by Rick Chesler
It felt as though he were dying.
“It’s simple science, really,” Dr. Kapoor said, following Ian’s talk. “Without oxygen, we die. Up high, there’s simply not enough oxygen to be had, so every breath becomes an adventure, a challenge our body must meet to stay alive.” The doctor placed his hands behind his back and stood motionless, facing the climbers. “Your body will do everything it can to adapt. You’ll breathe harder to get more oxygen into the lungs. But as a consequence, you’ll expel too much carbon dioxide, the agent responsible for adjusting the acidity of our blood. This can cause you to feel light-headed, it can cause you to faint. And ultimately, it can cause your death.”
Zack stopped his motion, coughed violently against the ice and tried to steal a few more breaths.
“As your breathing quickens,” Kapoor continued, “so will your heart. Together, they’ll try everything in their power to protect your body from oxygen starvation - a condition known as hypoxia. Problem is, your heart and lungs cannot sustain your body in this manner for very long. Not without provoking life-threatening symptoms.”
Zack gazed down, breathing hard, watching his fellow climbers as they slowly made their way up, some sixty feet below.
“But perhaps the most dangerous affect of the altitude,” Kapoor had warned, “is what it does to your mind. Up high, you won’t be able to think straight. You’ll see things, hear things, smell things. Simply put, you’ll hallucinate.” Kapoor coughed into his fist then continued with a raspy voice. “I cannot stress this enough. You will not be able to trust your own judgment high on the mountain. Your reasoning, no matter how strong-willed you are, will be impaired. That is why it’s absolutely imperative that you follow the orders of Ian down here at Base Camp, and of your Sherpas and guides.”
But right now, there were no Sherpas or guides around. Tashi was below assisting one of the Poles who’d collapsed at ABC. And Skinner, as seemed to be his routine, had shot up ahead.
Zack rested his head against the glacier, unable to catch his breath. The sky was perfectly clear, but he felt as though he were in a drunken fog. He was suddenly struck with a wave of fear. He needed off the mountain.
* * *
Jimmy Melonakos had fallen behind, his guide Miguel Ruiz and teammates Egger and Vergé now completely out of sight. Who knew where the other climbers were, or whether they even left Advance Base Camp? These bastards don’t care about anyone but themselves, Jimmy thought. His father had put him in the hands of a bunch of fucking madmen.
Holding tightly to the fixed rope, Jimmy halted his progress. If you could call two vertical steps every three minutes progress. He was wearing crampons when what he really needed was a pair of gravity boots. How else to traverse the icy face of this mountain? After all, he wasn’t Batman.
Jimmy closed his eyes and tried to summon his strength. When he opened them he was being smacked in the face with drops of cold white powder. They made him think of the ounce of blow he had stashed back in Athens. What he wouldn’t give to be there now, getting showered and dressed for a night out, sipping ouzo while he streamed Internet radio. “Fuck!” he screamed at the top of his lungs, then immediately regretted wasting his precious breath. No one would hear him. He either had to push on to Camp III or turn around.
The harder the snow fell, the easier the decision became.
Jimmy started down.
“You’re going the wrong way, mate!”
The Kiwi’s voice startled him, and Jimmy stopped again his tracks. He dared a look back. Skinner’s green climbing suit was approaching him at an amazing pace.
Shit, Jimmy thought, wishing he could snort a bump or two right now. This was no place for a confrontation. Maybe Jimmy could take the Kiwi at Base Camp if he had a few beers in him. Maybe not. But at least on solid ground he stood a fucking chance. Not here on the steepest part of the mountain.
“What’s the bother, Melonakos? No one to carry your sorry ass up the rock now?”
Jimmy quickly pushed away the first response that came to mind. “I’m going down,” he said evenly. “There’s a storm up ahead, and I doubt anyone can make it any higher today.”
Secretly, Jimmy hoped this would persuade Skinner to head down with him. As much as he hated the Kiwi, Jimmy was afraid to be alone.
