white-hot sparks. But it wouldn’t last long. So he quickly checked Sommer for broken limbs and bleeding and found nothing. Which meant it was something internal, something far worse.
He dragged Sommer across the granite slabs up to a loose cobble beach, dropped him, and staggered up the shale. He needed a protected nook in the granite bluff, out of the wind. And found one among a jumble of tall boulders. Better, the broken rocky base of the ridge had trapped tangled piles of almost dry driftwood.
He tossed his duffel into a slant of boulders that formed a broad cranny ten feet deep which stopped the wind on three sides and provided some overhang against the snow. He ran back, seized Sommer’s life vest, dragged him to cover, peeled off the life vest, opened the duffel, dug out a space blanket, and quickly tucked it around Sommer. The reflective wrap would hold some warmth until. .
Broker shook his head, getting disoriented.
He should gather wood, start a fire. But he had to look for the other guys. He started shaking. Which meant he was losing his fiery edge to a vast, cheerful fatigue that so loved the shelter. So he forced himself out and ran from the bluff, scanning the wind and snow. Milt wore a red parka, Allen’s was blue.
He clambered up the rocks to gain a vantage to overlook the point. If they’d missed the end of the promontory and swamped, they’d be blown back across the open lake.
But he saw Milt almost immediately, a red blur in the surf two hundred yards away on the edge of the point. Knee-deep in the foam, Milt was trying to land the canoe. Allen’s blue jacket moved to shore and back, carrying packs. The canoe was hard to haul because it was full of water. Broker ran toward them. They needed that canoe.
A surge of waves pounded the two men out of sight, and when they appeared again the canoe was tipped, draining. Milt staggered, fell, stood up, and Broker realized he had wrenched the canoe on its side and shook it out through sheer force. Broker scrambled to them and saw three paddles stacked safely ashore against a pack. Good.
“Sommer?” Allen gasped, dragging another pack.
“Bad shape. Don’t know. He’s up the beach, a kind of cave. Need a fire,” Broker yelled.
“Fuck!” Allen scowled. “My medical kit with some decent pain killers. Lost it on the way in.”
“Your canoe?” Milt grimaced to Broker. His right arm hung at an odd angle.
“Swamped. At the other end of the lake by now. What’s wrong with your arm?” Broker asked, getting them moving.
“Can’t move it,” Milt said, wincing.
Allen started to check the arm.
“Not now.” Shivering uncontrollably, out of fire, Broker was naked before the maw of shock. He felt over the packs. They had lost the tents, one of the food packs, and some personal stuff, but they had the sleeping bags and half the food. They’d be all right if they could warm up.
“Get out of the wind. Move.” Shouldering the food pack, giving Allen the sleeping bags, he herded them over the slick rocks. In minutes they were in the dry granite pocket, a magical zone of calm compared to full exposure.
Allen bent and stripped off Sommer’s parka, yanked up his shirt, and pulled down his trousers. He kneaded the bulge in Sommer’s groin.
Sommer screamed.
Broker looked away, spooked. Milt moved close beside him.
“You all right?” Milt asked.
“My arms seized up out there; he busted his gut on account. .”
Milt cut him off. “You swam him in. Let it go.”
Broker nodded, pawed through his survival pack, cast aside a folding saw, grabbed a small axe, and found what he wanted: the fifteen-minute red highway flare that would save their lives.
Broker and Milt tore into the tangle of driftwood rammed into a rock fissure ten feet away and dragged out pieces. Really shaking now, Broker kicked off branches, grabbed his hatchet, hacked slivers, coring down to dry wood, and tossed it into a small pile. Then he peeled back the flare’s cover, ripped off the friction cap, and struck it along the tip of the fuse like a match. A spout of incandescent flame erupted in a sulphurous cloud. The wood crackled.
“Aw right,” Milt coughed and cheered, seeing the instant blaze. Ignoring his injured arm, he dragged branches, propped them against the rocks, and stomped them into smaller kindling.
The fire was irresistible and Allen joined them. He had the first-aid kit from Broker’s bag in one shaking hand, a plastic vial in the other. “This is all we have. Fucking Tylenol,” he muttered. He pulled himself away, returned to Sommer, and carefully finished removing his wet clothing.
Sommer was snake-bellied, with zero body fat. The baseball-sized bulge in the left side of his groin was unmistakable.
“What is it?” Broker called out.
“Not good,” Allen said as he coaxed Tylenol down Sommer’s throat. “He wouldn’t listen. Won the lottery and just had to go hunting with a hernia.”
Sommer’s grimace was bathed in firelight. “How bad?”
Allen composed himself. “You ruptured yourself, Hank. My index of suspicion is a strangulated intestine.”
Sommer sought out Broker’s eyes with a perverse, painful grimace. “Sit tight,” Broker blurted, “I’m going to get you out of here.”
“Not going anywhere,” Sommer said weakly as his head dropped back down. The three shivering men locked eyes and moved closer to the fire.
“The cell phone,” Allen said in a dull voice.
“Don’t go there,” Milt said.
Broker looked from Milt to Allen. They had gotten their wish. They were on their own.
Chapter Five
Numb, Milt gawked into the storm. Allen stared at his trembling, useless surgeon’s hands. Broker kept seeing Sommer paddling. .
Lassitude, the second fuzzy layer of shock, was setting in, so Broker roused and pounded their shoulders- Milt’s good one.
“Okay. C’mon. Keep it simple.” First they had to get dried off. Gently they dressed Sommer in fresh clothing, easing him into a sleeping bag and moving him close to the fire. Allen made an ice pack from a T-shirt and some shore ice and placed it on Sommer’s stomach. Then they built the fire waist-high, stripped, wrung out their clothes, rigged a clothes line, and set out their wet boots.
Milt’s biceps was already swollen purple, hot to the touch, so Allen wrapped it in ice and tied a sling from a sweatshirt.
“Fucking rotator cuff,
“Take some Tylenol,” Allen said.
Milt waved him off. “Save it for Sommer.”
Broker took inventory. They’d lost the coffeepot and the propane stove and fuel, but he found a coffee can full of tea bags and instant coffee. He filled the can with water, then put it over the fire and doled out hefty candy bars.
They’d overbuilt the fire and now they began to stumble in the drowsy warmth. To keep them alert, Broker brewed strong, hot tea which they drank from canteen cups as they gobbled chocolate bars. Allen gingerly spooned tea to Sommer.
“Well, how bad is he?” Milt asked.
Allen calculated. “He has to get to an operating room in twenty-four hours.”
Their eyes locked in a fast, triage glance.
“And I can’t operate in the woods with a hunting knife and aspirin,” Allen said.
