“Berthoud Pass,” he repeated, realizing that was incorrect. “I mean, right now I’m on Byers Peak, I think.”
“Berthoud Pass? How many are in your party?”
“Yes. No. I mean, uh seven of us.” Now six. “One severe injury!”
A buzz on the line. Static.
“Matt!” Leah jumped up from the rock, looking like she wanted to punch him. “Give them the coordinates of the cabin!”
“Not Berthoud Pass!” He yelled into the phone, but his yell was ripped away in the wind. A sharp gust pushed him sideways and he had to squat down to keep his balance. “I have coordinates! Thirty-nine! Fifty-one! Forty-four! One hundred and five! Fifty-three! Twenty-nine!” He read the numbers off the scrap of paper Leah shoved in front of him, but the numbers were scribbly, and the moonlight had vanished in the increasing clouds.
“Not Berthoud Pass? Please repeat.”
“No!” He screamed, lurching away from Leah in an angry panic. The numbers. He had to remember the numbers, and he squeezed his eyes shut with the effort. He slowed down as each one returned to his mind, morphing out of the ether like a developing photograph. Those were the right numbers. “Listen to me! Thirty-nine degrees, fifty-one minutes, forty-four seconds north! One hundred and five degrees, fifty-three minutes, and twenty-nine seconds west! Those are coordinates!” he bellowed. “I repeat! Those are coordinates for survivors! One injured badly!”
“Okay. Slow down.”
The crackling fuzz vanished. Matt spun around, aghast, wondering if the phone had just died, but no, the battery was still there. He’d just lost the signal. “I can try again!” he hollered. “I just got cut off!”
“Matt?”
He turned around at the fear in Leah’s voice, holding his phone like it was a bomb. “What’s wrong?”
“Don’t!” Leah yelled above the howling wind. “Don’t move.”
“I . . .”
“Matt! Don’t . . .” Leah’s words were interrupted by a weird crunch, like the muffled sound of glass breaking. And as Matt looked around, he saw he was no longer on the rock. In his need to get his message through he had walked out onto the snow pack, which turned out to be a dissolving sheet of ice.
Another crack. Oh shit, he thought weakly. One second later his boots went out from under him as the ice sheet gave way. Pop-pop-pop-pop . . . It sounded like firecrackers going off.
He slid, picking up speed as he headed for the center of the gully—a giant trough of glare ice.
“Dig in!” Leah screamed, but her voice was already starting to fade out of hearing.
Dig into what? He flipped over onto his stomach but skittered so fast that momentum kept him going, landing him back on his shoulders, faceup, the back of his head clunking heavily on the ice. But he didn’t feel it—every part of him was hitting something as he bounced down the field.
His arms flailed in a seizurelike fit and his helmet went flying, bouncing out of his grip. He jammed his boot heels into the ice sheet, but the nylon on his pants and jacket had no friction. He didn’t slow down. His boots scudded and scraped, grit flew up in his face; he was no match for the steep slope. Gravity sucks. Matt tried again, picking up his feet and slamming them back. Golf ball–size chunks of dirty ice splintered off in small explosions. He knew he needed to get in control, find a way to slow down, find a way to stop himself. A second later, his right leg collided with a protruding rock, sending a shockwave of pain up his ankle, kneecap combusting into excruciating spasms. He spun left, using every muscle that remained to raise his head off the ice, knowing that if he’d hit it on that boulder he’d already be a goner.
Still, he didn’t stop. If anything, he was going faster. Using his elbows, he propped himself up almost to sitting, but then what he saw made him want to fall back down.
Nothing.
The edge.
Open air.
And he was headed right for it.
TONY
Location: Abandoned NFS cabin, Arapaho National Forest
Elevation: 9,000 feet
“I should have gone with them.” Julie stared at the pile of kindling and logs that Tony had arranged in the hearth. “I should go back and look for Dylan. We shouldn’t have left him like that.”
All Tony could think was, Left him like what exactly? Dead? He bit his lip and squashed a few more old pinecones under the twigs.