“Bollocks,” Skinner said. “It’s just a little bloody snow. If you can’t hack it, you should take your holidays in the Hawaiian Islands, not in the Himalayas.”
Again, Jimmy held his tongue. He had suddenly grown an extra layer of fear. The two of them were alone up here. What if Skinner’s temper erupted again? Suddenly he regretted having provoked the man, especially taking that dump in his rucksack.
Jimmy wanted to reach for his radio, to let Base Camp know where he was, who he was with, in case anything happened. But he was too afraid to let go of the rope. Skinner was within arm’s reach of him now. The Kiwi could simply rip the radio from his hand and send it plummeting down the mountain.
“Scared?” Skinner asked when the pair was face-to-face.
Jimmy swallowed, trying to read Skinner’s eyes behind his goggles, but he didn’t say anything.
“You should be,” Skinner said, digging a crampon into the ice. “No telling what I’ll do once I’m ahead of you.”
Jimmy watched the Kiwi continue his ascent, kicking ice down the Lhotse Face as he climbed. Jimmy was frozen, his eyes locked on Skinner’s green climbing suit, until the Kiwi finally disappeared behind the wall of white.
After he was certain Skinner was well out of earshot, Jimmy reached for his radio to call in his position. To hell with his pride. To hell with the fact he was right. He, a paying client, had just been threatened by one of his guides, and he’d be damned if Ian Furst wasn’t going to hear about it.
Jimmy lifted the radio to his lips, his right hand still quivering. His left hand held tightly to the safety rope that was preserving his life. He played with the dials. Furst wanted to impress Jimmy’s father, so Furst would have Jimmy’s back. He smiled a little as he thought of the Kiwi losing his job.
Then suddenly his rope went slack.
* * *
In the communications tent at Base Camp, Ian threw down the receiver and turned to his Base Camp manager. “Ruiz says Jimmy’s missing somewhere on the Lhotse Face. Hasn’t seen him in the past three quarters of an hour.”
Patty made a face.
“What’s that look for?” Ian said.
“What look?”
“You know bloody well what look.”
She shrugged her shoulders. When Ian didn’t speak, she said: “Jimmy Melonakos had a pretty thin CV.”
“So what are you saying, Patty?” Ian heard his own voice rise in pitch. “That I overestimated the wanker’s abilities? That I made a bloody mistake?”
Patty shook her head. “You didn’t make a mistake, Ian.” Her tone was colder than the tent. “You knew exactly what you were doing.”
Ian shot to his feet. To hell with this lady. She was out of her bloody mind. He pushed aside the nylon flap and stepped outside, welcoming the cold breeze on his cheeks. What did she think, that he sent the young Greek up to die?
He turned to see that Patty had followed him outside. He pointed his finger back toward the tent. “Get your fat Canadian arse back in there and monitor the bloody comm.”
“It was reckless to put him on the team,” she hollered back. “And you know it. That kid doesn’t belong on this or any other mountain in the Himalayas.”
“And who the hell are you to decide?”
“It’s not me who set the standards, Ian.” She shook her head frantically. “It’s you. You’ve turned away dozens of climbers far more experienced than Jimmy in the past nine years. Hell, even this year you turned away a better climber in order to save Jimmy Melonakos a spot.”
Ian suddenly felt out of breath, felt as though he were high on the mountain himself, maybe at the South Summit or the Hillary Step. “I did it as a favor to his father.”
Ian felt as though he’d been punched in the stomach. “The hell I did,” he shot back. “In thirty years I never once put business before my clients. Even with all the hell that’s been breaking loose on this mountain these two decades, I never once put money or publicity ahead of anyone’s life.”
“Really,” she said, stepping toward him. “Then what’s the Italian woman doing here? Francesca - who’s never been on a single mountain but the Matterhorn.”
“She’s a bloody good climber,” Ian spat in a huff.
“She’s a damn stick figure,” Patty yelled. “If she burns fifteen thousand calories on summit day, there’ll be nothing left but a skeleton in a climbing suit .” She swallowed hard, her eyes tearing up. “But if she somehow makes it up the mountain and back down alive, the name Ian Furst will once again see plenty of print. Finally you’ll make some headlines for something other than the death of your son.”
