They had no choice but wait it out until rescue came, from whatever source, and exist the best way they could until then.
The sleet had slackened, and their vision increased to nearly fifty meters. Overhead, the sun appeared as a dim orange ball with a halo of varied colors like a round prism. They rounded the spur of rock encompassing the bay and curved back to the shoreline containing the penguin rookery. Maeve did not relish the thought of killing penguins even as a means to stay alive. They were such tame and friendly creatures.
The Pygoscelis adeliae or Adelie penguins are one of seventeen true species. They sport a black-feathered back and hooded head and a white breast and stare through beady little eyes. As suggested by fossils found on Seymour Island, their ancestors evolved more than forty million years ago and were as tall as a man. Attracted to their almost human social behavior patterns, Maeve had spent one whole summer observing and studying a rookery and had begun a love affair with this most delightful of birds. In contrast with the larger emperor penguin, the Adelies can move as fast as five kilometers an hour and often faster when tobogganing over the ice on their chests. Give them a funny little derby and a cane to swing, she often mused, and they could have waddled along in a perfect imitation of Charlie Chaplin.
"I believe the bloody sleet is slackening," said one of the men. He was wearing a leather cap and puffing on a cigarette.
"About damned time," muttered the other, who had used a scarf to wrap his head, turban-style. "I feel like a damp rag."
They could clearly see out to sea for nearly half a kilometer. The once glasslike sea was now a turmoil of whitecaps agitated by the wind. Maeve turned her attention to the rookery. As far as she could see was a carpet of penguins, over fifty thousand of them. As she and the Hussies walked closer, it struck her as odd that none of the birds stood on their little feet, tail feathers extended as props to keep from falling over backward. They were, scattered all about, most lying on their backs as if they had toppled over.
"Something's not right," she said. "None are standing."
"No fools those birds." said the man in the turban. "They know better than to stand against blowing sleet."
Maeve ran to the edge of the rookery and looked down at the penguins lying on the outer edge. She was struck by the absence of sound. None moved nor showed interest in her approach. She knelt and studied one. It lay limp on the ground, eyes staring sightless at her. Her face was stricken as she looked at the thousands of birds that showed no sign of life. She stared at two leopard seals, the natural predator of penguins, whose bodies washed back and forth in the small surge along the rock-strewn beach.
"They're all dead," she muttered in shock.
"Bloody hell," gasped the man in the leather cap. "She's right. Not one of the little buggers is breathin'."
This can't be real. Maeve thought wildly. She stood absolutely still She could not see what caused the mass death, but she could feel it. The crazy idea that every living thing in the rest of the world had died from the mysterious malady suddenly struck her mind. Is it possible we're the only ones left alive on a dead planet? she wondered in near panic.
The man with the scarf-turban wrapped around his head bent over and picked up a penguin. "Saves us the trouble of having to slaughter them."
"Leave them be!" Maeve shouted at him.
"Why?" the man replied indignantly. "We've all got to eat."
"We don't know what killed them. They might have died from some sort of plague."
The man in the leather cap nodded. "The little lady knows what she's talking about. Whatever disease killed these birds could do us in too. I don't know about you, but I don't aim to be responsible for my wife's death."
"But it wasn't a disease," the other man argued. "Not what killed those little old ladies and that sailor lad. It was more like some fluke of nature."
Maeve stood her ground. "I refuse to gamble with lives. Polar Queen will be back. We haven't been forgotten."
"If the captain is trying to give us a good scare, he's doing a damned fine job of it."
"He must have a good reason for not returning."
"Good reason or not, your company better be heavily insured because they're going to get their ears sued off when we get back to civilization."
Maeve was in no mood to argue. She turned her back on the killing ground and set off toward the storage cavern. The two men followed, their eyes searching over a menacing sea for something that wasn't there.
To wake up after three days in a caw on a barren island in the middle of a polar storm and know you are responsible for three deaths and the lives of nine men and eleven women is not an enjoyable experience. Without any sign of the hoped-for arrival of the Polar Queen, the once cheerful excursion that came ashore to experience the wondrous isolation of the Antarctic had become a nightmare of abandonment and despair for the vacation travelers. And to add to Maeve's desperation, the batteries of her portable communicator had finally gone dead.