He had survived them all, only to end like this.
I could feel the air around me cooling, and the water that had protected me was solidifying underneath, in, and on top of my clothes; it was like I was wearing one of Dante’s lead cloaks. The ridge was naked, with just a stubble field of nubbin trees and scalded earth. The only thing I’d ever seen that approached it was a war zone, but somehow, in so many ways, this was worse.
I thought about all the recently lost lives, of all the current destruction, and could feel a stirring deep in a place where my ears wouldn’t have heard it harden even if they’d still worked. The ringing continued, bells of warning along with the continuing tattoo of distant drums, but the one sound that rustled over the others was the sound of the blackened, leathery wings of wrathful vengeance folding themselves around me.
13
Icicles fell off me with each step, but I could only imagine the delicate sounds they might have made when they struck the stones near my feet. After only a few minutes, it was getting impossible to move, so I stopped by one of the flaming logs, at least partially sure that the resin in it wouldn’t explode.
I set the pack against the outcropping of rocks just a little away from the flames. The sodden thing felt like a boulder with shoulder straps, and I was glad to be rid of it. I pulled off my gloves, turned the cuffs inside out, and placed them along with my goggles on one of the already-burnt sections of the log.
I held the rifle up and looked at the drop-block mechanism, which appeared fine until I jacked the lever, slid down the action and, after catching the round that feebly fell from the breech, could see the traces of ice inside the chamber.
I slipped the bullet into my pocket and breathed into the Sharps as if I were giving it mouth-to-rifle resuscitation. I turned it around and did the same thing to the end of the barrel-amazingly enough, it appeared unharmed. I checked for any signs of mud, but there was nothing. I set it by the pack and hoped the heat of the fire would override the ambient temperature. Then I glanced through the binoculars still hanging from my neck and found that they too were unharmed, but I hung them from a blackened branch just to make sure.
I took off my hat, hung it on another convenient branch, and reached into my jacket to retrieve the mummified hand. The pocket was empty. I turned it inside out, but there was nothing there, not even the ring that I’d taken. I must’ve lost both in the nameless pond below. Remembering the femur that Shade had left behind, I quickly checked my other pocket and was relieved to find that bone still there.
I felt my teeth rattling and turned, moving a little closer to the flames. I could feel an ulcerous sore at the top of my ear where it had gotten frostbitten before-chilblains, I believe they were called-and gently fingered it, just the thing you’re not supposed to do.
The convulsions continued, and I was pretty sure that if I didn’t get my clothes and myself warmed up I was going to become hypothermic, delusional, and useless.
I shed my stiff-armed jacket and placed it beside the log flambe, where it literally stood on its own in a three-point stance, and then slid off my boots, the overpants, and the fleece that Omar had loaned me, hanging them on another blackened branch.
Dressed only in my Capilene underwear, I backed up near the log to dry off and keep warm, squinted through the blowing ash, took a deep breath, and coughed the soot from my mouth and nose; the faintest touches of what felt like raindrops struck my upturned face-the falling snow was melting in the heat.
I rubbed my eyes with my fists and looked around. The cold and snow were already creeping back in, and it wouldn’t be long before all the charred black would be covered with white-and me too.
I dragged the backpack over, flipped off the top, and started pulling items from the cavernous main compartment. There were an extra pair of socks that I strung on a limb and some food-the energy and candy bars looked pretty good in their foil wrappers-and the bottle of Pappy Van Winkle’s Family Reserve that Virgil hadn’t taken after all was unbroken.
That, among so many things, was odd.
You’re not supposed to drink under these types of conditions because the only thing the liquor does is dehydrate you and widen your blood vessels, allowing greater blood flow to your extremities, which may feel better in the short run but which eventually robs you of core heat. I knew a lot of old fellows who had survived these kinds of circumstances and wasn’t sure if I’d ever seen them not drink. Anyway, I was more concerned with my mental well-being.
I unscrewed the top and took a swig of the bourbon and waited as I always did for the aftertaste that never came because the first taste was so good. I took another and carefully set the bottle on the rocks before digging into the pack and yanking out the soaked sleeping bag that had already hardened into a clump. I pulled the bag from the stuff sack-it hung there in my hand like a reluctant snake, refusing to uncoil. I shook it, and surprisingly, the man-made, water-resistant fiber released and the length of the thing flopped to my feet.
I carefully unzipped it and noticed that the majority of the water hadn’t soaked the fiber inside the bag, so I wrapped it around me and felt better immediately. I wrested my way into the outside pocket of the pack and came upon Saizarbitoria’s copy of the Inferno. I resisted the urge to throw it in the fire and just dropped the soggy pulp onto the ground.
Seeing the Basquo’s reading material reminded me of the cell phone that Sancho had carefully put in the waterproof Ziploc. I fetched it from my jacket and hoped that the bag was truly what it advertised. Then I pulled out the satellite phone and looked at it. I could see that the rubberized coating seemed to have no seams; was it possible that the thing was waterproof as well?
I hit the button, and it lit up. Thank goodness for the high-tech FBI.
I stood there for a moment or two, finally deciding to give my Indian backup a call; I was one of the only white men I knew who felt better when he was surrounded by Indians.
“Hey, hey-you’re alive!”
Joe’s voice cheered me even though I could hardly hear it.
“Just barely.”
“We got another one of your leftovers.”
“You’re going to have to speak louder; my hearing is kind of shot.” I smiled in spite of myself. “You guys are at the Thiokol?”
He was shouting into the phone now. “You betcha, just collecting the trash. Hold on, the big guy wants to talk to you…”
I waited as a familiar voice came on the line; he was shouting, too. “Where are you?”
I sighed. “I’ve been asked that a lot lately.” I felt the jacket and turned it-it was drying nicely. “Near the ridge at Mistymoon Lake.”
“You…” There was a flare of static. “… traveling fast.”
“I had help up until Shade set the whole forest on fire.”
The concern in his voice increased after another static burst. “We could smell that. What did he do?”
I looked up the hillside but couldn’t see anything except the rushing clouds above and the soft rain of the melting snow. “He must’ve set the beetle kill on fire; the wind took it and burned all the way down to Lake Marion.” I fought to not let him hear my teeth chattering. “I had to go for a little swim to get out of it.”
There was more static, probably from atmospheric conditions. “You are kidding.”
“Nope; I’m drying my clothes right now.”
“You mentioned help?”
I smiled. “Yep, one of our old buddies is up here-Virgil White Buffalo.” I waited for a response, but there was none. “Are you there?”
Static. “Virgil.”
“Yep, he keeps popping up.”
More static, stronger than the signal this time. “… more to the story than you know…”
I thought about it. “That wouldn’t take much, considering how little I do know.”
The static was so strong now that I could barely hear him. “… need to stay where you are. We are only two and a half miles…”
