by Rick Chesler
“Tashi, I don’t need to tell you how important it is that you reach Hitchens before the bloody storm does.”
No response.
“Tashi,” Ian said louder. “Tashi, you need to continue up the mountain now.”
Silence. Then finally: “Oh, no. No.”
“What Tashi?” Ian rasped. “What is it?”
“It’s coming,” Tashi said in a strained whisper. “I think it heard you, boss.”
* * *
Still at least an hour away from the Balcony, Zack dropped from exhaustion into the snow. It was the third time in the past half hour, but there was no referee in the ring to signal the TKO. This time he was slower getting to his feet.
When he finally rose, his headlamp caught on something in the distance. From where he stood, it looked like a pile of clothes, maybe a climbing suit. The pile was only ten or so steps away, but those ten steps took Zack well over a minute. When he finally reached the pile, he dropped back onto his knees.
The first thing he realized was that it was indeed a climbing suit, a mix of red and navy blue with the Union Jack sewn to the sleeve. Next he realized there was a body still in it. The corpse was cold and hard and white, but not nearly as old as George Mallory’s.
It was a modern-day climber, of that Zack was sure. Within the last twenty years, at least. He tugged at the coat to turn the body around, not wanting but somehow needing to get a look at its face.
Instantly he stumbled backward, his rear end hitting the ground. His breathing quickened and he pushed the oxygen mask to his face.
“‘Scuse me, mate.”
Zack shivered. His stomach threatened to expel more of its contents, even though all that was left was bile.
“Leaving for Base Camp tomorrow, Furst. Just wanna wish you and your team godspeed...”
Elliot Wyle, the Brit from Rum Doodle who’d died weeks ago high on the mountain. Here.
Zack closed his eyes. He’d seen other such piles on the way up - in the Khumbu Icefall, on the Western Cwm, at ABC. But he’d ignored them all, told himself they weren’t what he thought they were. Just clothes. No climbers. Not casualties.
Not the Everest dead.
But this one there was no denying. He met this man, had shaken his hand.
Sure, Zack had seen Skinner, the Kiwi’s large body cut to pieces, but he’d been intentionally murdered and somehow that was easier to accept. But this--this was an accident. A senseless fall or something of the sort. This was...
Suddenly Nadia barged her way into his mind, and as he did on that first day, he wept. Or tried to. But there were no tears left to shed. No sadness. Just hatred.
Behind his oxygen mask, Zack bit down hard on his lower lip until a warm wet substance trickled down his chin. Mercer filled his mind. Mercer, Todd Mercer. He stared hard at the corpse, wishing this were him, wishing to take an ice ax to his neck. Mercer Todd Mercer. He sucked in more air until it felt as though his lungs would explode in his chest, all the while his mind ripping apart the unemployed salesman’s repugnant visage. Mercer Todd Mercer. He rocked back and forth in the snow. Mercer Todd Mercer. He clung to his ice ax. Mercer Todd Mercer. He pounded the ice until his gloves began to rip, until his fists started to bleed. Mercer Todd Mercer. If only he could reach into the fucker’s chest. Mercer Todd Mercer. If only he could stop the bastard’s heart from ever beating again.
Still driving his exposed knuckles into the ice, Zack suddenly lifted his head toward the heavens and screamed.
Chapter 26
The Balcony
Zack reached the Balcony just as the sun first poked its head through the morning clouds. He collapsed, relieved that he’d finally made it to the base of the Southeast Ridge. From here – at 27,700 feet – the snow ridge rose a thousand feet to the South Summit. He peered up, his tense neck stretching to the point he thought it might break. Still no sign of Dustin and Francesca.
As he lay in the snow, Zack took inventory of himself again. His legs felt useless but he thought he could will them the final fourteen hundred feet to the summit. He all but forgot he was sucking bottled oxygen and for a moment imagined he was breathing normally. His stomach was empty. Everything his body took in was expelled back out in a matter of minutes. He couldn’t feel his feet; he wished he could no longer feel his hands, they were in such pain.