Ian’s body trembled. Part of him sorely wanted to raise his left arm and serve Patty the back of his hand. But wasn’t she right? Hadn’t he been ignoring all the signs that Melonakos didn’t belong on the mountain? Hadn’t he turned a deaf ear when Skinner told him Jimmy was a liability, when Ruiz informed him about the booze and the drugs?
“I made no error,” Ian insisted, more to convince himself.
“Of course you didn’t,” Patty said, nearly hysterical now. “Because you’re Ian Furst, and on this mountain, you’re the almighty fucking god.”
* * *
Before Zack even thought about it, he had his radio in his hand. It was one of the many perks you received when you climbed with Himalayan Skies: constant radio contact. Help was always just a shout away.
Before he spoke into the radio, Zack gazed down again. Dustin and Francesca had also halted their progress. The radio cackled. He turned up the volume and listened.
“...please acknowledge. Repeat: Ruiz, this is Patty at Base Camp. Please acknowledge.” “Ruiz here. Patty, I still can’t find him.”
“What’s your position, Miguel?”
Static. Then: “Just below seven thousand meters.”
“Who’s with you?”
Ruiz’s voice came back. “Egger and Vergé are both here. So is Norbu.”
“How the hell did this happen? You were supposed to be sticking to that kid like Crazy Glue.”
“I was,. but the face has been hit by a storm. We’re facing whiteout conditions up here.”
Ian’s voice now came over the radio. “Listen to me, Ruiz. Call off the search until the weather clears. Get Egger and Vergé to safety at Camp Three if you can.”
“Norbu will take them up,” Ruiz said, his voice clearly fighting the wind. “I’ll keep searching for Jimmy.”
“Negative,” Ian said. “It’s no use in a whiteout, Ruiz. And you’re no good to me dead.”
Zack looked up and for the first time saw the weather moving down the mountain. His fear turned to panic turned to dread. He looked down but could no longer see Dustin and Francesca. And he hadn’t seen Skinner for over an hour. Suddenly, he was alone on the mountain again.
“Work out your own salvation,” the Abbot had said. “Do not depend on others.”
Zack set his sights on a small snow-covered ridge and began to work his way towards it. The spot appeared to be protected by an overhang that would shield it from the storm. Twice he lost his grip on the ice as he scrambled for the ridge like a crazed spider. Once his crampon slipped and he nearly fell. He slowed down, drew as much thin air into his starving lungs as he could. Finally he gained purchase on the ridge itself and heaved himself onto it in one adrenaline-fueled motion.
Minutes passed.
Then minutes more.
The sky darkened, and suddenly Zack didn’t feel so protected from the coming storm. He clung to the glacier like a frightened infant to its mother, all the while trying to catch his breath.
His radio squawked. He listened as best he could, afraid to release the ice with even one hand to retrieve the transmitter from his suit.
“...do you copy?”
It was an unfamiliar voice, a deep baritone with a thick brogue.
“This is Furst.” Ian’s words were garbled. “What can you tell me, Simon?”
Zack thought he recognized the name - the chief guide for the Scottish team.
“Found a rucksack here...” Simon’s voice began to fade. “...meters on the Lhotse Face... broken up pretty bad, like it’s been in a fa...”
Zack strained his neck to hear, but now the wind was picking up. The storm was getting closer.
Ian was saying, “...anything else? Anything that...”
“...some material,” Simon’s voice came back. “...ing suit.”
A long silence followed. Either the radio had given out or neither man had spoken.
Finally, Ian’s voice returned, though significantly subdued. “...color is...Simon?”
Zack listened for the Scot’s response, just as snow began scudding before his eyes, a few rogue flakes smacking him in the face.
“Afraid...” Simon’s tone was one of sympathy and defeat. “...pink, mate.”
Another long period of radio stillness followed this last, broken only by the soft sobs of Patty way down at Base Camp.
