurdo Haulteam, we have arrived." Shriver slowed his speed, the wind grew less aggressive to the mic.

"Gospodi!! Yevgeni, open the doors!" A man's voice rang out through the speakers. Closing in, they saw the open vehicle bay. A silhouette of a person waving them in, a smile on their pink face.

It was much like McMurdo, Leningradskaya 2 research station. Maybe half the size of central processing, but the air may as well have been the same. Shriver took deep, indulgent breaths, peeled down to his longshirt and overalls. Him, Art and Polly had unloaded the payload without problem. 100kg of dried biscuit, 100kg of beans, 45kg of vegetables and 40kg of penguin. For a thousand kilometers, give or take, it wasn't a bad breakage rate at all. Yevgeni and another man helped make short work of it, smiles and cheers surrounded them as they heaved every box. They didn't speak a lot of english, but the gratitude irradiated from their tone alone. The crew insisted they follow them to the mess for celebration. Shriver gave the clear for Polly and Art, it would have been plain cruel not to. even down two hallways and a series of doors, he could already hear glasses clink, Stolichnaya flowing. Art's cheeks big and rosy, growing into the jolly drunk he hid deep away. Maybe Polly would find a nice man amoungst the rabble of the jubilee, there were certainly plenty of intelligent types here in Leningrad, far and off away from where she called home. She never liked being close to her lovers.

As for Shriver, he only took a cup from the samovar, choosing to meander around Leningrad 2. He had only ever been once. Sleek, modern detailings. A truly spectacular view of the ice sheets. Sat atop the south sea cliffs, perched as a predator raptor hundreds of meters above the ocean. Invincible feeling, an arrogance oozing from the very walls. Even if the gray came down on them tomorrow, scorching hot dust whipping and slashing, it felt like this of all places would certainly survive. Sipping his tea, he sat there in the lounge chair, watching the far off gray swirls continue to bob and weave. The sounds of a proper praznik slipped in through gaps and vents.

There had to be some better system of transport between the colonies. The sleds just couldn't keep cutting it, even with panels they would wear out for anything farther than Leningrad and back. And back... First thing tomorrow morning the motors would need to be tuned, any belts and gaskets looked at thoroughly. Shriver's head filled with the this and that, the now and later. He rose up, making his way to the crew quarters. The sun held high above. The wind steady and harsh. But if it could ever be passed, if the gray could ever be cut through, it would be nice to see what lay in Greenland.