Chapter 1
Some said it was the product of terrorists. Still others contended that it had been caused by our own deadly hubris, but my father had the answer curled into his fist, a weapon to hurl at the unrighteous world...the end of civilization had been the price levied for our sins by the hand of God.
He, the good reverend Dr. Charles, a missionary of the Brotherhood of Martyrs, had been assigned to that frozen place long before my birth. There, on the edge of the continent he had made his place, with my mother by his side, and sought to lead the "unenlightened" of Barrow from their errant ways.
That he had not been successful, was less because of his zeal for scripture, than because of the strict interpretation he placed upon it. There was no word but THE Word, no valid genuflection that was not at His feet. To think otherwise was to invite the wrath of the Almighty. Sinners all, the world south of the Brooks Range had failed the ultimate measure, and had been brought to its knees in penance. It had been inevitable.
The people of Barrow respected the good Reverend, a badge of recognition for his sincere benevolence on their behalf. But in matters of faith they kept their own counsel, for the most part, and only a tiny flock of the most zealous had chosen to follow in his footsteps. It had been enough, however, to keep him painting the citizenry with hell and brim fire for over 20 years.
And so there we were, my parents and I, cut off from the silent world below. No airplanes had crossed the Brooks Range in seven years, no barges had offloaded supplies in at least as long. The phones had long since outlived their usefulness, and even the ham radio that my father brought to life each and every Saturday morning had been silent for thousands of days. Either the world beyond the frozen mountains of the Brooks Range had forgotten us, or it had ceased to exist.
They had called it Virus #112, but to those of us who lived in fear of its deadly embrace, it was known as "The Kiss of Death". It would be hard to say where The Kiss began, for it seemed to spring up from everywhere and nowhere all at once. One day the world was worrying about educating its children, and the next day it was burying them.
As far as rumor went, The Kiss had almost no incubation period, no physiological enemies, and once it was contracted, it gave no hope for recovery. Thousands died within days, millions in the weeks that followed. The satellite stations and radio news were filled with the voices of the new apocalypse.
A few months later, the bush plane links that serviced our small, isolated part of the world dwindled and ceased to exist. The barges that brought our much-needed supplies failed to arrive that summer. Finally, as though we had been written off entirely, the voices from beyond were stilled as well. Phones gave no response, radios no lilting tunes, and our cherished televisions became black holes that mocked our vulnerability.
To my father it was both a vindication of his beliefs and an opportunity to increase his flock. Suddenly those who feared their own mortality began to hedge their bets and give lip service to any god they found available. The pews began to fill, and the sounds of hymns, sung in Inupiaq, began to drift across the frozen tundra on Sunday mornings. The world may have been lost, but my father was content with the side effects...a happy man in spite of it all.
And so it was on the day after my 18th birthday, the day that Aiden arrived in Barrow.
It was one of those perpetual days that fill the summer months for those of us who lived that far north of the Arctic Circle. The sun, lazily circling the sky until August gave it leave to find a resting place, had been far to the north when I first spotted him. His sail was but a bit of red, a fiery silhouette against the northern sky, and I squinted to make it out.
A boat! But why was it wind driven? Had the world beyond reverted to nature's own generator? I watched for an hour as it rode the current to the northeast, vanishing occasionally behind an errant berg, tipping precariously beneath the icy breeze, then barely righting itself until it seemed as though the fragile craft would ultimately sink from sight and be lost all together.
Quickly I ran along the graveled beach, plopped myself determinedly into my father's rowboat and began to make my way parallel to the frigid shoreline. It took a good half hour, for the wind-borne vessel had a good breeze behind it, but finally I pulled alongside and cast a rope over a cleat.
It was then that I first saw him.
He was thin, unnaturally so, his skin pale and ashen beneath its weathered mask. I saw no food in his craft, and his water jugs appeared empty and useless.
I feared at first that the inhabitant of the small sailboat had lost his battle with life, for he lay still and deflated against the deck of his tiny craft. But, as I thumped my paddle against the wooden façade of his vessel, I saw him stir and try to rise.
"Anniqsuiruq?", I called, more comfortable in Inupiaq under the circumstances. His eyes, glazed and dilated, gave no indication that he understood. And so, in my parent's tongue I called once more. "Hello! Do you need help?"
It was a silly thing to ask, really, for his need could not have been more apparent. But, I was shaken and uncertain. What else was there to say? He opened his mouth to speak then, but the only sound that escaped his lips was a feeble croak, not English at all, but some form of fantasy language conjured out of the depths of thirst and fever.
Troubled in the extreme, I realized the folly of my actions. Could I tow his craft to shore with my small rowboat? Already the winds that ruffled his sail mocked me. I was but a girl, what right did I have to snatch their victim from the sea?
