Icequake: A Prophetic Survival Thriller

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Penny Constable woke up suddenly and looked at her wristwatch. The glowing orange light-emitting diodes told her it was 0503 hours, Thursday, February 7, 1985. With any luck, it would be her last day in Shacktown.

The cubicle was dark. In the bunk below, Jeanne Taylor moved restlessly in her sleep. The hut’s humidifier was whining away in the corridor outside, but the air was still too dry for comfort; Penny’s nose was stuffy, and her tongue felt thick. She reached up to touch the cold, rough plywood ceiling. A few metres above the roof of the hut were the curved steel plates that covered Tunnel B, and above that was the empty whiteness of the Ross Ice Shelf. To the right and left of Tunnel B, separated by metres of solid ice, were the other tunnels of New Shackleton Station; to walk the full length of the station, from the end of the snow mine to the doors of the hangar, took only five minutes. After thirty-seven days here she knew every square centimetre of the place, and she hated it all.

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