Behind the mask, he grinned. Before this a big deal was made of the blisters that formed on his fingers when he and Nadia painted their bedroom a pale blue in Newport. Before this he’d complained about mild sunburn, about uncomfortable dress shoes that pinched at the heel, about paper cuts sustained while grading students’ tests. Before this he’d worried about carpal tunnel, about the occasional hemorrhoid or migraine headache.
He’d concerned himself with matters like money.
He had actually experienced anxiety over whether utility and credit card bills were paid on time, over whether he’d made a good impression at a faculty luncheon. He’d actually sat up nights thinking about tenure.
Just before Nadia died, Zack had spent some forty-five minutes staring at a scratch on the trunk of his Prius. He’d tried on clothes before buying them. He’d clipped coupons in preparation for a trip to Stop & Shop. He’d ordered stuffed chicken breast at Ruth’s Chris in Providence when what he wanted was the New York Strip steak.
Goddamn it, he thought. He’d once at DeSaro’s sent back his minestrone soup.
And his mother. As a child she’d refused to allow him to ride Splash Mountain in Walt Disney World. Too dangerous. She’d taught him to fear all kinds of animals, even cats and dogs. She’d prevented him from attending sleepovers with his friends, from participating in field trips, from playing sports. She stood in the way of his having girlfriends.
Zack was sobbing now, not because he might die, but because of the way he’d lived the past thirty-five years of his life. Lived, in fact, was too strong a word.
He pushed himself up, saw that he was waist deep in snow. No matter, he thought.
With all the strength he could muster, he placed one foot in front of the other and plowed on.
Chapter 27
South Summit
When he first saw the blood on his sleeve, Zack just assumed it was Skinner’s. Then he realized it was fresh, that it was dripping from his climbing suit onto the clean white snow. He removed his oxygen mask, found a wet crimson mess, and tried to wipe it clean. Then he put one gloved hand to his face and finally realized that his nose had begun to bleed.
He could taste the blood in his mouth. He swallowed some and it made him sick again.
Finally he dropped to his knees in the snow.
From the South Summit, Zack was told he’d be able to see the final obstacles to the peak: the Cornice Traverse, the Hillary Step, the final slopes to the roof of the world. But Zack couldn’t see a thing. Clouds smothered the South Summit and a fierce cold wind blew in, driving the snow.
He tried to push his body up again, but merely carved himself out a seat in the waist-deep snow. Decided he’d rest for a brief while before starting back up again.
Less than four hundred feet to go.
His eyes closed. He opened them, willing himself awake. If he slept here he’d die here and he didn’t want to do that. Not four hundred feet from the summit of Mount Everest. Not so damn close to his goal. He had friends to search for, ashes to spread.
He closed his eyes again.
Maybe just a short nap.
Why the hell hadn’t Francesca called? Zack’s radio had been silent since a few hours after leaving the South Col. Was she hurt? Lost? Was her walkie talkie malfunctioning? Was his?
Without opening his eyes Zack reached for his radio and held it in front of his face. Slowly, painfully, he lifted one of his lids. It took almost thirty full seconds to realize his radio was turned off.
“Son of a bitch,” he muttered, switching it back on.
He rocked his body gently, “What a Wonderful World” ringing in his head. He brie
fly opened his eyes and saw that his oxygen mask was off, that it was lying frozen and bloody a few feet from him in the snow. He tried to reach for it.
Too far.
He thought of all the people sitting at home right now, watching some ridiculous so-called reality show, too lazy to reach for their remote control, and laughed. He made another valiant grab for his oxygen mask but fell short.
He toppled over and his face hit the snow.
When they found him, he thought calmly, he’d look like Elliot Wyle.
* * *
“There’s nothing more you can do,” Patty said.
Ian sighed. He’d never felt so bloody helpless in all his life. Everyone on the mountain had stopped responding. And there was bloody no one on Everest who could attempt a rescue. Not that high. Even if he and Aasif were up to the task, they weren’t acclimatized. They’d never make it past Camp II alive.
Even Tashi had apparently turned off his radio. Abandoned his search for Hitchens.
