Chapter 11: The Mountain’s Shadow

We got back on the snowmobile, and Danny gunned it toward the mountain.

The engine roared, echoing across the silent wastes. We became two tiny dots racing toward the impossible.

I kept trying to contact Resolute, but still got no response.

The radio battery died with a pathetic beep. I stuffed it in my pocket, trying not to think about what that meant.

The closer we got, the faster my heart pounded.

Every mile, the mountain grew, blotting out the sky. My pulse matched the snowmobile’s engine.

It was a conical mountain, with a sharp, pointed summit.

Up close, the slopes looked perfectly smooth, glinting under the eternal sun.

By my estimate, it was over thirty-three thousand feet high, with a base at least a mile across.

It towered above everything, dwarfing the horizon. Everest would have looked small beside it.

Two hours passed in a blur. Just as the fuel was about to run out, we reached the edge of the cone mountain.

I could hear the engine coughing, the last dregs of gasoline burning away.

Less than a mile remained.

It was so close, but the last stretch looked almost impossible.

But that last mile was like a bottomless gulf:

The ground dropped away, split by jagged chasms. It looked like the set of a disaster movie—only worse.

Abysses split the three-mile-thick ice sheet.

I peered into the darkness, feeling the heat rising up from below.

Looking down, I could faintly see lava flowing in the depths.

The glow was faint, otherworldly. I could smell sulfur, harsh and metallic.

Beyond the fire and ice loomed the dark wall of the cone mountain.

It felt like standing at the gates of hell—one step forward, and you’d vanish forever.

I took out my binoculars. The wall looked smooth, with no soil or snow cover—I couldn’t tell what kind of rock it was.

The surface reflected light in strange patterns, like obsidian but darker, somehow.

Danny, ever bold, took out ropes and ice screws, trying to find a way closer.

He tossed one end to me, his hands shaking just a little. I clipped it to my harness, swallowing hard.

We shouldered our survey gear, climbing up and down like two ants.

Each step was nerve-wracking. The abyss seemed to shift and pulse below us.

When tired, we rested on a ledge.

Our breaths fogged in the air, mixing with the acrid fumes rising from the cracks.

When hungry, we shared our last bits of food.

Half a granola bar, the last of the water. It tasted like victory.

Three hours later, we finally stood at the foot of the cone mountain.

We collapsed onto the ice, chests heaving. The mountain loomed above us, impossibly tall, impossibly close.

The angle between the mountain and the ground was at least 80 degrees—almost a sheer cliff, impossible to climb.

I stared straight up, neck aching. It felt like looking up at a skyscraper stacked on another skyscraper, and then another.

I checked the time. It was already midnight.

But the sun was still blazing. I blinked, trying to convince myself it wasn’t a dream.

But it was polar day in Antarctica—the sun never set.

No shadows, just endless, relentless light. It felt both comforting and menacing.

Exhausted, we pressed on by sheer willpower.

Every muscle screamed for rest, but we kept going—science, curiosity, and stubbornness driving us forward.

Because of the quake and magma, the temperature at the pole was only minus four Fahrenheit.

Not warm, exactly, but survivable—at least for now.

Danny took off his glove and pressed his bare hand to the dark mountain wall.

I watched, half-expecting the cold to bite him. Instead, he frowned, puzzled.

The next moment, Danny asked a question that made my skin crawl:

"Mark, is this cone mountain really a mountain?"

His voice was hushed, almost reverent. For the first time, he looked truly scared.