The Beacon

“Team Two to base. Come in, base.” I’ve been trying for hours; no answer. The depth must be interfering with the signal.

“Team Two to Team One. Come in team one.”

“Team One here. Jerry, is that you? I’ve been trying to reach base. We are ready for extraction. Are you on the surface?"

“Negative, Team One. We are still underground. Base hasn’t answered. We are getting ready for emergency measures. Do you have your back up kit?” I ready our alternative climbing gear to get out of this dark, frozen cavern. I’ve been down here with two other researchers since dawn. The base director was supposed to extract us after four hours. It’s been seven and no contact. Even if our comms were malfunctioning, emergency protocol states that Team Three enter the cavern to rescue us. Team Three has not shown, for us or for Team One.

“Ice axes, climbing belt and carabiners, team. It looks like we are on our own,” I tell the members of my crew.

“Team Two, this is Team One. Jerry, we are helping ourselves out of this hole. See you topside,” Abigail is the leader of her unit and extremely capable. Her drop point is two kilometers south of ours, with base camp halfway between. We are near Eclipse Sound, the desolate northernmost point of Baffin Island.

I take the rear as Fred and Farrah climb out ahead of me, one on each wall. The ascent is 750 metres, completely vertical. I stand below, watching as ice chips rain down on me. Fred digs his crampons into the wall; there is barely anything to grab on to, so I give them a generous head start until they can get their footing. It won’t do anyone any good if one of us falls, especially if we land on a team member.

The opening at the top is slim; a crevasse. We attempted to save the integrity of the glacier as much as possible. We are environmental scientists – trying to save the world.

“Oh, no. No, no, no. What the Hell happened?” Fred has stopped – figuratively frozen, his voice guttural, unrecognizable.

“Dude! Get moving! We have no safety net here!” Farrah is starting to get claustrophobic. She’s in the narrowest part of the chasm – there is barely enough room to maneuver with these heavy down parkas, our climbing gear and the samples we have been collecting. Fred climbs out and reaches back, taking her pack and then her hand, hoisting her up. I’m still about 200 metres from the top when the scream almost knocks me off course.

In the time we were down there, something happened. A catastrophe. The ice floor; gone. The base camp; gone. Vehicles and equipment; gone. Team Three; gone.

“We need to find Team One,” I insist, and usher my squad to the south.

Twenty minutes later, we encounter Abigail, Francine and Justin. They’re staring at the empty space where our facility once stood, now nothing but a black crater. They look at us, confused, speechless, almost catatonic. Our work, our home, colleagues, food, water – everything has just dissolved into thin air. The glacier, the reason for this exploration, is now a hard, brown crust; warm to the touch. There is no snow or ice in sight. The temperature, normally hovering around minus 50, is now a balmy 32 degrees Celsius; close to 90 Fahrenheit. We are on an island, 1090km from the closest city, Iqaluit, with no vehicle and only the provisions we had down in the hole; mostly used already.

“What’s the range on our comms?” someone asks.

“Twenty, maybe thirty kilometers,” someone else answers. “Our sat phone still has half a charge, though. Should I try to call someone?”

“Save the battery for a bit. Let’s start walking. There must be a rescue underway,” we unburden ourselves of the heavy jackets and check our packs for essentials. The ground is cooked as far as the eye can see and we decide to take a chance that it won’t get too cold again. There is nothing in sight to build a sleigh, shelter, fire – just a barren, treeless, lifeless wasteland. We are doomed. I know it, but take the lead and try to give the others a tinge of hope as we start towards the ocean. I have no clue how we would even get across. The only good news is that we have close to twenty hours of daylight this time of year.

Thankfully, we each had a GPS on us. I suggested we turn all but one off to save juice. Maybe this way they will last for most of the journey.

“Do you think something is screwing with the feed?” Abigail asks as we arrive at what should be the coast, but is just more crusty land. We had been walking for half a day.

“No. This is definitely the right place,” I examine the outline of a fish, burnt into the ground. A few steps further we see hundreds, maybe thousands, of fossil looking fish skeletons etched into the earth. These fish were swimming just hours ago.

