Only one man lived to see the next day. The rest were all sprawled in the attitudes of death.
Tarleton woke from a bad dream to the sound of the huskies outside. They were howling, their wolf ancestry very close to the skin now. Their howls reached to the skies, even over the shriek of the north wind. The huskies sounded like they were at the extremities of terror.
Tarleton sat up, wriggled out of his sleeping bag and pulled on his coat and boots. A husky would be a match for a hungry wolf but he wondered if a polar bear had broken into the camp. He picked up a Springfield rifle propped up against a ski-rack and chambered a round before leaving the big tent.
Immediately, Tarleton wondered if he was doing the right thing. At this time of day, the sun had dipped below the western mountains leaving the sky in that strange grey twilight that passed for the Arctic night during the short summer. Without the sun's rays, the air was cold, somewhere in the low twenties. But now the landscape was covered by a total white-out. Snow fell heavily from the grey sky and Tarleton could see only a few yards in any direction.
Worried, he peered about himself. Tarleton debated returning to the safety of the big tent. If he got lost in this snowstorm he could take a wrong direction and wander off into the wilderness and fall into a crevasse or just get lost and die of hypothermia. Or if he blundered into a polar bear without enough time to shoot.
The huskies howled again. Not their usual howl with their muzzles pointed at the moon as their semi-wild natures came to the front. No, these were howls of utter terror. Tarleton made out where the Siberian huskies were calling from. Gripping the Springfield tightly, Tarleton made his way in that direction. Within a few paces, the mess tent vanished into the snow behind him, leaving him alone on the ice. Yet not alone. The wind shrieked around him, ripping at his clothes, as if all the dæmons of hell were out on the ice with him.
Shaking his head at such a fanciful notion, far more worried about the possibility of a polar bear; another grey bulk loomed up out of the white-out. With relief, knowing he wasn't lost, Tarleton made out the stack of stores. By now, the crates were turning into a snowy hummock. Reassured, Tarleton edged around the stores to the lea-ward side where most of the huskies usually sheltered from the wind. Out of the full force of the gale he drew breath more easily. However, the huskies' painful howls were ear-splitting now. Even in the partial shelter, Tarleton noticed it was much colder – certainly no higher than ten degrees.
Shading his eyes from the blizzard with his hand, Tarleton squinted into the snowstorm. There. His eyes snapped to the left. A shape, huge yet indistinct loomed up out of the snow. It clutched a husky in its hands and raised the struggling beast up to what passed for its head. Was that Spruce – one of the strongest of the team? A winner of countless dog-fights and with the scars to prove it on his muzzle and flanks. What Iluliaq called with a smile, "him good dog." The husky was powerless to resist, as weak in the shape's grip as a newborn puppy.
Tarleton, stood stunned for a moment. A strong gust cleared the air for a moment. That was no polar bear that gripped the husky. The shape was tall – phenomenally tall. It was hard to be sure in the swirling, whirling snow but it seemed to be at least twelve or thirteen feet tall. In general form it was of a man – but a naked man on the far side of starvation. Its arms were longer, far too long, stick-like in their thinness ending in viciously hooked talons. The figure appeared bloodless, drained, blue-tinged, and more dead than alive. Yet it was possessed of a grim, unholy life.
Tarleton couldn't be sure but it appeared as if snow was pouring from every pore on its body, blurring its outline, making it hard for Tarleton to be sure what he was looking at. It was as if this unholy thing was the epicentre of the snowstorm. His Springfield dropped from his nerveless hands. As he watched, horror struck, the creature lifted Spruce up to its head. Its jaws gaped wide, impossibly wide as if the top of its head was coming loose revealing fangs like icicles. It sank its fangs into Spruce and, as Tarleton stared finding it impossible to move, a slight rose flush suffused under the creature's skin.
Then it tossed Spruce's body away. The dog's body arced away before it was lost in the blizzard but in that short space of time it seemed to be no more than skin and bone as if it had been drained of all blood and life. Then the hideous creature stooped and lifted up another husky. This dog had more spirit than Spruce and bit and snapped at the creature but for all the good that did, it was like biting snow. The dogs powerful jaws tore flesh from the creature's arms but the torn meat turned to snow and ice and was replaced instantly. However, the rosy tinge became a cold, cyanotic blue pallor, far colder than the Arctic wilderness. A sickly sight.
