The vultures were raggedy black shadows, and then they landed: their naked mauve necks and scalps—featherless because that’s so much easier when you’re putting your head into rotting carcases—extended as they stared shortsightedly at the brothers, as if wondering whether to wait until the two men died or if they should do something to hurry the process along.
Spider said, “What else was there in the deal?”
“Um?”
“Was there anything else? Did she give you something to seal the bargain? Sometimes things like this involve a trade.”
The vultures were edging forward, a step at a time, closing their ranks, tightening the circle. There were more black slashes in the sky, growing and wobbling toward them. Spider’s hand closed around Fat Charlie’s hand.
“Close your eyes.”
The cold hit Fat Charlie like a punch to the gut. He took a deep breath and felt like someone had iced his lungs. He coughed and coughed while the wind howled like a great beast.
He opened his eyes. “Can I ask where we are this time?”
“Antarctica,” said Spider. He zipped up the front of his leather jacket, and did not seem to mind the cold. “It’s a bit chilly, I’m afraid.”
“Don’t you have any middle gears? Straight from desert to ice field.”
“No birds here,” said Spider.
“Wouldn’t it be easier to just to go and sit inside a building that’s nice and bird-free? We could have lunch.”
Spider said, “Right. Now you’re complaining, just because it’s a little bit nippy.”
“It’s not a little bit nippy. It’s fifty below. And anyway, look.”
Fat Charlie pointed at the sky. A pale squiggle, like a miniature letter m chalked onto the sky, hung unmoving in the cold air. “Albatross,” he said.
“Frigate,” said Spider.
“Pardon?”
“It’s not an albatross. It’s a frigate. He probably hasn’t even noticed us.”
“Possibly not,” admitted Fat Charlie. “But they have.”
Spider turned, and said something else that sounded a lot like “frigate.” There may not have been a million penguins waddling and slipping and belly-sliding toward the brothers, but it certainly looked that way. As a general rule, the only things properly terrified by the approach of penguins tend to be small fish, but when the numbers get large enough…
Fat Charlie reached out without being told, and he held Spider’s hand. He closed his eyes.
When he opened them, he was somewhere warmer, although opening his eyes made no difference to what he saw. Everything was the color of night. “Have I gone blind?”
“We’re in a disused coal mine,” said Spider. “I saw a photo of this place in a magazine a few years back. Unless there are flocks of sightless finches who have evolved to take advantage of the darkness and eat coal chips, we’re probably fine.”
“That’s a joke, isn’t it? About the sightless finches?”
“More or less.”
Fat Charlie sighed, and the sigh echoed through the underground cavern. “You know,” he said, “If you’d just gone away, if you’d left my house when I asked you to, we’d not be in this mess.”
“That isn’t very helpful.”
“It wasn’t meant to be. God knows how I’m going to explain all this to Rosie.”
Spider cleared his throat. “I don’t think you’ll have to worry about that.”
“Because…?”