This is a piece of “flash fiction” (something fun and different and under 1000 words) prompted by a challenge issued by Chuck Wendig in a post over here. With apologies to the memory of the real Ernest Shackleton, a man who was, by all accounts, an intrepid and heroic soul who never would have knowingly endangered either man or beast. Well, apart from repeatedly dragging them off in search of the South Pole. There was that.
It was when his first mate ran out onto the frozen Antarctic tundra in just his socks and shirtsleeves that Shackleton knew he had a problem. He listened to Jesper make his report, a tightening fist of dread in his gut.
“I swear, sir, we were just tossing the broads, just me, Rogers and Nelson.”
“Tossing the broads.”
“Yessir. A friendly game of, er, whist. And then all sudden-like, Rogers jumped up and started talking crazy. Said he felt invincible. Powerful. That he wouldn’t ever die. Afore we could stop him, he kicked off his boots and tore off his sweater and ran outside. Me and Nelson, by the time we got all suited up… well, Rogers was done for.”
“What else were you doing?”
“What else?” The man wouldn’t meet his gaze.
“What were you drinking, Jesper?” Shackleton’s voice was heavy with resignation. And guilt.
“Weeell now, we might have had a wee dram of whisky. Just for warmth.”
Bloody hell. He’d suspected the whisky was contaminated but hadn’t been sure. He’d kept it locked up and out of sight. “Rogers had the key to the storage locker,” he said softly. Shackleton had given it to him earlier when they’d inventoried the supplies.
“Yessir. That he did. ”
“Thank you, Jesper. Go back to quarters. And keep quiet about this, you hear?”
“Aye, sir.”
Shackleton stood up and paced the small hut. Why Rogers and not the others? Did it matter? He should have dumped the damn stuff, but there was nowhere in this bleak white wasteland to pour out five crates of Scotch whisky. Not without causing a mutiny.
Damn that man, Claremont, and his crackpot theories. Shackleton had never understood how his father, a reputable doctor, had been so completely taken in by that miserable charlatan and his “fortifying experiments.” Claremont had approached him with another offer of conditional funding but he’d told the man never again. Not after what happened on the last trip. Twenty-two dogs, good dogs, and all of them dead. Tainted food, they said. Tainted by crazed dreams of immortality.
Claremont had gifted him with the whisky. A gesture of goodwill. He’d accepted it and now Rogers was dead.
Swearing viciously, Shackleton vowed to bury the swill in the icepack, where no man could recover it.
#
A CENTURY LATER
Efforts to recover Shackleton’s Scotch “scotched” by thieves
WELLINGTON, New Zealand (IP)- A spokesman for distillery group Whyte & Mackay confirms thieves have disrupted efforts to recover a portion of five crates of Scotch whisky thought to have been abandoned in 1909 by Ernest Shackleton’s Antarctic expedition. Speaking on condition of anonymity, the source said the theft was “devastating” and “bloody brazen.”
Bella leaned against the splintered doorframe of the rented room, feigning nonchalance as she watched the stocky man make his slow sweaty way up the narrow staircase, a rough hewn crate balanced on one shoulder. So this was her contact. McGinty. She remembered him from Algiers. She straightened and took a step back as he wedged his way into the room.
He lowered the crate to the dusty floor and turned to smile at her as she closed the door. “Bella,” he said, huffing a bit, “always a pleasure. You got my money?”
She smiled easily but it was harder to keep the loathing out of her voice. “You’ve come up in the world, McGinty. Last I heard you were pimping out little boys.”
For a short man, he had long arms. His meaty hand smashed into the side of her face, sending her into a staggering spin. He’d gripped the back of her neck before she could recover. She’d forgotten how fast he was.
“And I heard you like it rough, girly. You wanna play before we deal?”
She felt him grind his erection into her backside and fought the urge to gag. “I’m always up for a good game. Who’s been talking about me?”
He turned her to face him. “Your old pal Chase is in town. Let’s play 20 questions about what he’s doing here.”
This time when he backhanded her, she made sure she landed on the narrow bed. And waited until he was fully on top of her before she pulled the knife from under the mattress and slit his throat.
#
She’d changed clothes and wiped most of the blood off when she sensed she wasn’t alone. The man was a damned ghost.
“Hello, Bella.”
“Bastard. You told him I like it rough? How the hell would you know?”
“No, I told him if he planned to fuck you before he crossed you, he might want to tie you up first.” Chase glanced at the bloody heap on the bed. “Never was one to heed a warning.”
“I thought you’d retired from company work.”
“Old dogs never retire, darlin’, you know that. We just find new masters. This is private.”
She laughed. “You planning to shoot me? Killing me is the only way you’ll get that whisky.”
“Tempting. But I’d hate to waste a bullet.”
“Waste?”
“McGinty already killed you.”
The hell he did. She turned and glared at the dead man. “What did he do to me?”
“He’s been spending some time down in South America. ‘Going native,’ he called it. You should keep better track of your enemies.”