The monster's jaws opened devouring the dog, sucking out all its goodness as well as its life-force before tossing its desiccated carcass away. That pinkish tinge, a horrible mockery of life in this sub-zero waste, reappeared under the monster's snow-spraying surface – Tarleton refused to call it skin. Another of the huskies cowered at the monster's feet, its tongue out, tail wagging, begging for its life. That did not save the dog from the terribly starved monster's maw. Again, the terrible shape sunk its fangs into the dog's body and drank deep of the dogs life-force and then threw away the husk where it was lost in the white-out.
Tarleton shook his head. This was nothing of this earth, nothing from any sane universe. Even as he watched, a thin layer of flesh covered the monster's slat-like ribs. Its deep set eyes glowed green as it scanned the snow field. This time it snatched up a dog hiding in its hollow under the snow. When it finished, the creature roared out its anger and despair. The roar merged with the gale's blast.
Tarleton quailed. This was impossible, this was mind-destroying terror. Clinging onto the last vestiges of his sanity, Tarleton dropped to his knees. He couldn't tear his eyes from that shocking figure as it filled out on the life force of the dogs. As he crouched, his hands cast around over the snow for the rifle. One fingertip brushed against the icy barrel. Even that short contact froze his skin onto the metal. With a cry of pain, Tarleton ripped his finger away leaving the skin adhering to the metal. His blood froze instantly, sealing the wound. He had no idea how cold it was now but well below minus ten Fahrenheit.
He raised the rifle to his shoulder. It was hard to see straight as his tears froze onto his lashes and the snow pouring from the creature in all directions confused him. The rifle shook in his hands; Tarleton was only partly shivering with the cold as well as this unmanning fear. Slowing his breathing, trying to calm himself, remembering youthful hunting trips with his father and Uncle Silas to the backwoods of New Hampshire, Tarleton aimed direct at the centre of the snow creature's chest. He couldn't miss, not at this range.
He fired. Together with the gun-smoke, the report was lost in the snowstorm. However, the 30-06 slug ripped into the creature just above where its heart should be. The bullet had no effect. It was the same as shooting snow. Tarleton fired again, this time the bullet tearing through the creature's torso. The snow still pouring from the creature hid the impact. However, as the creature turned to face him, Tarleton saw the tiny hole immediately heal up, but any pinkish hue became that chill cyanotic blue again.
The creature lurched towards where he knelt. Its eyes, impossibly large were filled with the swirling maddening hues of the Aurora Borealis, the northern witch-lights laid over a distant blue far colder than any iceberg. Its arms, long and claw-like stretched out towards him. Its icicle fanged maw stretched wide as if about to devour the whole world. Snow vomited out from its throat together with a sub-zero blast of frigid air far colder than the coldest Arctic winter.
Tarleton screamed and the Springfield dropped once again onto the ice field. A bullet fired out randomly, shooting off into the wastes.
The monster strode towards Tarleton, its pupil-less Arctic eyes filled with witch-light glowed with insane hunger. Its arms reached down ready to pluck him up and drain him of all life in that icicle fanged maw. Unable to look away, Tarleton screamed and screamed again. He was doomed, his body and soul would be sucked dry to feed this Arctic abomination that had appeared from the frozen north to stalk the ice.
Then a husky, maddened with fear, broke from its snow hollow directly beneath the monster's feet. The dog skidded and the monster, its attention broken, snatched up the struggling beast and then tossed the bag of skin and bone into the storm. Yet another husky vanished around the stack of stores which was rapidly losing its distinction and becoming no more than a mountain of white. Changing direction, following the huskies, the monster swept past the stores. Tarleton collapsed onto the snow; his world greyed out and a moment later he fainted dead away.
Something he hadn't done since a boy visiting Aunt Rosie's house under the shadow of the Kingsport cliffs.
* * *
Tarleton came to with the sound of screams and then more rifle fire in the distance. Then a bellow from some inhuman throat, a bellow that reverberated from the storm clouds. He felt dazed and confused for a minute. Surely the events since he'd gone out to check on the huskies had been a nightmare? A combination of cold and stress in this inhospitable wilderness?
