Killer

The immense head lifted lazily, insolently, and slid out of sight. The bullet sped through empty air, and Quick swore. Preston was on his knees by the box of dynamite, his mittens off, tearing at the fastenings with clumsy wool-gloved fingers. Warren was at the crate containing the harpoon gun. Kate was standing, feet spread in standard two-handed firing position, holding the Very pistol like a handgun. Ross still sat on his box, for once rendered inactive by his great knowledge: killers did not attack people. The occasional skeleton was found in a dead killer’s belly, he knew; and he had not been entirely honest about Ponting, but this was something strange, beyond belief. Killers just did not go hunting people.

BOOM.

The ice leaped. The tents reeled. The fire jumped out of the fire tray and landed in a cloud of sparks: that had been right beneath them.

BOOM.

A lead opened up five yards away, its edges parting spewing black water. Ross sprang to his feet.

“Kate! Not the pistol. Can you use a rifle?”

“Yes.”

“Bring the Remington, Job; the Weatherby and shells.”

He was off out of the camp, over the twenty yards to the edge of the ice. He slid to a stop well clear of the water as another fin, as tall as he was, parted the water as silent as a knife and dived.

“Look out!”

BOOM.

He fell to his knees. Then Kate was beside him, the slim Remington 7mm Magnum rifle snug against her shoulder. She searched the molten gold water for the next fin, her eyes narrow.

“Just a sec,” she said, lowering the rifle, and she produced a pair of dark glasses from the recesses of her anorak. The rifle came up again.

“Where’d you get those?”

“Handbag.”

“Silly question.”

“Right.”

Job arrived with the Weatherby and two boxes of bullets.

“Can you see all right, Job?”

“Fine.”

“Here comes one,” Kate, tensing.

“Just before it dives.” Ross, quietly.

“Right . . .” Job. “. . . NOW!”

Both rifles spat together. Two small plumes of water rose on either side of the tall fin.

The fin vanished. They all tensed. Nothing.

“Good. Keep it up.” Ross scrambled to his feet, and ran back to the camp. Preston was crouching beside the opened box of dynamite, his hand just reaching towards the brown ranks of sticks, and the coiled fuse. Warren and Quick were lifting the harpoon gun out of its crate. It would take them some time to set it up. He left them to it, and went back to Preston, who was binding four sticks together.

“That’s too much,” snapped Ross. But Preston, clutching the bundle feverishly, sped past Ross, grabbing a burning stick from the fire as he went. “Preston!”

“I know what I’m doing . . .”

“I hope the hell you do!”

Preston had reached Kate and Job now, and Ross was following as quickly as he could. Preston jammed the burning stick against the fuse. It spluttered into life. He drew back his arm to throw . . .

BOOM.

The ice heaved. They all went flat. Preston fought to stay erect, his feet slipping and sliding wildly. He fell; the dynamite slipped away from him, hissing on the ice. He began to crawl towards it, his movements desperately fast. The ice rocked again, only slightly in the aftershock of the blow: the dynamite slid back towards him. It was only inches from him, and there wasn’t much fuse left. He made a last, convulsive grab at it. His gloved hand closed on it, lost it, closed again. He rolled on his back and threw it.

It curved up into the bright sky, leaving a trail of smoke, turning over and over. Then it began to fall, clear of the ice. Just clear of the ice.

BOOM.

The dynamite exploded. The floe heaved up and up. The four of them began to slide back towards the camp and the hills. The supply tent collapsed. A huge column of water and ice rose majestically and cascaded down upon them. The floe began to tilt the other way. The explosion had filled their ears so they did not hear the great crack! as the lead opened by the whales widened and a raft of ice broke away just beside the camp: the raft they were on.

It was Warren who saw what was happening first. With Quick he was running out of the camp with the harpoon gun. Suddenly, unbelievingly, they were at the edge of the floe. He looked down stupidly at the strangely dark water lapping against the foot-high cliff of ice. He looked up again. It was then he realised. “KATE. KATE!” he yelled.

“Kate. Kate!” The sound cut through the roaring in her ears as though from a great distance. She was wet, cold, stunned, lying on the ice; one cheek was numb. She stirred, lifted her head. The world was unsteady. Preston was lying just beside her. She frowned, pulled herself up a little more. Job was picking himself up, going over towards Colin. Beyond them, her father was waving frantically.

Kate’s head was clearing now, but the horizon still seemed unsteady. She tried to stand: and she found that the ground was moving beneath her feet. Job was gesturing to her now, and there was great urgency in his voice. “Miss Warren, wake Hiram; bring him.”