The Horror from the Blizzard

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 center 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 color 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 center, the epicenter 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-daemon 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-daemon 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-daemon. 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.

CHAPTER 7: AFTER THE STORM.

Moored out on the fjord, Captain Calderbank leaned on the taffrail. It was cold, far colder than even Baffin Island should be at this time of year and his beard was frozen stiff. He rubbed the tip of his hooked nose, trying to restore circulation. The shoreline had vanished beneath a tempestuous blizzard covering the shore and mountains in a maelstrom of white. Although the Margarite Ohlsen was four hundred yards offshore the snowstorm did not reach that far out. Nevertheless, the water was churned up by the storm and the barque rose and fell as the water slapped against its bulwarks.

As the storm blanketed the coast, Captain Calderbank strained his ears. He couldn't be sure but he thought, he was almost positive, that he had heard gun shots. Had a starving polar bear broken into the camp? Or perhaps an attack by hostile Inuit hunters, although that didn't seem very likely. He couldn't recall the last time, if ever, an explorer had been attacked by Canadian Inuit.

Then the storm was lit up red. Flares! Why had flares been fired? Captain Calderbank couldn't understand why the distress flares had been launched. However, he knew that something terrible must have happened ashore.

He made a decision. He turned to the man peering through binoculars next to him. "Launch a lifeboat, Cox. But take no chances, understand. If that storm's too bad then come back. I don't want anyone getting drowned."

The coxswain nodded. Davis was a tough looking ex-whaler who knew the cold polar waters as well as any man alive. "Aye, aye, sir." The Cox blew his whistle and the deckhands swung the nearest boat out on its davits and then lowered it into the choppy water. Another flare lit up the clouds, emphasizing the urgency of the situation.

The Cox, Davis, and six men climbed down and a few minutes later, Captain Calderbank watched the small vessel bob its way towards the shore; the oars rising and falling as one. Davis steered it past an ice-floe towards the edge of the blizzard. One moment, the lifeboat was clearly in sight, the next it had vanished into the maelstrom of the snowstorm.

Concentrating on the storm, Captain Calderbank stared through the Cox's binoculars. He was desperately trying to catch a glimpse of the crew, anything to reassure him that they were safe. Long minutes passed, with Captain Calderbank's heart in his mouth. He'd known Davis and some of the crew for better than twenty years and, despite their difference in station, he regarded them as friends. Men he'd laughed with -- men he'd bailed out of half the jails between Halifax, Nova Scotia, and Montevideo after drunken shore leaves. But for all that, they were good men and he had put his life in their hands more than once.

Distantly Calderbank thought he heard more gunfire. Finally, the lifeboat re-emerged from the storm. Through the binoculars, Captain Calderbank saw the crew's coats were heavy with snow. They rowed back slowly, their strokes showing their weariness. Adjusting the sights, Captain Calderbank could not see any extra men in the lifeboat. He felt deflated.

Cox Davis tied the boat to the hoists and was the last to climb on deck. Davis sketched a salute. "Sorry, sir. We couldn't make it. We tried -- God, how we tried. But the winds and the waves kept us off. We couldn't land. It was like there was some force holding us off." Davis shook his head at the memory. "I've never been through anything like it, sir."

"That's alright, Cox. I know you did your best," Calderbank patted the other's shoulder. "Get yourself and the men a tot of rum. You deserve it."

Captain Calderbank returned to the security of the bridge for the next hour. With a suddenness that surprised him, the storm died away to be replaced by the ever present north wind. The snow cleared and scanning the shore, Captain Calderbank saw that the base camp looked destroyed. The clear air and low Arctic sun revealed the extent of the devastation. Yet no men stood on the shore semaphoring frantically for help.

Looking at the water separating them, Captain Calderbank calculated that although choppy it should be possible to land. Ordering the lifeboat to be relaunched, this time Captain Calderbank joined the crew and sat in the stern. The small boat skimmed towards the rocky beach, the men as eager as himself to see what had happened. It must have been a bloody catastrophe, Captain Calderbank thought. Even though the boat must be clearly visible amongst the ice floes, nobody from the shore appeared.

Apart from a stiff off-shore current Coxswain Davis and the crew had little trouble running the boat ashore. As soon as it beached Davis and the others leaped out and drew the boat above the high water mark. As soon as Captain Calderbank stepped out, his boots crunching the shingle underfoot, he was struck by the silence. Apart from the flat whine of the north wind and the calls of the skuas and gulls the inlet lay under a dead silence. The men looked at each other and huddled together.