“Julie.” Carter sighed, rubbing his eyes. “I know, I know. But Leah will do it. She’ll get a signal out. Believe me. And once they know where we are, they’ll send out a rescue at dawn. We just have to sit tight, okay?”
“You don’t know that,” she replied dully, chin in her hands.
“I know my sister.” Carter wadded up sections of the old National Geographic magazine into tight bundles. There was not much paper, but if the kindling caught it would get hot enough to start the old wood.
Tony noticed that neither of them had mentioned Matt, either because they had no confidence in his abilities or they had already forgotten his existence. “Matt’s tough,” he told Julie. “He’ll make it.”
“Dylan was tough.” Julie stared back at him as though he’d just said something particularly disgusting. Her upper lip curled. “And he was smart. But he didn’t make it, did he?”
Tony had the urge to ask her how smart Dylan really was if he didn’t wear an avalanche beacon, but he also realized that was the only reason Matt survived, and he certainly didn’t want to remind her of that. He bit down on his lip even harder and continued stacking twigs in a neat teepee around the logs. “Okay,” he said, ignoring Julie. “Carter, I think this looks pretty good.”
A gurgling cough from his brother made Tony drop his stick. “Sid?” The light in the cabin was dim—only the lantern flickering, distorting the size and shape of things, including Sid’s face, which was now twisted with pain. His eyes popped open like a puppet’s as he struggled for breath.
“Sid!” Tony put a hand to his brother’s forehead, unsure where to touch him, wondering if he should at all. “Where does it hurt?”
“Everywhere,” Sid wheezed, straining forward. Carter leaned over them, holding the lantern, a frustrated helplessness turning his mouth into a flat line. “Every time I breathe it feels like I’m being stabbed.”
“Dammit.” Carter swung the light around the room like a sea captain on a ship, peering into the darkness looking for clues. He checked his watch. “They’ve only been gone two hours.”
“And?” Tony wiped the sweat from Sid’s forehead with his shirt sleeve.
“And I don’t know.” Carter tromped the perimeter of the cabin, searching for something useful, something he might have missed. “Even if I did, we don’t have anything here to help us. Not even a radio.” He kicked the side of the footlocker.
Carter was growing frustrated, and the last thing Tony wanted was another person losing it. He needed Carter to stay calm. He needed Carter, period. “Maybe we should open the window,” Tony suggested. “And open the door. Let in some fresh air.”
“No,” Julie said from her lump in the corner. “It’s too cold out there.”
“Well, it’s stuffy as hell in here,” Carter replied, a bit too sharply. To make his point, to make it clear to Julie he was in charge, he wedged open the small window, forcing it against the swollen sash until it finally swung free, shattering one of the panes as a result.
“Nice,” Julie whispered, but it sounded more like a sneer. Tony flinched, knowing he needed to say something, say the right thing. That’s always been Matt’s area, he thought desperately. Matt always knew what to say. But Matt wasn’t here.
“Please don’t.” Carter swung the window back and forth, creating a breeze. The rusted hinges squawked in protest. “Please don’t.”
“Don’t what?” Julie asked, effectively starting it.
Carter’s shoulders slumped heavily. He took a gulp of air from the outside without answering.
Oh crap, Tony thought. I don’t need to be in the middle of this.
He wondered if he should just step outside, or maybe tell them to go outside. “Hey, uh guys . . .”
“I should have left with them.” Julie repeated, softer this time, drawing her knees in to her chest.
“It’s getting cold in here,” Tony told Carter, needing to change the subject. Carter held the lantern in two hands, as though he were about to smash it against the floor. “I think the fresh air is good, but I’m going to get that fire going. Maybe that will help.” Tony unzipped his jacket and draped it over Sid’s chest as an extra blanket. “Maybe some heat will help.”
Carter nodded and set the lantern back on the footlocker, before returning to wadding up the remainder of the newspaper. He didn’t reply, and instead used a match to light the twisted stick of paper. He dabbed the flame around the base of the teepee. It was a good fire—the twigs lit instantly, popping like corn kernels, and the sharp scent of fresh pine was an improvement. It took only another minute before one of the logs caught, and he knew the wood was incredibly dry. It would burn hot.