With a huff, Ian lifted the receiver again. Team One had to be goners. Blaisdell and Corsi clearly didn’t want his help. But Hitchens, Hitchens was somewhere in the Death Zone, alone and hypoxic, clearly not thinking straight. Hitchens could still be saved.
“Hitchens,” Ian said gently into the receiver, “I need you to listen to me, mate. I know you can hear me.” In fact, Ian knew no such thing. “There’s a bloody storm about to hit the top of the mountain. If you communicate with me, I can maybe keep you alive.”
Ian waited, listening, hoping against hope to hear Hitchens’ voice.
“You’re being selfish now, Hitchens,” Ian finally continued, eliciting from Patty a dirty look. “It’s not just you who’s going to be affected by your death. It’s me, too. It’s Patty and Dr. Kapoor. Our only job in life is to get you and your teammates down the bloody mountain alive. How do you think we’ll feel about ourselves if you die?”
“He may not even be able to hear you,” Patty said.
Ian leaned forward. “And maybe he can.” He put the transmitter to his lips again. “Hitchens, I’m the one convinced you to go up the mountain. I’m the one who’s going to be responsible for your death. And I can assure you, mate, I already have more than enough crap on my bloody conscience. Enough for a dozen fucking men. I’m begging you...” He paused, swallowed hard. “Please don’t bloody well add to it, mate.”
Ian set the receiver down and listened again, for something, anything, any indication that Hitchens was hearing him, that the boy was conscious, that he was alive.
But nothing came.
After a few silent minutes, Ian finally stood, his chin on his chest, his eyes locked on the floor of the tent. “It’s over. We’ve lost everyone. It’s a fucking massacre up there.”
He turned, brushed past Aasif, pulled his arm from Patty’s sympathetic grip, and made for the tent exit .
As Ian pushed aside the nylon flap, he heard it. Not much, just a wave of static. But it was enough to spin him back around.
Breathless, he charged back toward his chair. Sat and waited.
“Furst,” came a feeble voice on the other end. “Hitchens here.”
Ian was too stunned to speak, but Patty yipped and applauded, and Aasif grabbed the back of Ian’s chair.
“...think I’m on the South Summit,” Hitchens said, clearly not sucking oxygen. “But none of my students are here. And I forgot where I parked my car.”
“He’s bad off,” Aasif diagnosed. “Needs to descend straightaway.”
“Hitchens,” Ian said into the transmitter, “you need to put on your oxygen mask.”
“...can’t reach it.”
“Hitchens, you’ve got to bloody well try. You need to put your oxygen mask on now and make your way down the mountain. If you don’t, you’re going to die.”
There was a long pause, then: “I’m fine,” Hitchens returned. “...just need a little rest.”
Aasif held out his palm for the receiver and Ian handed it to him.
“Listen, Zack,” Aasif said. “You’re not fine. It’s twenty below zero on the South Summit and conditions are about to get a whole hell of a lot worse. Doctor’s orders that you come down immediately, over.”
Another long pause. “...warm up here,” Hitchens said groggily. “...wearing too many clothes.”
Aasif shook his head, speaking into the receiver. “That’s a classic symptom of severe hypothermia, Zack. No matter how warm you think you may feel, you need to remain bundled up and fully clothed.”
“Hitchens,” Ian said, snatching back the transceiver, “we need your help if you’re going to survive. Now I need you to listen and fully cooperate.” Ian drew a breath. “First, you need to strap on your oxygen mask, then you need to work your way down from the South Summit before the storm comes full on. Understand?”
“...can’t,” Hitchens said.
“Can’t? Can’t what, mate?”
“...can’t go down. Have to...” Hitchens’ voice faded in and out. “...have to go up.”
“No,” Ian said, losing his voice again. “There is no up, not in a bloody storm. There’s only down. That’s the direction you have to head in, mate. Now.”
“...instincts...”
“What?” Ian said, frustrated. “Say again. I can’t make you out.”
“...you said we have to trust our instincts,” Hitchens said. “You told us that was the key to mountaineering.”