Once more my gaze fell upon him, and my heart fairly broke in two. He needed me. His life was in my hands. I had to enter the battle. I had to win. I had to...
The wind began to quicken once more, and the sail blossomed along the mast. Quickly I secured my boathook and jabbed along the edges of the cloth until I felt it catch, tear, and finally fall deflated against the deck. Then, securing my line around the apex of the vessel's prow, I began to row.
An hour passed, and a second until the sun had circled to the east and my muscles screamed in protest. Finally, my keel ground into the gravel near the Shooting Station, a barren point on the low peninsula to far to the northeast of town, and my body sagged against the oars.
Why had no one come to help me, I wondered? Couldn't they see the plight I'd been in? And then it came to me. Of course they'd seen. They'd seen my tiny boat, and the unfamiliar craft that it towed and chosen to isolate themselves from the threat. The invader was from the "Outside", land of The Kiss. He was not welcome here.
Trembling, both from exhaustion and the fear that they might be right in their hesitation, I threw my anchor above the high-water mark and tugged upon the tow-rope until the derelict craft was well grounded. Then, wading into the icy water in my break-up boots I surveyed the situation.
The wasted body that lay before me looked to be at death's door. Certainly, he would not be able to greet another day without help. But, was it safe?
His skin was pale beneath the ravages of the sun, and the hollows of his eyes spoke of dehydration and extreme exposure. His tongue was thick and cracked, as though he'd been sipping sea water in his desperation to survive. His arms were thin, and his ribs pressed against the ragged fabric of his shirt, but of the boils and bruises that accompanied The Kiss, there were none.
Finally, he raised his eyes as if to plead for his very life, and I was undone. They were blue, so very blue, and in them I saw the man that he had been, and wanted once more to become. I had to help.
And so, bracing my shoulder beneath his arm, I tugged him from his craft and wrestled his body to shore. Then, taking the small length of canvas that had once been his sail, I gathered the tatters and formed a lean-to of sorts along the beach to block the prevailing winds.
Driftwood was plentiful here, six miles from town, and in short order I had a warm and welcomed blaze beating back the chill of the arctic afternoon. It wasn't long, however, until I heard the first ATV churning across the gravel from the direction of Barrow. It was my father! Apparently he had been informed of his daughter's indiscretion, and had come to evaluate the damage.
The ATV slowed prematurely, then stopped altogether almost 50 yards away. My father sat on the padded seat, his voice lost on the breeze, drowned among the squawking of the sea birds. Finally, I was able to make out his message.
"...is...he sick?" I heard over the interference. "Has he The Kiss, Abigail?"
How could I answer him? I'd never seen The Kiss upon a living soul before! All I had to guide me were the early reports of the plague, as reported on those final television broadcasts that had vanished with the end of the world.
"I...I don't think so, Father!" I called uncertainly. "He's terribly sick though, so I'm not certain!"
My father paused at that, his footsteps frozen in place.
"...you've...touched him, Girl. Can't.....home now until we know..."
I was shocked! Had he said I couldn't return home? What would I do? How could I keep this man, and myself for that matter, alive? I'd been rash, so very rash, and now there was a price to pay.
My father, as though reading my mind, called across the distance once more. "Keep...warm, Abby. Wait here!" Then, remounting his ATV, he sped back in the direction of town.
I turned again to my charge. He was shaking by then, and the fire was slow to warm his thin body. So, taking off, my "atigi", my jacket, I covered him with it and brought more wood for the fire. By the time it had begun to dwindle, I could once more hear the sounds of ATVs in the distance.
This time there were three four-wheelers coming my way, my father in the lead. Again I heard them pause where my father had stopped so recently, and call to me over the cries of the gulls.
"Take him...to...the Sugarshack this side of N.A.R.L.. They're putting supplies in there for you. Don't...come to town!"
The Sugarshack! Visions of the aging Quonset hut, so isolated now that NARL, the Naval Arctic Research Lab, had been abandoned, filled my mind. It was crude at best, a storage unit in its prime, but it would do. The gas lines from the wells to the west had been extended to the Sugarshack long ago, and it was insulated. It was a barren choice, but it would suffice.
As I watched, one of the men dismounted his ATV and straddled the seat behind my father. Then, with a last look, he turned his machine westward and roared from view.
The ATV that remained was obviously for my use, and as I neared it I spied a sled tethered to its rear. It would be hard going, dragging a sled along behind me on the barren gravel, but it could be done. It was the only way. And so I drove the encumbered machine over to my "patient", rolled his body aboard, then headed in the direction of our new "home".
