White Peak

by Ronan Frost

  He led Rye from the main highway to a much smaller road and eventually a track that was in the process of turning back into mud.

  The SUV had no problems negotiating the deteriorating surface, but the truck, with the extra weight and weaker engine, labored. The rain showed no sign of easing off.

  “We’re supposed to go out in that?”

  “And walk for a week,” Rye said cheerfully. “But worry not, it’ll be snow soon enough.”

  “You’re a strange man, do you know that?”

  “I’ve been called worse,” he said, following Vic toward base camp.

  He didn’t know what he expected, to be fair. But the reality was they followed the muddy road as far as they physically could, and then they had no choice but to go on by foot. They pulled off the track and parked up.

  Vic clambered out of the SUV and ran over to them.

  It would have been pointless to try and keep himself dry, so he didn’t bother.

  He rapped on the passenger window and gestured for the thief to wind it down. “We can’t leave the cars here, they’re a signpost for anyone following us.”

  “What do you propose?” Rye asked the big man.

  “About two miles down the road there was an outcropping of rock, and beside it a bamboo copse.”

  “I saw it.”

  “I’m thinking we come off the road there and try and hide the vehicles.”

  “And walk two more miles in the biblical flood,” Carter moaned.

  The extra distance aside, it was smart thinking. They didn’t want to simply abandon the vehicles by the roadside, as they were their only way out of here, but it wasn’t like they could just park up outside some quasi-official trek company’s yurt and join a tour, either. So, it was a compromise, extra walking for an improved likelihood their followers wouldn’t immediately see where they’d left the cars and neutralize them. A few slashed tires out here would be the end of any hopes of escape should things go south. It didn’t need to be any more spectacular than that.

  Rye reversed, struggling to put the flatbed truck through even the most basic three-point turn, and headed back the way they’d come. It took the best part of ten minutes to reach the bamboo copse, though looking at it properly now—and knowing their purpose—it was hard to imagine it being a good hiding place. The cover it offered was thin at best. But it wasn’t like they had a lot of choices, so he took the truck off the road, aiming for the channel between the rocky outcrop and the first shoots of the climbing trees, and kept going as far as he could with the wheels churning up mud and spinning, struggling for purchase.

  “I need you to get out and push,” he said, looking back over his shoulder toward the road. “We’re getting no traction.”

  Carter nodded and climbed down into the rain.

  He ran around to the back of the flatbed, slipping and sliding in the thick mud, and put his shoulder to the tailgate, banging twice on the car to tell Rye to ease down on the gas. The truck lurched forward a few inches, the wheels spraying mud, then rocked back into the deep grooves they’d cut.

  He saw the thief rooting around in their gear and realized he was looking for something to brace the wheels long enough to get them out of the deep grooves. Carter settled for two of the wooden siding panels, which he worked free, and laid down in front of the wheels to give them something to bite onto as the truck lurched forward. This time when he pushed, Rye managed to get them moving again. Not far, but hopefully far enough.

  Carter rooted around in the gear some more, retrieving one of the ice axes, which he used like a machete, to hack down some of the thinner bamboo to weave a makeshift screen to camouflage the truck. By the time he’d finished, Vic had parked up and Iskra had set about doing the same to hide the SUV.

  It took them the best part of thirty minutes to weave halfway decent screens, and in that short time Rye noticed the effect on his breathing. He was a fit man. Thirty minutes of exertion wouldn’t normally leave him breathless, tight-chested, and lightheaded, but this did. It was the first real test of the altitude, and it felt like he was failing it.

  They changed into a top layer of waterproofs inside the vehicles. There was no room for modesty. Rye didn’t bother trying to turn his back as he stripped down and layered his clothing for the trek, stacking several thinner fabrics to allow heat to trap within the layers, and pulled the waterproofs on. He laced his hiking boots and climbed down out of the truck. He noticed Iskra Zima watching him.

  They divided the kit up, each person responsible for their own gear and rations, with the group gear, like the camping gas burner that would act as their stove and the two tent frames, divided evenly between them.

  An hour after they’d pulled off the road, they were ready to move out. The journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step. The walk facing them was considerably shorter, but with the rain lashing down, and the promise that as they climbed it would become a blizzard made it no less daunting. There was a reason this trek to the valleys around the White Peaks of the Seven Brothers was considered the most challenging in the world. The conditions were extreme, and the threats facing them along the way nothing short of deadly.

  “Ready?” Vic asked.

  Rye did a mental run-through of the equipment checklists to make sure he had everything. “Ready.”

  “Ready,” the others echoed.

  With that, they took that first step.

  FIFTY-SEVEN

  By midday on the second day the rain still hadn’t stopped.

  By the time they made camp on the third night, Rye was seriously beginning to doubt it ever would. Three solid days through the driving rain had reduced the world to two absolutes: rain and pain. Those three days had seen them climb over three thousand feet in altitude, reaching heights of thirteen thousand feet.

  The third day was the worst, as the saturation of oxygen in their blood thinned out to the point Rye felt his breathing adapt, coming in slower, deeper breaths as his heartbeat quickened trying to absorb more and more oxygen with every breath he took.

