The Sting of the Bee Read online

  “Ginnie!” he shouted, throat tight with fear. He lost sight of her behind a swarm of running bodies.

  A sharp pain slammed into his back, followed by the vision of asphalt meeting his face as a wall of humans bulldozed over him. He struggled to breathe as dozens of feet raced across his body, knocking the wind from his lungs. He covered his head with his arms and twisted out of the path of the churning stampede until he was free.

  John scrambled to his feet and shook his head to clear it. He wiped the blood oozing into his eye and then sprinted after the crowd. His heart raced. Where was Ginnie?

  Screams echoed along the canyon of warehouses as the tide of bodies accelerated toward the ramp. A band of settlers ascended the incline, knocking over the welcoming crewmembers. Through a megaphone, the captain’s metallic voice boomed across the docks, ordering the settlers to stop.

  Warning shots rang out from the upper deck. Helmeted military police raced to the access ramp with rifles, creating a wall of force to ebb the flow of the crowd.

  A sergeant yelled into a bullhorn, “Let’s have order!”

  The line of MPs shoved the sea of crazed homesteaders back down the ramp. Guns ready, the guards blocked the access to the ship until the melee quieted.

  Scattered like leaves after a storm, the wounded littered the dock, and the air filled with moans and cries of desperate families seeking their loved ones.

  John pushed through the crowd, panic constricting his chest. At last he heard Ginnie’s voice.

  “Back off!” she shouted.

  With a relieved smile, he waved to her. “Ginnie, over here.”

  Ginnie forced her way to him, giving menacing looks to those who wouldn’t move out of her way. John enveloped her in a hug.

  Ginnie exhaled and murmured, “Geez, that was scary. Almost as bad as donut day at school.”

  Laughing, John kissed her cheek, and straightened her jacket which had become rumpled in the fray. The screaming children quieted, and with a trembling hand, he smoothed Ginnie’s hair.

  Ginnie gasped at his bruised and bloodied forehead, and she touched his cheek. “Dad, are you okay?”

  With a wry smile, he shrugged. “I’m fine, but I guess my head isn’t as hard as my mother always told me it was.”

  Lights flashing, swat teams arrived in armored vehicles, and men and women in full riot gear swarmed out, lining up around the crowd. Angry settlers pointed fingers at the group who instigated the pandemonium, and they were dragged away in handcuffs.

  The wail of ambulances deafened the crowd and paramedics spread out to care for the injured. Nearby, a wounded man leaned on a paramedic, his face twisted in pain as they assisted him to the ambulance.

  Children sobbed inconsolably, terrified by the insanity of it all.

  Heart thumping, John swallowed hard, glancing up at the welcoming banner with the image of Antarctica stretched across the gangway. The hair rose on his neck, and wrapping his arm around Ginnie, the reality of this venture struck him. Was he dragging his child into an existence that might, at best, bore her and, at worst, kill her?

  A blast from the ship’s horn boomed over the crowd and boarding resumed.

  John and Ginnie reached the top of the ramp and struggled along the deck through the mob, grimacing against the raucous bullhorns directing people onto the ship. When they reached the bow, John leaned on the rail with a sigh. The adrenaline rush from the stampede abated, and he dully watched families gathering on the deck, patching their wounds. He lifted his hand to his throbbing head.

  One of the ship’s doctors and her nurse joined the passengers on the deck, offering medical attention where needed. She glanced toward John and stopped in front of him. With a gentle smile, she said, “Looks like you may need some medical attention, sir.”

  Shrugging, he turned away. “I’m fine.”

  She grinned. “That wasn’t a request—I’m in charge here.” She waved her nurse over, pulled a penlight from her pocket and examined his eyes. “Just checking for signs of a concussion.” The nurse handed her an antiseptic cloth, and the doctor cleaned away the dried blood crusted above his eye, and finally, stretched a bandage over the cut. She said, “The bandage is infused with pain killer, so you should feel better soon.”

  “Thank you, doctor.” John smiled. “I guess the Land Rush will be a walk in the park after this.”

