The Terror

by Dan Simmons

“To do what?” demanded Peglar. “Just to wait to die?” “To wait in comfort, Harry.” “To die?” said Peglar, realizing that he was almost shouting. “Who the fuck wants to wait in comfort to die? At least if we get the boats to the coast — any of the boats — some of us may have a chance. There might be open water east to Boothia. We may be able to force passage up the river. At least some of us. And those who make it will at least be able to tell the rest of our loved ones what happened to us, where we were buried, and that we were thinking of them in the end.” “You are my loved one, Harry,” said Bridgens. “The only man or woman or child left in the world who cares whether I am alive or dead, much less what I may have thought before I fell or where my bones will lie.” Peglar, still angry, felt his heart pounding inside his chest. “You’re going to outlive me, John.” “Oh, at my age, and with my infirmities and proclivities toward illness, I hardly think …” “You’re going to outlive me, John,” grated Peglar. He shocked himself by the intensity of his voice and Bridgens blinked and fell silent.