Using the rifle as a crutch, Tarleton stood. Even in that short space of time, the exposed parts of his face and ungloved hand felt chilled with frost-numb. If he'd lain out much longer, he might have lost his fingers or even if his life if his core body temperature dipped too low. More shouts and screams snapped Tarleton back to reality. Then some more gunshots. Then a flare, red as a dying sun shot up into the clouds casting a bloody glare over the ice. Another inhuman roar of rage sounded over the blasts of wind.
Snapping back to immediate reality, Tarleton limped back towards the mess tent. As his muscles warmed, his gait became easier. The mess tent loomed up out of the blizzard. Its roof had been slit and canvas flogged itself into ribbons as the gale caught it. In the middle of the tent stood that ice monster. Even as he ran towards the ruined base, he saw a man, indistinguishable in his furs, lifted kicking and screaming towards the monster's mouth.
The long icicle fangs sank into the man sucking the life and soul from him as rapidly as it had the dogs' before hurling the shell out into the blizzard. Another man met the same fate a second later. This man screamed out his terror, his eyes bulging with abandoned terror. Struggling, the man's hood slipped off. Tarleton saw that it was his friend, Greavey. A man he had messed with, a man he had joked with, a man who had discussed geology with him. A man who would die a horrible death.
The ice-figure had changed. No longer was it on the extremities of starvation, now it had put on weight and, although still thin, it looked stronger and more powerful than before. From what Tarleton could see through the thick driving snow, its colour had improved and was now a hideous pink, a ghastly parody of flesh and blood.
Casually, it slung the dried out body of Greavey away before plucking another man from the ruins of the camp. Greavey's body plummeted onto the ice a few yards ahead of Tarleton who ran up to it and turned his late friend over. The body felt weightless, only skin and bone and teeth. Its skull grinned up at him. Yet another red flare hit the monster high on its thorax before passing straight through and bursting in the sky. More snow swirled around, masking the terrible scene from Tarleton's eyes.
Swallowing his fear, he ran forward. The shattered tent loomed up before him. He stumbled over another body, face down in the snow, tripped but carried on. He passed the snow block wall protecting the tent's sides and in through what remained of the entrance. There was no security for him inside the shambles of the tent.
The ice-monster stood in the centre, the epicentre of the chaos. Dr. Welham crouched before it, his pistol blazing uselessly, the only effect to dull the creature's bloody glow. And then the monster swept Dr. Welham up in its arms, up in the air the scientist fighting and struggling to the last like his Viking ancestors. Like them, Dr. Welham died with his metaphorical sword in his hand.
As the ice-dæmon bit down Dr. Welham fired two shots into its mouth. The creature screamed with rage, the snow-storm emanating from its body declined slightly. But the end was the same. Those terribly sharp icicles bit down and a minute later Dr. Welham's dried out husk was flung away.
The creature's huge dark eyes searched the ruins of the tent. The trestle table was overturned, scientific equipment lay scattered about. Papers and journals swirled about in the icy vortex. Then its eyes fastened on Tarleton. Its arm, now more muscular than before, swept down towards him.
Acting solely on instinct, Tarleton dodged the out flung limb. He jumped over a pile of discarded boots and snowshoes and fetched up against a storage cupboard. Tarleton wrenched open a door. His heart leaped within his chest. Yes, there it was. He pulled out a bundle wrapped in a blanket from the shelf. The object felt heavier and bulkier than he remembered.
A shadow fell over him. Screaming, still clutching that bundle Tarleton rolled away. The talons missed him by inches, gouging the cupboard's surface. He fetched up on his back, his numb fingers tearing at the blanket. The ice-dæmon bulked over him; its maddening eyes filled with the insanity of the Aurora Borealis staring at him from its great height. Tarleton ripped off the blanket. The wind snatched the cover, whirling it away.
In his hands lay that hideous idol. But no longer was it of an emaciated humanoid. Now the statue had taken on a hideous life. It had filled out, swollen with the men's and dogs' life-force. It even had a rotund belly and felt warm in his hands. Gripping the monstrous thing Tarleton lifted it up as an offering to the ice-dæmon. The monster leaned forwards. Its cavernous mouth opened wide, armed with those dagger teeth. A blast of frigid air bellowed out, a jet stream of sub-zero air with the screams of the devoured souls carried on it.
Tarleton half raised the statue like a protective shield. Then his mind caved in under the unearthly horror and stress and he fainted clean away.