  “Hope springs eternal.” She looked at Ginnie. “Are you okay?”

  Ginnie nodded. “Thank you for patching up Dad. Did any kids get hurt?”

  With a sigh, the doctor shrugged. “Broken bones, but thank god, no one was fatally injured.”

  A woman called out for help, and the doctor and nurse moved along the deck to aid the next group. A small brass band in the parking lot struck up a rousing farewell piece as the ship cast off. “Bon Voyage!” drifted up from the waving crowd on the dock. Streamers filled the air, and John squeezed Ginnie’s shoulder at the final blast of the ship’s horn.

  The Destiny cruised away from the dock and John relaxed as the pain in his forehead waned. In the distance they saw the skyscrapers of lower Manhattan, debris lapping against the glass windows of offices now filled with the fishes of the sea. With the echoes of their horns reverberating between the abandoned buildings, water taxis puttered along canals between the Empire State Building and the One World Trade Center—some of the few buildings still open on the upper floors.

  An eerie quiet came over the deck as the ship edged away from civilization. The lyrical sendoff faded in the distance and the crowds on the dock meandered home. John glanced around at the earnest faces. Were these pioneers of a new world holding their collective breaths?

  Ginnie gasped and turned toward him, pointing with a shaking finger. A tear crept down her cheek and she whispered, “Dad, look at her.”

  John grabbed the rail to steady himself. He clenched his jaw against the tears welling in his eyes. Waves splashing into her lovely face, the Statue of Liberty stared serenely over the white caps of the bay, raising her torch to a drowned world.

  CHAPTER 3

  In a quiet sea, Destiny neared the Equator. The evening was warm and wisps of clouds ambled across the sky. Sitting at a small table on the deck, Lowry sipped a glass of smooth Chardonnay before dinner.

  The wind blew its salty scent over Lowry’s face and she leaned back in complete surrender to the respite of the voyage. Her life was so hectic that she rarely had a quiet moment. She gazed at the blue sky, breathed deep, and closed her eyes. She emptied her mind, listening to the waves lap against the ship’s hull.

  A tinkle of glassware drew her attention and she opened one eye. A bartender was setting up the bar on the deck and another crewmember pushed a cart of table settings to the terrace. The crew was throwing a special dinner party for the passengers to celebrate the crossing into the Southern Hemisphere. Crewmembers scurried to complete the final touches for the event.

  Lowry grimaced, thinking of the spectacle this maiden voyage to Antarctica had become. Earlier she had spotted the head of the UN giving an interview on the Land Rush. Celebrities and media types crawled all over the ship, closely shadowed by their entourages of fans and photographers. Everyone wanted to be a part of this historic event.

  With a sigh, Lowry closed her eyes again. And all I want is some quiet. After almost a decade, she was returning to Antarctica, and the voyage was an opportunity to sort out her thoughts. Years ago, her veil of innocence had burned away. Lowry was not the immature girl who had left the mining camp in Antarctica. But the protective armor she had developed these last years had grown heavy; perhaps this homecoming would be her chance for renewal.

  A shadow fell across her face. Through half-closed eyes, she saw a man looking at his phone searching for his virtual name card on the table.

  “I guess we’ll be dinner companions tonight.” He stuck out his hand. “John Barrous.”

  Just when I was relaxing. She sat up and forced a smile. “Lowry Walker.” At least he wasn�
��t a pain to look at. She gestured for him to join her.

  After an awkward moment of silence, she asked, “Are you a homesteader or, uh, tourist?” She realized she might have insulted him either way.

  He laughed. “My daughter and I are insane enough to be homesteaders.”

  With a playful grin, Lowry quipped, “Speak for yourself. She probably didn’t have a choice.”

  “She did have a choice, but I’m the crazy bastard.”

  “Is your daughter joining us for dinner?”

  “No, she’s at the ‘Teen Pizza and a Movie Night.’” He lifted the wine from the cooler, and Lowry nodded at his questioning look. He topped Lowry’s glass and then poured a glass for himself. He tilted his head and asked, “How about yourself?”