  It was a fatal trap.

  The first stages in altitude sickness, as his body put all of its natural reserves into blood function.

  Ideally, they would have had four days at this altitude before pushing on, to give their bodies time to adjust and adapt through long-term acclimatization. Rye knew the science behind what was happening to him: his body was slowing down nonessential functions, suppressing the digestive system among other things, to dedicate its energy on cardiopulmonary reserves until full hematological adaptation was achieved with the red blood count plateauing.

  He did the math in his head. At this elevation it would take forty-six days for that to happen.

  Forty-six days.

  That wasn’t going to happen. Not in any way, shape, or form.

  He tried to convince himself it was the dehydrated trail rations that were tying his stomach up, but that was explained by the science, too. And over the next four days it was only going to get worse as they reached extreme altitudes nearing the death zone.

  That twenty-six-thousand-foot threshold was higher than anything around them, but only just.

  The summit of Gangkhar Puensum rose ahead of them, the entire mountain range forming an impassable wall across the horizon.

  He was cold. He was wet. And he was miserable. But he was stubborn, and he was determined. They’d walked fifty miles from base camp in three days, through the worst nature had to throw at them.

  Or so he thought.

  As he sat on a boulder staring up at the slice of moon above the mountain, he felt the first snow against his face and knew it was about to become worse.

  The altitude made sleeping difficult, too, which in turn made them tired, so each mile walked was harder than the mile before.

  Carter emerged from the two-man tent they shared, to join him under the canvas awning.

  “I’ve been checking out the map. That fissure Byrne found is maybe a day, day and a half from here,
and the fossil graveyard looks to be half a day closer. That’s the good news.”

  “I love the way you suggest a day and a half climbing into the glacial zone is the good stuff. Can’t wait to hear what you imagine is bad.”

  “There’s a choke point between where we are and where we want to be that, unless I’m mistaken, is little more than a rope bridge over a very fucking scary chasm.”

  “And we’ve got to cross it.”

  “How’s your head for heights?”

  “A lot better than yours, I’m guessing,” Rye said.

  “Not being funny, but everything hurts.”

  “And like Bon Jovi said, we’re only halfway there.”

  “You do know that when Jon Bon sings he’s being optimistic, right?”

  “I just focus on the living on a prayer bit, that’s my day-to-day these days.” Rye grinned at the thief.

  “I know I’ve said it before, but you are a very strange man, Rye McKenna.”

  “Can I ask you something?”

  “Sure.”

  “Why did Rask pick you?”

  “You mean, aside from my good looks and devil-may-care charm?”

  “Yeah, aside from that. Why did you deserve a second chance? Why you and not some other thief?”

  “That’s a big complicated question, Rye. The short answer is luck. I didn’t do anything special, or particularly worthy of notice. I’m a Brooklyn boy. I grew up with a group of friends who looked a lot like me, if you go in for stereotypes. The narcos did. There wasn’t a crime that happened in our borough that they couldn’t pin on one of us. Guilt didn’t matter, and truth was relative. Basically, my takeaway was that even if we hadn’t done this particular crime we were good for something else, so it just saved everyone a lot of time to lock us up before we could. You don’t really need me to tell you what it’s like being a young black kid growing up in gang territory. You’re either some low-level grunt working the street corners to peddle their dope to broken people looking for an escape from the projects or you’re one of the broken people trying to escape. I did things I’m not proud of. You’re not looking at some gentleman thief, Rye. I’ve done some seriously bad shit in my life, and ever since Rask found me in Rikers I’ve been paying back for my luck.”

  “What did you do?”

  “You don’t need to worry. I’ve been straight for two years now.”

  “I’m not worried, and that’s not what I asked,” he said.

  “I know, but it’s the only answer you are getting. Maybe when we know each other better. But, honestly, all I want to do is forget about that other life. It’s not who I am.”

  “Fair enough,” he nodded.

  They sat a while in silence, warming themselves on the last embers of the campfire. Rye kept his eyes turned to the wall of mountains waiting for them. He fancied he could hear the low whistle of the wind through the peaks, even from here, and wondered if this was the cause of the supposedly ghostly calls reported by climbers.

  He caught a flicker of movement across his eyes: a shadow moving through the tree line. When he turned to better see it, there was nothing to see.

  The sudden shift of balance as he leaned forward was enough to have Carter ask, “What is it?”

  “I’m not sure. An animal probably.”

  “Yeti?”

  “More likely a snow leopard,” he said.

  “Now, that’s a comforting thought.”

  He kicked out the last remaining embers of the campfire, and when the thief looked at him, Rye just told him, “Better safe than sorry,” which, all things considered, was hard to argue with.

  With nothing but the moonlight to see by, he didn’t see the creature again, but he was sure it was out there, watching them. Finally, with a long day waiting for them on the other side of sleep, Rye turned in.

  FIFTY-EIGHT

  He woke in the middle of the night to the sounds of the big cat attacking the tents.

