The Last Vikings

#BelieveInYourDreams

I was an hour into the dark, tear-shaken, near-frozen, when my heartbreak was finally overridden by the mute fear that had been digesting me like a cobra since leaving the research station.

Not the fear that I had effectively stolen a snowmobile (and coat, and goggles and balaclava)—which had been my biggest concern when I was sobbingly struggling to start the engine and switch on the headlights, sure Paulo or Davey—or God forbid, Phil—would appear at the door any minute.

The fear that the weak tracks my snowmobile was following would be completely obliterated if the wind continued to rise, whipping the snow around me; looming close as TV static in the dense blackness, no stars, all-engulfing like the frigid cold.

The fear that they might not even be the right tracks. Perhaps they didn't go to the hotel at all, but out to the icy bay where Paulo's research equipment was, or somewhere else in the barren wilderness. Somewhere there was no safe destination for me. Somewhere I could only die.

I had begun to accept that was reality, struggle with the potential of turning round, when I finally saw a glimmer of red blinking in the distance, the God-damned relief near breaking my tight-scrunched little heart.

It was the mast. It was the hotel.

I wasn't going to die, somehow, despite pulling such a foolhardy stunt.

But what had I come back to?

If the radiation was driving people to suicide, why was I going back there?

Three days, I told myself. If I can just make it through the next three days, I can go home to Shetland and never, ever, ever leave again.

I saw the little vegetable patch behind Granny's cottage, heard the call of a plover, felt the summer sun on the stone back-step.

Dear God, I wanted to go home.

What if I couldn't make three more days? How dangerous could that phone mast be?

I parked my snowmobile and scuttled to the hotel entrance, shoulders tight, one suspicious eye always on that ominous red bulb flickering through the swirling snow.

The lobby was eerily empty. It couldn't be much past 5am, but I'd expected someone to be on reception at least. There wasn't a soul.

I couldn't bear to go to my room. I was just too cold. My face felt sore and chapped despite my goggles and balaclava, my fingers and toes stiff and burning with their lack of heat. I headed down the blue-ice corridors and across the yard to the changing rooms, the warmest place I could think of.

The changing rooms were deserted too.

Shivering, I peeled off my gloves with great difficulty and tiny whimpers of pain, my hands too numb to move. I was almost tempted to get a sauna to warm up, but thought of Sam and didn't.

Instead, I pulled open my locker—my fingers awkward and lumpen around my key—and plugged in my phone, leaning in to study it, my whole body shaking.

I didn't have any messages or calls.

What was I even looking for?

I navigated to Safari, whimpering like a disconsolate baby.