  She’d been asked the same question numerous times on the voyage, and the reactions had always been the same. No one believed she was off to homestead in Antarctica by herself. She shrugged. “I know, what’s a pretty girl like me doing in a place like this?”

  John raised an eyebrow. “I don’t remember saying pretty.”

  “Touché!” She chuckled. “I’m a lunatic homesteader too.”

  A waiter brought a large appetizer plate to the table. “Compliments of the chef.”

  Lowry scooted prosciutto and melon onto her plate. “My father came down after the opening of the mines. I grew up on Antarctica.” She gazed at John. “But I’m planning on staking my own claim.”

  “Really, you lived on Antarctica!” John spooned a couple of avocado slices onto his plate. “Your parents immigrated with the first expedition?”

  Lowry lowered her gaze. “My mother died when we were still in the States. After her death, my father decided that I needed to be with him.” She sliced the melon with a knife and continued with a thin smile. “When I was twelve, I moved to the bottom of the world.”

  John’s brows furrowed. “Oh, I’m very sorry.”

  Exhaling, she shrugged. “It’s been a long time, but I was close to my mother.”

  “It must have been a tough transition for you.”

  “It was lonely for me as a child.” She gazed at the open sea beyond the rail. “But I had time to think and the freedom to roam where I pleased.”

  He speared an asparagus. “You came back to civilization for college?”

  “Yes, undergrad and graduate school in geophysics.” Lowry absently drew her finger around the lip of the wine glass. For just having met him, she felt oddly comfortable with John, but discretion was the better part of valor. No confessions of the past—at least not before dinner. “After that, I worked in the States on a mapping project and traveled as much as I could.”

  With a broad smile, she raised an eyebrow. “I’m afraid I’ve become one of those irritating women who does what she pleases and damn the torpedoes.”

  The waiter brought the main course of Surf and Turf. He set their plates on the table. “Filet Mignon from the States and Antarctic lobster with clarified butter.” With a slight bow, he said, “Bon Appétit.”

  Lowry cut a piece from the Filet Mignon and popped the tender beef into her mouth. “Yum, this is wonderful.”

  John stabbed a section of lobster, and dunked it into the bowl of butter, and chewed with a sigh. “It’s been a long time since I had lobster.”

  She dabbed her mouth with her napkin, and with a slight tilt of her head, asked, “Why are you going to Antarctica?”

  John’s eye twitched. He stopped eating for a second, then finished chewing and swallowed the bite in his mouth. He put down his fork and brushed his mouth with his napkin. He cleared his throat, leaned back in his chair and stared over the railing at the ocean.

  Lowry drank some water, wondering if he was going to answer her.

  He glanced at her, opened his mouth for a second, and then closed it with a sigh. Then, with an odd grin, he tilted forward and whispered, “It was the drums.”

  She set her water glass on the table. She inclined her head, not sure she had heard him right, then repeated his words. “The drums?”

  A lopsided smile sprang onto his face. “The incessant drumming of society.” John drummed the table with his fingers. “Most people aren’t even aware of them. They just dance, moving faster and faster to keep up with the pace of the drums.” He said in a thin voice, “The drums were killing me.”

  With a slight nod of her head, she hummed in agreement. “Humans evolved in small groups. I don’t think we were meant to live together in huge numbers.” Figuring he needed to be aided and abetted, Lowry lifted the wine bottle and filled his wine glass.

  John sipped his wine, and then set it in front of him, and abstractedly tapped the side of the glass with his finger. He picked up his fork and stared at his plate. With a quick stroke, he impaled the last piece of lobster and stuck it into his mouth. Chewing slowly, he shook his head. “There is no greater isolation than to live with a million or more other humans, fighting turf battles you didn’t even know existed. I guess that’s part of the appeal of homesteading. It’ll be awhile before Antarctica gets to that point.”

  “Turf battles are a part of being human. A pack animal instinct, I’m afraid.”