  Rye crawled out on his hands and knees in time to see Vic and the Russian lashing out with what looked to be one of Vic’s thermal undershirts wrapped around the head of an ice ax, burning. It was crude but effective in terms of keeping the creature back. The problem was that its mate prowled the darkness a safe distance from the makeshift firebrand as Vic lashed out in big sweeping arcs.

  The cloth wouldn’t burn for much longer.

  When it went out the snow leopard would pounce.

  The big cat moved around the dark perimeter of the camp, so much pent-up strength in its body—but for it to have risked venturing so close to the tents the poor creature must have been starving.

  Iskra, he saw, had a second brand balanced easily in her hand, ready to launch herself at the big cat if hunger got the better of it.

  Carter emerged behind him and surprised Rye by immediately making a lot of noise and flapping his arms about like he was pretending to be a gigantic bird. It would have been comical but for the fact it was drawing the big cat’s attention, which made it suicidal. “What the hell do you think you’re doing!” Rye yelled at the thief, but in the moment the big cat had turned its attention to him, the Russian leapt into her attack.

  Humans weren’t meant to fight great beasts like this, armed or not. But Iskra’s speed and skill with the fire defied reason. She was in so close before the creature could react to her threat, and had the wild cat by the jaw, every ounce of strength needed to prevent the snow leopard from turning those huge teeth on her before she thrust the burning brand at the creature’s face, close enough to sear the fur. She held firm for a few seconds, then allowed the creature to bolt. It took off at a pace, scaling the side of the slope with shocking speed.

  Iskra rose from her tight crouch to her feet and held the burning torch beside her, watching the snow leopard’s mate as it howled, trying to decide whether to brave the fire or not.

  It stayed back beyond the small circle of torchlight protecting the tents.

  The few charred threads that remained of Vic’s thermal vest fell away from the ice ax, those last orange embers rising into the dark sky as they burned out, and suddenly the only light was Iskra’s.

  “Shit.” Rye heard Carter stumble in the darkness, followed by a deep-throated growl so filled with menace it chilled his deoxygenated blood and had his heart tripping.

  Iskra moved toward where Vic had been, the four of them gathering to stand back to back, circling and watching the night for the deeper darkness of the big cat prowling around them. “This is wrong,” the Russian said, surprisingly calm, given the situation. “The snow leopard isn’t an apex predator. It should run. It should never attack.”

  “Do you want to tell it that?” Carter said. “Because it sounds hungry.”

  Rye wasn’t listening to him. He heard a peculiar chuffing sound in the darkness beyond Iskra’s torchlight, not a roar, not quite a growl. It was unlike any sound he’d heard. “There’s a flare gun in the kit,” he said, and without waiting for Vic to tell him no, Rye scrambled back toward the tents and their backpacks. The sudden movement didn’t draw the cat toward him, which was a mercy. He crouched down on his hands and knees, rifling through the pack for the gun, which had worked its way down behind his clothes, but he found it and crawled back out of the tent. His eyes adjusted to the night. He could see the three of them, ten feet away, shuffling their feet as they scuffed the faint dusting of snow that had gathered beneath their feet, and beyond them the rippling in the darkness that was the snow leopard circling them.

  Rye gripped the flare pistol in both hands, and aimed it close to the creature, but not so close as to risk burning it as the flare ignited and fired.

  The flare whistled out of the muzzle, scorching across the ground as it blazed a trail across the campsite in the direction of the wild cat. The flare spat red flame and burned off a thick miasma of smoke.

  The animal recoiled from the flame, startled and afraid. Mewling, tail between its legs, the snow leopard bolted away from the still-sizzling flare, following i
ts mate up through the strata of rock that made up the rock face they’d sheltered beneath with the natural grace and dexterity of a creature born to these slopes.

  Rye didn’t dare move until the flare had burned itself out and, even then, it was only to retrieve the flashlight from his pack and inspect the damage. The big cats had shredded the side of the other tent, effectively rendering it useless in terms of protection against the elements.

  Iskra got a fresh fire going.

  “Something caused that poor creature to betray its base nature and attack us,” the Russian said.

  “I’m glad you didn’t kill it,” Rye said, seeing the wicked knife the Russian was using to split the kindling down.

  “It is a majestic creature,” Iskra agreed, “but that doesn’t mean there won’t be killing tonight. Whatever scared it is still out there.”

  “We take no chances. We sleep in shifts until first light,” Vic said.

  No one argued with him.

  “You sleep,” Iskra told them. “I will take first watch.”

  FIFTY-NINE

  First light brought with it more horrors. These ones, of an elemental kind.

  There was little that could be practically done to patch the second tent, meaning they were going to be forced to share the two-man berth in a roll-on roll-off rotation. That, at least, would mean someone would be taking watch through the night. But that was a problem for later. They struck camp and moved out.

  The climb was much harder today, the conditions necessitating a change of gear into the heavy-duty kit. The temperatures had dropped starkly over the last forty-eight hours, with early-morning cold tipping the scales at minus fourteen, with a windchill making it feel closer to minus twenty. The biting wind chapped the skin around Rye’s cheeks and lips, but the worst of it by far was how it felt going into his lungs: like an icy hand reaching down his throat to claw his insides out.

  Every breath came at an increasing cost.