Smoke and hot ash flew up the chimney, but then swirled back into the room like a noxious fog.
“What the . . . ?” Tony waved the smoke away. “I must have forgot.”
Carter frowned at him. “Forgot what?”
“The flue must be shut.” He started forward, leaned in as close as possible, but there was nothing in the hearth, no flue to open. More smoke plumed around him, making him sneeze.
“Oh no.” Carter looked up and his mouth fell open as Tony threw a chunk of snow onto the fire, but it was already too hot. The flames sizzled and spit as they devoured it. “The chimney must be blocked up.”
“Shit!” Tony screeched and waved his hands faster. “Now what?” Smoke streamed out of the hearth, rolling across the floor in waves.
From the corner Sid began to cough, hard, guttural, choking spasms that wobbled Tony’s legs.
“We have to get out of here!” Carter ran forward and grabbed one end of the cot. “Now!”
MATT
Location: Byers Peak
Elevation: 12,000 feet
The wind blew past him like a scream—or was he the one screaming? Matt’s mouth was open but whatever sound he tried to make lodged in his throat. There was too much wind, too much air. He couldn’t breathe because of all the air rushing into his face, and he thought vaguely that was the definition of irony. He couldn’t begin to guess what was over that edge. Maybe a short drop into a snowbank? Maybe it wasn’t nearly as bad as what he thought it was. Because someplace deep inside, the most primitive part of his brain told him what it was.
The void.
Oblivion.
An artist, under pain of oblivion, must have confidence in himself, and listen only to his real master: nature.
Matt knew Renoir was right, but at this particular moment he believed nature was trying to kill him.
“Matt!” Leah screamed, closer now, and when he craned his neck around he saw her sliding headfirst in an attempt to catch up to him. “Use this!” She was coming in fast, at an angle—like a torpedo aiming itself at the side of a ship. “The pole! Dig it in! Now!”
She launched it hard as a spear, as if she were attempting to skewer him straight through. She didn’t miss. It hit Matt handle first in the side, and despite his shock at her actions, he had enough presence of mind to hang on to it.
“Punch it in!”
Leah rolled away, jumping like a cat onto her knees. Drawing herself up for leverage, she used both hands to bring the remaining ski pole down, piercing the glacier with a ferocious grunt. She jerked to a stop with such violence that only then did Matt understand how fast they were moving.
He wrapped the pole loop around his wrist just as he hit another rock, spinning him away like a released top. The pole clattered dumbly at his side.
“Matt! Do it now!”
He would have to let go of his phone, and with a wail and a heave he rolled onto his shoulder, imitating Leah’s movements by bringing the pole down in a two-handed grip as if he was driving down a sledgehammer. One word burst from his mouth as the steel tip punctured the ice.
“Hold!”
It was a command, a prayer, a magic spell.
And it worked. Sort of.
The metal tip crunched through, but the combination of Matt’s weight and speed broke the fiberglass shaft. It splintered, almost ripping in two. His grip against the pole crushed the phone, snapping it in half like a stale cracker, showering the ice with pieces of black plastic and glass. But he still didn’t stop, only slowed down enough to fall face-first onto the ice.
Here goes another tooth, he thought stupidly as the impact sent a fresh burst of blood into his mouth. Or maybe he had just bitten straight through his tongue. But he wasn’t thinking about pain—he was thinking that he was still sliding.
The metal pick made a crevice—another widening crack that spread apart with crunching sounds as he bore down, and all his thoughts crystallized into one.
How close to the edge?
He needed a better grip, but didn’t dare pull the pole out now.
Blue streaks in the ice underneath him, little rivers of water trickling under the surface. Then flecks of black rocks.
Those weren’t rocks. They were phone shards, the one thing he had counted on for rescue. And he had just destroyed it.
A flash of yellow flew in front of his face, hitting his forehead with a heavy thud. Bright yellow with blue ribbons of nylon woven through it, and it took him a second to understand it was a rope.
“Matt! Grab it!”