  Shrugging, John replied, “Yes, but that assumes that you’re in a pack.”

  The waiter pushed the dessert cart to their table. Lowry chose the dark chocolate cake and John a dish of brandied pears. A silence drifted between them as they ate their sweets. The waiter returned, cleared the table and presented them with two brandies.

  John tasted the brandy and set it back in front of him. He glanced at her, then turned away, his eyes fixed on the horizon. He whispered as if talking to himself, “You think you see your life ahead of you. But life is stumbling through a cave with a lit match, threatening every second to burn out, never knowing whether there’s a solid step under foot . . . or a crevasse.”

  Lowry studied him. There was more to John than what she first thought—either he was a deep thinker or as he had termed it, “a crazy bastard.” Or maybe both.

  During her ten years mapping the geology and water sources on Antarctica, she’d had limited opportunity for relationships. She had worked in a small office, with an older geologist and a young female technician. A few dates with a professor or two from the university underwriting their work, but nothing ever stuck. Early in her young adult life she’d been burned by a bad marriage and become cautious with her heart.

  She caressed the stem of the brandy glass. John was definitely the most interesting man she’d met in years. But the jury was still out.

  Lowry lifted her glass in a toast and said flippantly, “To the million-dollar question: Antarctica—solid step or crevasse?”

  They clinked their glasses together. “To Antarctica.”

  CHAPTER 4

  John stared vacantly into the night, moving with the gentle sway of the vessel. At this late hour, the ship was quiet, and he was alone on the observation deck. He gazed up at the brilliant moon and inhaled the crisp air. He shook his head, but the thoughts plaguing him resurfaced. He hated to admit it, but he was thinking about Lowry.

  She was an attractive woman, one with strength in her face. Full lips with eyes the color of bronzed pewter and long, dark hair that reached past her waist. He pursed his lips. And her ass wasn’t bad either. He estimated she was in her mid-thirties. A dangerous age—young enough to be in her prime, old enough to be experienced.

  Earlier that evening, after they had finished their brandies, the captain had announced over the intercom, “Folks, we have a pod of sperm whales off the starboard side.”

  Like a child, Lowry’s eyes had lit up in excitement. Smiling, John had refilled their wine glasses and they strolled to the side of the ship. When the whales surfaced, Lowry shouted, “Thar she blows!” and laughed, her smile lighting up her face. The wind swept her hair from her face and her scent drifted over him.

  Now, in the darkness of the top deck, John gripped the rail. It wasn’t the time to get entangled in a relati
onship.

  He saw something white flutter in the wind. Shit. It was Lowry, coming across the deck. He clenched his jaw, stifling his first urge to acknowledge her, but his alter ego surrendered. “Lowry, over here!”

  She was startled at first, but then her smile shone in the pale light of the moon. “You can’t sleep either, I see.”

  Lowry walked across the deck toward him, while her dress clung to various parts of her body at the whim of the shifting breeze. He dug his nails into the palms of his hands, but he couldn’t think of anything but her, the nearby deck chair, and making love.

  She stood watching him, then with a grin, said, “Cat got your tongue?”

  Shrugging, he turned back toward the ocean. “Just thinking.”

  Lowry joined him on the rail. They gazed out over the lower deck and the smooth sea beyond.

  He bit his lip. In the middle of the night, he sometimes awakened to the reoccurring nightmare of Helen’s death, the grief wrenching his insides like a crowbar. And a heavy burden of guilt that he failed to protect his wife in a world gone mad.

  Now Lowry. Was it a betrayal of his wife’s memory and the mother of his child to be attracted to another woman so soon? Lowry probably assumed he was divorced, since he hadn’t brought himself to tell her about Helen during dinner. He chewed the inside of his mouth. He realized he had to reveal his heartache to a woman he didn’t know, but to whom he seemed to be irritatingly drawn.

  John brushed hair back and stared out at the ocean, shimmering in the moonlight. “You must be wondering where my wife is.”

  With a wag of her head, she replied, “Since you have a daughter, I assumed you had been married at some point.”