She rubbed a trembling hand over her cheek where McGinty had hit her and felt the sting of a fresh scratch. “Poison?”
“My guess is spider venom. It was all he could talk about, down at the pub. That and anti-venom.”
“There’s an antidote?”
“I wasn’t paying that much attention. Who’s funding you?”
“Go to hell.”
“He said it was slow-acting, you’ve got a few minutes. Give me a name.”
“Immortality.”
“Ironic choice.”
“That whisky is useless to you. I’m the only person with the knowledge to develop Claremont’s formula.”
“Yeah, we know.” He picked up the crate. Hesitated. “You want that bullet before I go?”
“You’re a cold bastard, you know that, Chase?”
“So I’ve been told.”
KD James 
Yowza! That kept me jumping. Didn’t see the twists coming at all.
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Wow! What happened??? I’m hanging here…
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Daaaaaaangg….
And that was flash, just off the seat of your pants??
Wow.
I bow to you.
What’s next? I want more.
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Awesome! And now I can’t stop thinking “Bella, you in danger, girl.”
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Wait, this is a serial, right? What happens next?
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Thanks, guys! Glad you enjoyed it. It was fun to write. I wrote the first sentence a couple days ago when Chuck issued the challenge but wasn’t sure I’d write a story. Then I read the Wikipedia entry about Shackleton and he was an interesting guy — his father really was a doctor, all 22 sled dogs did die from tainted food on his first trek and funding was always difficult to obtain. You know me, I can find a conspiracy anywhere. So last night I wrote the story.
And sorry, but I don’t think there will be more. Got a book to finish.
Although… if this were a longer piece, I suspect we’d find out pretty quickly that Chase lied about the spider venom. It was either that or kill Bella to recover the whisky. And he’s not that cold. Probably.
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Liked it! I have some of these…but none about Shackleton’s whiskey…they ARE fun (unless someone is MAKING u write one!)
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hi there, quality weblog, and an excellent understand! just one for my bookmarks.
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I refuse to believe that Chase would just let Bella die. A cold bastard he might be; but just because he plays by his own rules doesn’t mean he’s amoral.
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Really enjoyed that, KD.
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LOL! McB, you can’t possibly know that from a few lines of dialog and no background on this character! Unless… it’s because you know me and know I wouldn’t do that. Honestly, I hadn’t thought much beyond this one scene to what happens next. And obviously, I have NO IDEA how to write a short story, since they’re supposed to have something called an ending and not leave people hanging.
OK, for McB: Chase totally LIED about the spider venom. He made it up and McGinty never even mentioned it. Probably they weren’t even at the pub together. He made it up because he knew Bella would put up a fight and try to stop him from taking the whisky. He didn’t want to have to kill her and he has enough respect for her reputation to know it might have come to that. Bella is a tough cookie. So he made her think she was going to die a slow painful death and that McGinty might have the antidote on his person. By the time she realizes he lied, he’ll have a pretty big head start. But she now has a more urgent problem than him taking the whisky. She can go after Chase later. She can’t come back from the dead. Yet.
Feel better now?
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Yes, thank you. And I did too know that from a few lines of dialog. Chase clearly had some respect for Bella, to whatever extent he was capable of it. He might do dirty tricks, but he would also know that Bella could hold her own and wouldnt expect less. So she’ll go after him with a gleam in her eye and next time the tables will be turned. They’d kill each other if they had to work together, but as foes there’s the respect for an adversary who is his/her equal.
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You’re welcome. 8)
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Wow! Now that is a nice piece of “Flash Fiction”.
Hmmmm.
Anyone for a glass of this Scotch I just found?
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Louis! Wow, you read my story. Thank you. And if it meant I could raise a glass with you, I’d even manage to toss back a couple fingers of Scotch. Nasty stuff, no matter where it originates.
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a tightening fist of dread in his gut. <— great line!
What a fabulous piece. Throughly enjoyed it, and believe you could spin this into something longer such as a short story.
Thank you for sharing.
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Thanks, SD! I honestly don’t think I’ll be taking this any further, though. Every time I think about this so-called story, all I see are huge gaps in plot and logic. It makes me cringe. But that’s not to say that these particular characters (who have now become sort of “real” in my head; I kind of like these two) won’t show up in a different scenario. Someday.
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I like the “before” and “after” form and IP blurb in the middle.
“huge gaps in plot and logic”- well I’d say your story has the logic of a mathematical equation compared to mine. lol I’ve decided my own story is in the “surrealism” genre.
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Hey, CM, thanks for coming over to read it! I liked your piece too — debating now whether to call it surrealism or shape-shifter paranormal. [grin] Either way, this was a fun exercise, wasn’t it? The different variations people came up with was really interesting.
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Pingback: It Goes Down Smooth: The Shackleton’s Scotch Flash Fiction Results
You’re welcome. And thank you for your “surrealism or shape-shifter paranormal” feedback on my own story. 🙂
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