With one hand he wound it quickly around his wrist, while the other remained in a death grip around the pole. The rope went taut, and Matt finally slowed to a stop. He wanted to cry. He wanted to puke. But most of all he wanted to look. Don’t do that, he thought. Just don’t look.
But he did. He had to.
Ten feet. That’s how close he was to the edge. The wind roared below him, sounding like an angry, whining child that didn’t get what it wanted, that didn’t get him. “Okay Matt!” Leah yelled from somewhere above him, but he kept his head down, too petrified to respond. “I want you to wrap the rope around the pole. Make a knot!”
The rope was hard as a metal bar against his arm, though not too painful thanks to the cushion of his parka. He used the rope’s extra length to wrap and tie a knot around the pole.
“Do you see that big boulder over there?” Leah called.
“Over where?” He croaked, staring at a small green and silver shard in front of his face. A piece of his SIM card—all that was left of his phone. The message his dad sent was gone, along with every photo and video and contact, which gave him a fleeting sensation of having already been erased. Like he hadn’t existed in the first place, or had just been a figment of someone else’s dream. But now he was awake—horribly, fantastically, unflinchingly awake. He didn’t move, he didn’t shout or cry or do anything other than listen to the roar of blood in his ears. The fear of gravity was paralyzing.
“To your left! Twenty feet over!”
He turned his head with infinite slowness and saw what she meant. Where he was currently located the glacier had narrowed to a ten-foot-wide alley, but twenty feet away were rock-solid boulders and granite crags. Safety.
He just had to reach it.
He glanced up. Leah had the rope looped around a boulder. She sat astride it, using her body to hold the rope fast, and Matt knew at the very least he could take comfort in the fact that even if he did plummet to his death, he wouldn’t pull her down with him.
He started to move.
First arms. Then feet. The boulder he was heading for was directly to his left, and he didn’t even bother to try to climb up. He would only slip, so instead he went sideways, inching along on his belly like a worm.
Hand, leg, chest, stomach. He flattened himself further, becoming one with the surface, oozing along like a human puddle.
One foot. Two. Three. He stopped. Breathed. Stared at t
he rock. There was only wind and his heartbeat. His ears throbbed, so did his throat, which was so tight and thick he couldn’t even swallow his spit without pain.
Five feet. Seven. He didn’t look back. He didn’t look up. He didn’t even blink.
Ten feet. Halfway there, he thought. Every muscle burned. His toes cramped up in his boots, spasmed and flexed into rigid claws. He held the pose.
“You’re almost there, Matt.”
Leah didn’t yell, and it didn’t sound like an encouragement. Instead, it reminded him of how he would talk to a frightened animal to keep it calm, which in a way was what she was doing. Strangely, it helped.
Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen. He forced himself to slow down and pay attention, to think carefully about every movement he made. Right here. Put his hand here. He watched every inch in front of his face. The dirt-streaked ice. Wet crystals of snow on his gloves. The stiff nylon of the rope cutting into his wrist. But he kept it taut, no slack allowed as he crept forward. Just like the glacier, his motion was almost invisible.
Sixteen. Seventeen.
Closer. Closer. Closer. Inch by inch, life’s a cinch. Yard by yard, it’s hard.
He couldn’t remember who said that, but he didn’t think it mattered anymore.
Eighteen. Nineteen. His gloved fingertips touched rock, and even though it was slick with damp, the friction was an amazing relief from the ice.
But he didn’t dare hurry. Still on his stomach, he twisted sideways until his boots were wedged up behind a boulder, and only after he curled himself into a ball around the back of it and tested its solidity did he relax.
Then he began to shake. Outside and inside. Fingers trembled, eyeballs twitched, even his teeth chattered. He had to press his hands against his mouth to make it stop.
“Good job,” Leah said, her voice still calm and steady. “Now climb up here.”
What? Matt thought incredulously, still pressing his gloves against his face. She wants me to what? “I can’t.”
“Yes, you can. And you have to.”
His pulse felt like that of an extremely out of shape person sprinting up ten flights of stairs. “Give me a minute.”
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