Even Captain Calderbank felt the eeriness. "C'mon," he said, taking a tight rein of his emotions. Leaving one man to guard the boat, the others made their way uphill towards the camp.

"What's that?" called Davis. He ran away from the group and picked up the dried out corpse of one of the huskies. The dog's body peeled away from the frozen ground and Davis held it out. The body was stiff as a board. All the men gathered around to look.

"Mon dieu? What happened?" one of the men, a Quebecois, asked. The man crossed himself.

Captain Calderbank said nothing. The dog's body looked completely drained and mummified as if it had been exposed to the Arctic cold for years rather than one night.

"Looks like an old fur coat," one of the men joked. "Like my mama in Brooklyn wears." Nobody laughed so he fell quiet.

The party carried on uphill. The camp became closer, larger, and clearer. They found the bodies of several more huskies and each corpse made the sailors more and more uneasy. Especially as none of the scientists had yet greeted them. Captain Calderbank unholstered his Colt revolver.

The normally tough ex-whaler gasped with horror when the first human corpse came to sight. Davis knelt by the body, shrunken and dwarfed by its cold-weather clothing.

"What could have done something like this, Davis?" Captain Calderbank asked.

Davis looked away from the body. "I've no idea, Captain, no idea at all. I've never seen anything like this. Ever." The man's voice was softened by grief.

"Polar bear?" said the youngest member of the crew. This was his first voyage to the Arctic. After what he'd just seen, he was going to make sure it was his last.

"No, son, a polar bear would have torn them to pieces," Captain Calderbank told him.

"And a bear wouldn't have killed everyone, sir," Davis reminded his captain. "Even if it was in a bad mood."

"Perhaps most of the scientists are still out rock gathering or egg collecting or whatever in the middle of nowhere," Calderbank mused. Maybe the sailors would be lucky and only two or three scientists had been left behind to suffer this strange and terrible death at base camp.

Captain Calderbank was the first into the destroyed mess tent. Immediately he saw that they weren't to be lucky. Bodies were strewn in all directions. The only movement was the wind ruffling the fur on their coats.

All the dead men were as drained and hollowed as their dogs. What was left of their eyes showed a wide, staring horror as if they knew what was happening was not just their physical death but the destruction of their very souls as well. Captain Calderbank tried to put such a fanciful notion out of his mind but those hollowed out eyes haunted him.

Then came the worst of the horror of that mad day. Another humped mound that used to be a man drew his attention. Captain Calderbank hurried over to the remains of what used to be Arthur Hatley -- a man he had laughed and joked with on the outward voyage. Hatley's remains had been savagely mutilated with the corpse's ribcage smashed open and the man's heart ripped out. The chest cavity was empty and the ribs stood out stark and white against the redness of the torso. Fragments of cloth lay about and the snow and grey rocks were splashed with blood.

Captain Calderbank looked away in disgust and shame. It was with difficulty that he kept from vomiting.

"Captain! Over here!" Davis called.

Picking his way through the debris, Calderbank crossed to where Davis knelt. The coxswain turned the man over.

"This one's alive, sir," Davis said. Everyone rushed to see. Out of all the death and destruction one man had survived. A young man seemingly in a deep sleep or dead faint. The sole survivor clutched a repulsive green sculpture of some kind of obese god. It didn't look like any Inuit artefact Captain Calderbank had ever seen. Gently prising open the man's fingers, Calderbank removed the statue.

"That's young Jack Tarleton," Calderbank said, searching his memory. "I wonder how come he didn't suffer the same fate as everyone else?"

Despite a thorough search of the ruins, the sailors found no other survivors. They took the still comatose Tarleton back to the Margarite Ohlsen and laid him in the sick bay. Then Captain Calderbank organized a burial party. The sailors built cairns and held a simple service over the graves.

Finally, the sailors collected any papers or specimens that could be of use to Miskatonic University including that obscene jade statue. The more superstitious thought it should be dropped into the Atlantic depths where it could never be found again. However, Captain Calderbank vetoed that idea. But he would still not have that thing in his cabin.

Using its sails to catch every gust of wind Captain Calderbank backed the Margarite Ohlsen out of the fjord and then down the coast of Baffin Island. All of them were glad when the final tip of that nightmare island disappeared below the horizon astern and the barque headed down the coast of Labrador towards the south and civilization.