Zack inhaled as much as he could. During the dialogue, he’d forgotten to breathe, and now his lungs felt as though they were collapsing in his chest.
“...something else here, mate.” Simon again. “...harness...” The static became too much. “...been...”
Ian’s broken voice returned, filled with an obvious mixture of anger and grief. “...say again, Simon. Repeat. Say...”
After a few moments, Simon’s baritone finally battled back. “...said, mate...”
Zack waited while the Scot struggled to get through.
Finally, Simon said, “...looks as though the rope’s been cut.”
Chapter 19
Camp III
The three of them huddled in one tiny orange tent - Zack, Dustin and Francesca - while the wind whipped at Lhotse’s Face. It hadn’t been the plan to stay here the night, but because of the weather they’d had no choice. Theirs was one of three nylon tents hugging the mountain, trying to hold on while the weather raped the Lhotse Face. Skinner, Ruiz and Tashi were next door, then Vergé, Egger and Norbu, each tent positioned on an impossible incline but somehow holding strong.
“It is not possible,” Francesca said, her voice rising over the sound of ravaged nylon, “that Skinner could have done something like that.”
“All I’m saying is that we have to consider it,” Dustin said. “I mean, the two have been at each other’s throats the entire expedition. Jimmy shat in Skinner’s rucksack, for chrissakes.”
Zack didn’t know what to believe. Nothing seemed real at twenty-three thousand, six hundred feet. His head was filled, his stomach empty, his face was beginning to freeze.
Worst of all, he couldn’t breathe. Because the plan had been to retreat back down to Base Camp, the team didn’t have its stores of oxygen. They’d have to spend the night, cold and unacclimatized, halfway up the Lhotse Face without gas.
As the storm moved down the mountain, Zack and the rest of the team had had no choice but to keep moving up. Once they made it here to Camp III, there was no turning around.
They were stuck.
“Where was Skinner when Jimmy fell?” Dustin continued. “I mean, he wasn’t with us.”
“We do not know that he fell,” Francesca shot back. “We do not know anything at all.”
Dustin shook his head in frustration. “Only that he’s missing somewhere on the mountain, at night, in freezing temperatures without his gear. And that a piece of his climbing suit was found, along with hi
s harness and a cut goddamn climbing rope. Face it, Francesca--he’s dead.”
“And what if it was not Skinner who cut the rope?” Francesca said. “What then?”
Dustin remained silent.
Zack felt drunk. Felt as though he’d swallowed Melinda Peavy’s entire bottle of Ambien and chased it with a fifth of booze. He couldn’t see; everything was running together into one ludicrous blur like an abstract painting. He couldn’t speak. The words danced around in his head, but he couldn’t control his lips, his tongue. He felt warm drool slide down from the corner of his mouth and instantly freeze on his cheek
Slowly and painfully he fell into a dreamless sleep.
* * *
Dustin turned away from Francesca, pondering the question she had posed.
“And what if it was not Skinner who cut the rope? What then?”
Dustin clenched his fists, refusing to look at Francesca. For the first time since this started, he was angry with himself. Maybe even a little ashamed. What the hell had he gotten them into?
It had all started last December with a telephone call from Kathmandu. Ed Pruit was an acquaintance Dustin had made years before while climbing the Dom in the Swiss Alps with his cousin. Now Pruit said he’d just returned from the Solu Khumbu region after visiting with friends in the Sherpa village of Luza. There, he told Dustin, he’d met a middle-aged Sherpa by the name of Ang Tendu.
Tendu told Pruit and his Sherpa friends that three nights before he’d been resting on a dry rock above the riverbank on the outskirts of Machhermo when a shadow crossed over a thick row of rhododendron bushes. The only light was from the moon in the sky, so he quickly glanced in that direction. In the moment his head was turned he heard a rustling. Then nothing.
Sitting stock-still, Tendu searched the darkness with his eyes, his heart beating hard in his chest. Whatever it was that cast the shadow had moved fast, faster than any man ever could. And though shadows can be deceptive, this shadow appeared unusually large, the size of maybe two men stacked one atop the other.