Ice Island by Sherry Shahan

Author:Sherry Shahan [Shahan, Sherry]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-0-375-98575-1
Publisher: Random House Children's Books
Published: 2012-01-10T05:00:00+00:00

12

Cole worked the door against a bank of packed snow outside the cabin. If you could even call it a door. Bears had nearly totaled it. “Home, sweet home,” he said with a crooked grin.

Was he kidding?

The cabin looked more like an oversized lettuce crate. Gasoline cans, hammered flat, were nailed over gaping holes. But four walls, no matter how sorry-looking, were better than fighting a storm. They’d never win. Besides, the dogs needed rest.

They shook snow from their coats. The colder it got, the faster water froze—and the faster it dried—just like wet laundry. But instead of sleeping, the dogs acted excited, like they were on a long vacation.

“Better unload the sleds,” Cole shouted over the wind.

They moved feverishly without talking, wading through deep drifts, carting everything inside—snowshoes, shovel, ax, and a couple of thermal blankets. A sled was a type of mobile home.

Working helped take Tatum’s mind off their nightmare. If she stopped moving, even for a nanosecond, cold seeped inside her clothes.

Cole lit a can of fuel. It burst into smoky flames. He shoveled snow into the cooker, watching it melt. Gradually the room warmed up enough for them to shed parkas and gloves. Tatum checked the dogs’ feet, just like she did for Beryl, then helped feed and water them.

Bandit ate like a racehorse, making up for not finishing her breakfast. Was that this morning? It seemed like eons ago. Wolf picked at his food, leaving half of it on the moldy floor. Brooks and Denali jumped up, growling to see who’d get it.

Cole waved his glove. “Hey!”

The dogs shrank back.

He dropped two sealed bags into the simmering water, waited for them to thaw, then passed Tatum a steaming bag. “Homemade chili.”

She took it, grateful for a hot meal. “Thanks.”

“No one predicted this storm.” He said it like an apology.

Tatum started to reply, but thought better of it. Nothing she could say would change their grim situation.

She sat on an upended crate, eating chili from the bag—that was how Beryl ate on the trail, so she wouldn’t have to wash dishes. Ziplock bags were good for all kinds of things. Mittens or socks, in a pinch. Beryl once made an emergency rain poncho from a plastic garbage bag.

Tatum took in the sight: Bandit, Brooks, Chugach, Kenai, Alyeska, and Wrangell, Cole’s lead dog, curled up and asleep. Bandit looked like she was winking. Tatum smiled; even Wolf seemed content.

Cole opened the door to a blustering wind. It was loud enough to be heard in Nome. Is it ever going to let up?

He dragged both sleds inside, blowing on his red fingers. A halo of light from the flames shone on his torn basket.

“No one knows we’re here,” she finally said.

He took out dental floss and a needle large enough to suture a whale. “Standard repair equipment,” he said, and made a big, looping stitch.

After a while, Tatum took over. She finished the job with a knot. “Will someone be looking for us?”

“This summer I’m working with kids—teaching them our language and customs,” he said instead of answering her.

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