provided to our little society by the formidable ship. Now we are stripped of nearly everything and left to make some way, which I fear is only a lengthening of our journey toward doom. I cannot believe any of us will survive now.
After a full day’s rest on the ice pack, Captain Hansen and Mr Piedmont calculated a direction for our attempt at reaching the New Siberian archipelago. The journey has been incredibly arduous—the men work without rest, dragging the burdensome boats over impossible crags of relentless ice. Two days ago, on Sunday, it seemed as though our party had only managed to cover a few hundred feet for the entire day’s labor.
The cost on the men has been significant. Yesterday morning, Mr K. Holme, a naval seaman, succumbed to the cold, and today our expedition’s ice pilot, Edgar Baylor, passed away shortly after dawn.
Our crew has lost all hope of rescue. I am afraid that if there was any reasonable alternative to Captain Hansen’s strategy to reach New Siberia, there certainly would be mutiny among the survivors.
Sunday, February 22, 1880 — Alex Crow
A most remarkable occurrence—we reached open water today!
Could it be that those of us who have endured this ordeal will survive? Mr Murdoch during this past week has taken to uttering a repetitive chant of sorts—“Why bother?” he asks again and again. It does give one pause, at times, to consider the point of it all. Why is the will to survive—in spite of the horrors of one’s condition—so profound?
Why bother?
It was entirely unbelievable. When we saw the dark breach ahead of us, Captain Hansen and Mr Piedmont presumed we were approaching Kotelny Island, and that what we saw must have been the rocky shore. This proved to be incorrect as we neared the edge of the ice pack.
So it was with renewed spirit the men bothered to lower the heavy longboats into the sea. The dog teams, however, were forced to turn back in the direction from which they’d come, since there was not adequate room on our boats for everything. I sensed some great relief among the native handlers when they were finally free to leave our ill-fated expedition.
I am in Captain Hansen’s boat. I believe that his leadership has kept the majority of the expedition alive during the difficult journey across the ice, and I have faith that he will bring us safely to the shores of the northern islands where we will find shelter and warmth among the natives there.
This is my hope.
Tuesday, February 24, 1880 — Alex Crow
We lost sight of our sister boat in a vicious storm last night.
One more of the seamen—Richard Alan Culp—died aboard our vessel this afternoon. Once again, our diminished party feels alone and without hope. It is all I can do to tend to their aching bodies, and attempt to inspire some sense of confidence and optimism. I’m afraid this is entirely useless, though. The least I can do is to ignore the constant questioning of Murdoch.
This afternoon, Mr Warren and I huddled beneath the gunwale in a small covered space we’d made with one of the expedition’s tents. I’d asked him if he was still dictating the narrative of our expedition to Murdoch. He insisted that readers would want to have the full account of the loss of the Alex Crow, even if none of us survived.
“Particularly if none of us survive,” I said.
To this, Mr Warren replied, “I cannot think any of us will ever see his home again. Why would anyone think such a thing, given our current state?”
I do not believe we can last one more night in this boat. I have found myself hoping—and that is an odd word to use—that I will not wake to find myself the sole living inhabitant of the boat, that if I am not to make it home again, as Mr Murdoch predicts, that I die before too many others are dropped into the sea.
I realize that death and survival are both extremes of selfishness.
Just before nightfall, from beneath our covering, Mr Warren and I heard Murdoch shouting that land had been sighted, but when we came out to look, it was already too dark to see anything more than an arm’s reach from the boat’s hull.
Imagine our disappointment and dread at Captain Hansen’s cautious decision to forego any attempt at landing until daylight tomorrow.
“Who knows where we will be at daylight tomorrow?” Murdoch wondered.
MARSHMALLOW JEFF AND THE BOYS FROM EARTH
“I’m going to tell you guys something, but you are not allowed to ever repeat it to anyone else as long as you live.” Larry pointed his index finger like a spear to emphasize the words anyone else.
“That sounds perfectly reasonable, Larry,” Cobie Petersen said.
I wondered about Cobie Petersen. Like Max and me, Cobie Petersen just didn’t belong here; he didn’t fit in with the other kids at Camp Merrie-Seymour for Boys. At that moment, after his smart-ass comment went unnoticed by Larry, I almost wanted to talk to him, to ask him why his parents sent him here, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it.
Robin Sexton, on the other hand, was a different story. Of the four boys of Jupiter, he was clearly in the right place.
I watched Robin Sexton. His face was blank, and he stared into the fire with frozen eyes. His thumbs and fingers wriggled over an invisible controller. I was pretty sure he was hallucinating clearing a difficult level in some violent video game.
“I’m going to tell you what happened to Earth,” Larry said.
“Before or after the asteroid that killed all the dinosaurs?” Cobie asked.
Robin Sexton rocked back and forth.
“No,” Larry said. “I’m going to tell you about the Earth cabin, and why we don’t use it anymore at Camp Merrie-Seymour for Boys. And you fuckheads can’t say anything to anyone, because this is a true story. But you have to tell a scary story, too. It’s what normal kids do at camp, at night.”
Max and Cobie looked warily at Robin Sexton. Then they both promised they would tell a story.
Larry said, “What about you, Marcel Marceau? You in for telling us a story?”
I shook my head.
“You could just act it out,” Larry said.
I was acting it out. I shook my head again.
“Whatever,” Larry said. “Well, two of you is better than none. We already know Earbud’s scary story, about the time he got caught jerking off at camp. So here goes: I started working here as a counselor when I was seventeen—just out of high school. My dad wanted to make me join the army, or he said he was going to throw me out of the house when I turned eighteen, which was going to be in a month and a half, so I headed east and ended up answering an ad for a live-in counselor. In those days, there were three alternating programs here: a camp for fat kids; this one you guys are in—the camp for fuckheads like you who don’t have any real-life friends; and a camp for kids with psychological disorders, you know—neurotics, compulsive liars, narcissists, kleptomaniacs, sadists, and arsonists.”
It sounded like the future of America to me.
“Lucky thing I missed out on the Camp Merrie-Seymour for Psychopathic Boys cycle that summer,” Max said.
“Every day, you’d wake up and it was like Custer’s Last Stand,” Larry said.
“That’s slang for jerking off,” Max pointed out.
“It is?” Larry said,
Max nodded his assurance.
Larry went on, “The Earth cabin’s counselor was a guy named Marshmallow Jeff. The kids called him that because he was