Top of the World

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".

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Chapter 2

The Sugarshack had been well supplied, I noted with satisfaction. Dried fish lay in cords upon the racks that lined the eastern wall, home-canned vegetables from my parent's greenhouse, along with dried beans and wild berries. Muktak, seal, tuttu and the bounties of our short growing season filled the dimly lit space.

A drum of fresh water had been placed near the heater in the center of the room, and a tiny kitchen had been established near our impressive cache of food. Our living quarters had been hastily organized along the western wall. There I found two mattresses, one atop a base of wooden Blazo boxes, and the other lying on a palate on the floor, our bedroom, I presumed.

The thought made me blush. I'd never been alone with a man before, at least not in so domestic a situation. The fact that the stranger was unable to function as a man was inconsequential. He was still a man, and not of my ilk. How would I cope if...

Suddenly he coughed, and I was shaken from my reverie. How foolish of me to lose myself in fantasy when reality was so demanding! Quickly I dragged his emaciated frame to the bed, and lay him upon the higher of the two, pressing a tin cup of cold water between his lips. Then, setting a filled kettle atop the tiny cook stove, I lit the burner in preparation for Eskimo tea. Into a second pot I hurriedly placed some wild chive and dried grayling, the beginnings of a thin soup to quell his hunger.

What else...what else, I wondered, panic-stricken. What can I do now?

The clothing on his body was filthy and matted with things I chose not to think about, and he had become wet in my attempts to drag him onto the shore. What needed to be done was obvious, but could I do it?

Quietly I considered my options. If not I, then whom? This man needed someone to care for him until he was strong enough to care for himself. His survival was in my hands. Was modesty more important than life?

Slowly I crossed and poured some of the now steaming water into a basin, then taking a cloth I knelt beside the bed and began to release the few buttons that remained on his ragged shirt.

It was as though the thing had become a part of him, so crustily it clung, but finally I was able to pry it from his body and lay him once more on the surface of the bed.

Again I paused. The legs of his pants were soaked with sea water. They too would have to be removed. Oh how I wished my mother was present! She would know what to do! But no, I was alone in this, and I was responsible.

Trembling, I tugged at the worn leather of his belt until it gave way and allowed me to continue. His zipper, already broken at the top, gaped mockingly as I stared open-mouthed at the naked flesh below. He wore no undergarments, that man, and below his navel curled what I assumed was the onset of pubic hair.

I bit my lip. Surely I could be objective as I completed my task! Nurses did this all of the time, didn't they?

I gave a sigh, then began to peel the denim over his hips and down to his thighs, carefully averting my eyes from that which lay in between. My heart pounded in my breast and my breathing became labored. Could I...could I?

Slowly I raised my gaze until it fell upon the thin, flaccid length of his penis.

OH! Even in this state it was far larger than the tiny organs of the children I'd diapered! This was a man, full grown, and the hallmark of his sex was more than I had ever anticipated!

Quickly I tugged the last of his clothing from his body, then began at the top to wash away the grime of countless days from his still form. It was not long, however, before I once more faced the problem of how to care for his private region.

That he needed it went without question. That I was the only person available to render such a service was likewise obvious, and so with shaking fingers I lifted his organ into my palm and began to stroke the warm water along its length.

It moved!

I stopped. Was my charge waking? But no, he appeared to be devoid of consciousness, save for the movement of his penis against my fingers.

Once more I laved the warm, wet cloth along his flesh, and once more it quivered in my hand. Were all men this sensitive, I wondered? Did they all bear such a responsive appendage?

Bolder now, I began to dip the cloth into the crevasses of his flesh, watching with curiosity as his penis began to stiffen and grow with each pass of my hand. How far could this go, I wondered, how long...

And then it happened. Without warning I felt a final twitch and a flow of creamy, viscous liquid poured into my hand! More amazed than shocked, I stared as it spread between my fingers, so warm and slippery, and dripped onto his naked thighs. It was sperm, it had to be! I had touched his naked body, and he had delivered his essence into my palm! Was intercourse so easy then?

It was at that point my patient began to stir, and I hastily covered him with the thick quilt that only an hour before had been in my mother's linen closet. My cheeks reddened, a modest reaction that should have come about long ago. Did he know what had just occurred? Was he aware that I had stolen his seed?

Timorously I backed away, then returning to the stove, I dropped local herbs into the steaming tea kettle, and turned to taste the salty broth that was forming in the soup pot. It wouldn't be long now, I thought. The tea would soothe his body in the meantime, and the thin soup would nourish him without causing his stomach to reject that which had been so long denied.

Once more he stirred.

"W...wat..er," he groaned, almost incoherently.

Quickly I poured some of the warm herbal concoction into the tin cup and carried it to his bedside. "Here," I murmured softly. It's tea, with herbs in it. Sip it. You'll feel better."

Eagerly he closed his hands around mine, guiding the precious liquid to his lips. He seemed at first to be oblivious to his surroundings, but as the last dregs of tea left the cup, his eyes began to assess the cluttered room about him.

If he could have registered surprise in his beleaguered condition, I'm sure he would have. But as it was, the expression on his face spoke more of confusion, disorientation, as though the gods of the sea had delivered him to a region far beyond his understanding.

Slowly his eyes traced the pink, insulation-lined curve of the ceiling, the crude iron stove, the bare gas piping which ran down the far wall of the room and the cluttered mass of disorganization that had been hastily prepared for us. His lips parted, a question forming, then once more he slipped into unconsciousness.

Long hours he lay like that, retching once as his stomach adjusted to his deliverance, but, I felt, growing stronger with the passing of time. Finally, as the sun once more circled to the south, he began to open his eyes again and scan his surroundings.

He was more alert by then, it seemed, and the intelligence in his gaze was more pronounced, more disquieting. Slowly his hand moved beneath the blanket, assessing his condition and wondering, perhaps, at the absence of clothing on his body.

I blushed! What must he think of me?

Again his eyes circled the room, this time as though cataloguing the scene before him, processing its usefulness...and mine.

If the touch of his penis in my hand had elicited a curious reaction in my belly, it was nothing compared to the twisted convolutions that squirmed uncomfortably within me as his gazed fixed on me then. It was as though my youthfully bursting body had been offered up on a platter, stuffed and glazed for his use and delight.

Then the light in his eyes dimmed, and I imagined that he had been forced to remember his circumstances...and his manners. I was someone he needed, someone he was perhaps indebted to, and someone who held the answers he so desperately sought.

"W-water?" he croaked. "I need..."

"Yes", I whispered. "Right away. And, I have some broth to help you regain your strength."

A thin smile curled the corner of his parched and weathered lips, and he nodded his gratitude silently into the room.

As he had before, once again his hands captured mine, pressing the cup to his lips and sipping eagerly of its contents. He seemed stronger by then, I noticed, more in command as he molded my movements to his own.

He would be a strong man, I concluded. Strong, but gentle, if the velvet force with which he held my hand was any indication. What would it be like if...

I shivered! What was I thinking? This was no game, a stolen kiss behind the frost heaves. The body that lay before me was a man, fully grown, and if his reaction to my touch was any indication, fully capable of things far beyond my experience.