Small pockets of water still remain; the size of a plate and steaming. “Search the puddles,” I demand. We are getting desperate. The water, although literally boiled, is still undrinkable sea water.

“I found something!” We all drop what we are doing and run to Justin. He is holding up a dead fish; boiled; edible.

“Keep looking. We need more.”

Our search provided us with four fairly large Arctic Char, conveniently already cooked. Now we need water. “Who remembers how the desalination process works?” I hope someone does, because in the four years we have been here, I’ve never once had to do it.

“I’m on it,” Abigail states. I knew, if anyone could do it, it would be her. We fill as many cannisters as we can with the last vestiges of seawater and set them out on tin plates in the heat to start sweating. Two hours later, we each have a half an ounce of fluid to drink. This is going to get really bad.

We travel for six more days, rationing the dried apples and jerky from our packs. The further south we get, the hotter it becomes. On the seventh day, I fear we are ready to succumb to the apocalypse that surrounds us. We have one GPS remaining, and will be lucky if it holds out until nightfall. Everyone is avoiding the conversation, but I know I should bring it up when we make camp. We are moving a lot slower now. I see no reason to continue, and I really don’t want to die due to starvation. Or insanity.

I’m ahead of the pack when I hear people hollering my name, calling me back. I don’t even know if this is real anymore or if it’s all a dream. Maybe I’m in a coma. Maybe I’m already dead. I turn back regardless and find that Farrah has collapsed. No one has the strength to carry her. Do we leave her? “Cave,” she whispers. “I see a cave.” She’s hallucinating.

“She’s right! I see it, too!” Francine starts running, powered by adrenaline that the rest of us have lost. We wait.

She returns to us, grinning. “It’s safe. It’s cool – we can sleep. AND there was a family of wolves living in it. They’re now barbequed.” That was a week ago, the meat will probably kill us but what do we have to lose, really? The cave is about ten degrees cooler than the air, and miraculously, there is water dripping towards the back. Fresh water. We fill all of our cups several times. It takes all night.

By morning, we are all upright. Reasonably rested, hydrated, and bellies full of week-old meat. There are bugs and bats at the back of the cave, but none of us is ready to stoop that low. I fill a few specimen jars anyway. Maybe beetles and creepy crawlies will look appetizing down the road. We stay for a couple of days until the meat is gone.

“What is that sound?” Justin makes an abrupt halt, shushing us all as he cranes his neck. “There it is again. What is it?”

“The sat phone! Oh my God – I forgot! It’s in your pack. It’s RINGING!” Abigail grabs the bag right off of Justin’s back and digs through until she finds it. “Hello? Hello? Yes! This is Baffin Island Exploration. Is someone coming? There are six of us,” She stays silent, listening for about five minutes. “Oh. Okay. I understand. Thank you. We will try.”

“What?”

“Who was that?”

“Are they coming?” Everyone was talking at the same time.

“No.” she states. “It’s worldwide. Everyone is gone. The Earth is scorched.” She’s in shock, not crying.

“Well, that was someone,” I say, as gently as possible when I really want to scream at her. “Who was it? Where are they?”

“There are some survivors. People who were underground at the time of the incident. Some ships that were far out to sea. That was the Antarctic research team, which is why they had our number. Their base was underground. They all survived and their communication systems are in tact. They have no vehicles, though, so are as stranded as us,”. We were still at least a week’s hike from Iqaluit, which is, was, a tiny city to begin with. I doubt there are any cars in underground lots there.

“You said ‘we will try’. Try what?”

“A cruise ship docked near Vancouver Island. Tofino. They found something. A pear tree – it survived. It’s alive and still producing fruit. It’s a miracle.”

“I hate to be a buzzkill, but it’s also 4000 kilometers from here.” Justin states what we are all thinking.

“We have to try. All of the survivors are destined there – from everywhere. We have to try.”

So, we do. We’ll make it to Iqaluit, maybe Winnipeg. There will be vehicles parked in sub level lots. There will be food, batteries. There has to be.