Ian felt short of breath. “Listen, Hitchens. I was full of shite. Fuck your bloody instincts for now, and follow mine.”
“...you said life wasn’t found in cubicles and bowling alleys...”
Ian’s stomach tensed. A sharp pain shot through his chest. “Life’s wherever you want it to be, Hitchens,” he said, panicky. “But it’s not up there on that fucking mountain. Not now. Now there’s only death.”
“...clouds...”
“Hitchens, do you hear me?”
“...smoke...”
“Hitchens, please.”
“...kinda fire...”
Static.
“Hitchens, do you read me?”
Nothing.
“Hitchens?”
Ian struggled for a breath.
“Hitchens?”
* * *
“Hitchens?”
Zack set the walkie down in the snow. He simply couldn’t hold his head up any longer. From his sitting position, he fell onto his back. The dusting of snow that covered his face felt good. It was warm up here, he was sure of it. Like a summer day on Block Island.
He unzipped the front of his climbing suit. That felt better.
“Hitchens? Please respond.”
But that, that was becoming annoying. If Ian kept it up, Zack would have to shut the walkie off again. Maybe throw it off the mountain like Egger.
But first a quick rest. Zack closed his eyes, and images of Namche Bazaar played out on the back of his lids. Jimmy and that sleepless night. Waking at dawn to Francesca’s screams. The slaughtered yaks outside in the pen. The Himalayan mist.
Then the bridge to Pangboche and that awful smell.
The pile of shit at Gorak Shep.
The horrifying roar in the Western Cwm.
Skinner’s corpse.
Zack twitched as he fell into a deeper sleep. The thick clouds were like a pillow pressing down on his face.
Stealing his air.
Stopping his breaths.
One eye winked open. And Zack thought: Here comes death.
He watched his house burn, watched Nadia crawl out of their living room window and climb into her urn. Too much damn smoke to see anything else, but he heard his mother’s voice. She was trying to save him by sending him back inside to save his books. To save his career.
He heard himself yelling. Heard Francesca cry. There were animals still inside and they were dying. Burning, choking on the thick black smoke inside.
He wanted to help but couldn’t move. His lips were moving but no sound was coming out. No words,
no song. Nothing but smoke.
On the South Summit he coughed, blood now flooding his throat. He had to open his eyes for one last time.
When he did, he saw its silhouette against the thickening mist. Made out its long thick arms ending in razor sharp claws. It wasn’t quite human but it was definitely male, its long limp cock dangling between its legs. Zack couldn’t quite make out the monster’s color, whether the fur covering its body was white or simply coated with snow.
But it smelled. It smelled like rage and shit and sex and death.
Nearby, Zack’s radio chirped.
“Hitchens, do you read me, mate?”
Zack’s heavy eyelids pressed down. He forced them open and glanced in the direction of the radio, now dusted with snow. Too far.
Again he peered through the clouds to look upon the beast, to get a measure of its height and weight, to determine the shape of its head. To see what few men had ever seen.
But by then the monster was gone.
Chapter 28
Ian sunk in his chair. He could barely breathe, barely speak. It felt as though his entire body had been flooded with a thick green mucous, and it was only a bloody matter of time before he choked to death.
He hacked into his left hand, still holding the radio transmitter tightly in his right.
“Hitchens?” he tried for the umpteenth time. “Hitchens, come in. There’s something I bloody well need to tell you, mate.”
Ian felt Patty’s hand rest on his left shoulder. Felt Aasif pressed up against his chair, arms folded, to the right. Despite their presence, Ian felt utterly alone.
“We haven’t heard anything in hours,” Patty said softly. “I think it’s time we alerted their families back home.”
“Before they hear it on the news,” Aasif added, solemnly.
Ian stared at the satellite phone, contemplating the calls. Skinner’s brother Russell in New Zealand. Miguel’s wife Maria in Madrid. And those were the bloody easy ones. Skinner’s brother and Miguel’s wife had always known damn well what was at stake. But his clients’ loved ones, like Jimmy’s father, would be irate.