Midnight.

The sun was still up. It never went down, hovering just beyond a thick cover of cloud bringing neither warmth nor light, only a perpetual gloom of twilight stretched out over the sea and reflected in the ice, lending to the landscape a torpor of seduction and death.

Watch your step.

A figure wreathed in a woollen hat and gloves and a coat too thin for the climate appeared above the skyline of an icy ridge and surveyed the landscape. Below, tent flaps and tarpaulins whipped about audibly in the bitter wind that whipped through the camp.

Satisfied the coast was clear, the figure swung over the side and skidded down the slow incline of the ice, disappearing behind some stacking crates awaiting loading onto the morning sleds. Brushing himself off, the figure tip-toed over to the paddock where the ponies where kept, the noise of the wind keeping the sounds of his footfalls masked as he had hoped. The figure unpegged the gate and slipped inside — the beasts whinnied in alarm and distress. Placing his hand carefully aside the muzzle of one, the figure whispered softly, 'There, there, Christopher, it's only me. Shhhh.'

The pony ceased its distress, as if in conscious recognition of the man's soothing words. The man took the pony's reins and led him carefully at a trot out of the paddock.

Outside, the wind had died down. The man turned his head as he emerged, for he could hear voices from within the nearest tent. The voices of his former fellows — all of them subject to his deception — were discussing him.

' 'e got my 'and, 'e did.'

'That was Evans,' the figure thought. 'He tried to grab me yesterday; caught me trying to steal a sled.'

'I think me fingers is turnin' black!' came the plaintive cry.

'Poor devil, he'd likely not last this far from home,' thought the man with a touch of regret.

Then a new voice pierced the silent night, a coarse and angry voice. 'Oates must not escape alive!'

'Scott. He's been watching me since the start.' Captain Oates looked up at the looming peak of Mount Erubus and resolved to leave. Just then, Christopher, beast that he was, whinnied.

'That came from outside the tent!' the cry came from within.

'Curses! I'm discovered!'

Scott emerged. Oates caught sight of the sigil he bore around his neck glimmering in the half-light. 'You shan't escape this time!' Scott sneered.

'I can certainly try!' Oates cried, leaping onto Christopher and galloped out of the camp, making for the coast.

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Scott kept a record of his hunt for Oates in his journal, to be delivered to the Master on account of Oates' death.

We are reduced now to but four in number. I was the first to reach the poor man and found him on his knees, his clothing disarranged and a wild look in his eyes. Wilson, Bowers and I went back for a sledge. When we got him to the tent, he was quite unconscious and died quietly at 12.30am.

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'Sleep does not come to me,' Captain Oates thought sourly as he camped for the night in a bivouac and hauled in more sheets about him. Outside, he simultaneously heard Christopher whinny and the crunch of a footfall on snow. Whether by luck or instinct, Oates rolled from under the tent and avoided Evans's clumsy attempt to capture him.

'Evans, don't be a fool!' Oates said, standing up.

'The Boss says you know too much.'

'That I do,' Oates said, backing away towards Christopher.

'And that I gots ta find ya and take yers back to him.'

'You can try.'

'And that if you's puts up any funny stuff I'm obliged to 'it you.'

Oates pressed his back up against Christopher, the sides heaving with each breath. 'All right, I give in!' Oates said, raising his arms in the air...

"That's a good gentleman, I knew you'd see sen — arrgh!'

... and reached up into the saddle bags, closed his fist around the handle of a cast-iron frying pan and bought it vigorously down on top of Evans' head with a crack.

'owwwwwwwww! dat' 'urt!' Evans staggered backward, clutching his temple and brow.

Oates seized this moment of confusion and tore off Evans' heavy overcoat and shawl, leaving him bedraggled and exposed to the elements.

'I c-c-can't s-s-s-eee!' Evans complained, still holding his head.

Oates commandeered the dying man's belongings, left him in the frozen wasteland to die and rode Christopher ever further north.

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I will tell the others Evans fell into a crevasse — that I escaped uninjured but he incurred a concussion. To tell them that Oates has escaped would sap them of what little will remains them. One can only say 'God help us' and plod on our way, cold and very miserable, though outwardly cheerful.

Tuesday.

Finally cornered Oates. Here follows an account of his death. Oates took pride in thinking that his regiment would be pleased with the bold way in which he had met his death. He did not — he would not — give up hope to the very end. Fool.

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Scott descended from the sled behind a small ridge of ice and snow. The frozen corpse of the pony, which had been ridden to death, he'd encountered a mile back and the clumsy set of footprints weaving in this direction had led him to this ice shelf. Taking his weapon from the sled, Scott ascended.

'Hold fast, traitorous worm!'

Oates froze in his tracks and slowly turned around, his arms clutched to his chest to ward off the cold.

'I said that you would not escape.'

'And I believe I said I would try.'

'Then you have failed.'

'If you say so. I am far more sanguine on the matter.'

Scott brandished the harpoon he brought with him on the dogsled. 'You will die here.'

'So will you. We are too many miles distant from either the coast or your beloved cult. If I have succeeded in but one thing, it is that my flight has drawn you out this far from safety that you will die here along with me. I take some measure of pride in knowing that my work is complete and my life, though it ends, has been dedicated to supporting the forces of good in this world. As such, I was dispatched from London with these specific instructions to join you and your comrades and to report on your dealings here in this wasteland. Rest assured all of my knowledge has already been passed on. My regiment would be proud to know I died a hero's death.'

'Your confidence is ill-judged,' said Scott. 'I'm going to shoot you with this harpoon and the Cult will someday rule the Earth, though you will not live to see it.'

'That is indeed a blessing,' said Oates, bowing.

'Don't you see there's no hope?' asked Scott.

'There is always hope,' Oates replied. 'So shoot me if you will, in the back like all cowards must.' He turned to leave. 'I am going on and I may be some time.'

Scott let him walk a few paces before the rage returned and without hesitation he ran him through with the harpoon bolt — a shot which carried Oates forward several feet into a drift, where he shortly expired.

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Wednesday.

Seeking to return to Mount Erubus — an unholy blizzard has descended impeding our progress. We are short on supplies — our injuries make progress difficult.
Curse Oates and his prescience!
Got within 11 miles of our base Friday night but had to lie up all day yesterday in severe blizzard. Today forlorn hope.

Sunday, I think.
Blizzard as bad as ever — Wilson and Bowers unable to start — only one ration of food left — we must be near the end.

Date Unknown.
We have had continuous gale. Every day we have been ready to start for our home only 11 miles away, but outside the tent remains a whirling drift. We shall stick it out to the en, but we are getting weaker and the end cannot be far.
It seems a pity, but I do not think I can write more.

Final Entry.
For God's sake, look after our people!

~ R. Scott.

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