The Alex Crow Read Online Free PDF Page A

time I saw him, I thought he was a taxidermist’s model.
    On occasion, Alex would say awful things.
    From his dog crate, he said, “I want to die.”
    It was one of the strange side effects of Jake Burgess’s early work with de-extinction and chipping animals: The resurrected species generally was less than enthusiastic about their sequel-return to the here and now, and the chipped animals—animals that were surgically implanted with mechanical surveillance devices—often manifested extreme psychoses. Alex, our crow, did a bit of both.
    Alex stayed in the car while we walked toward the river that looked across to the state of New Jersey. Natalie left a plate of spaghetti inside the crate for Alex to eat.
    At the water’s edge, Father—his name was Jake Burgess—said, “This is what I wanted you to see, Ariel.”
    And Father waved his arm out across the water as though he had created everything before my eyes, to direct my attention to an enormous welcoming mannequin that rose from the sea.
    It was a strange thing to look at. Of course I had seen photographs of the thing before, but standing here at the edge of the continent, the thing struck me as being threatening—a type of warning. After all, the giant blue woman had sharp horns growing from her head and was holding a burning stick, the way you would hold fire to frighten ravenous predators away from you in the dark.
    If I owned a house and wanted to keep myself safe from robbers, I would have someone who looked exactly like the great welcoming mannequin watching my door.
    Max said, “I’m hungry.”
    Mother offered, “There’s spaghetti in the car.”
    â€œI don’t like spaghetti,” Max said.
    Max was a finicky eater ever since his summer at fat camp.
    Father took us to a sandwich place for lunch. Mother’s purse was stolen while we ate.
    She said, “Oh dear. Our car keys were in there.”
    Father’s car was towed to an impound lot, and we were stranded in New York City for two days.
    T HURSDAY , F EBR UARY 12, 1880—
A
LEX
C
ROW
    There is something morbidly fascinating in our predicament, wouldn’t you agree? To imagine the probability of our present situation was impossible. Think about it—we have created our own island, as it were; our own kingdom, phylum, and class of men who hurled themselves arrogantly against the world and became trapped like flies in pine sap. And yet with each short day and interminable night the men put themselves back out onto the ice, never flagging in their effort to control our fate.
    Our last contact with humanity came with our stocking of provisions and fuel at St. Lawrence Bay on 27 August, 1879. The
Alex Crow
became trapped in the ice pack only two weeks later. Captain Hansen maintained a strict and disciplined routine, taking constant measurements while the ice continued to drag our ship farther north toward his desired objective, the North Pole. In November, our expedition discovered a true island, which Captain Hansen claimed for the United States and named Alex Crow Island. It was with much bitterness that we watched that piece of land recede away from us and disappear from view as our other, icebound island of
Alex Crow
pulled us tediously onward.
    We forge ahead, if nothing else, simply for the sake of doing.
    The condition of Mr. Warren’s hand is worsening.
    It may be selfish of me (and this is very likely a confession of sorts—for is selfishness not the truest component of survival?), but having a patient to occupy my thoughts during the endless monotony aboard ship proves to be an acceptable diversion, unfortunate as it may be for the newspaperman.
    I am afraid that given our circumstances I may soon become overwhelmed by such selfish diversions. Our provisions cannot last. Eventually, we will all succumb to the ice. After the last hunt on the pack ice, the native drivers of the dog teams threatened to abandon us