I can hear the rope as a thin whisper against textured tree bark. Then the sound becomes a little louder. Miggy grimaces, the rope definitely unspooling faster now. He leans back, putting more weight into his makeshift braking system.
“How . . . much . . . further . . . ?” he shouts out. But there’s no answer.
He gives me a single look and I spring into action. But my weight barely makes a difference.
“More . . . friction.”
Standing behind Miggy, I spy a skinny fir near me and run around to the other side, adding a small cog to Miggy’s tree-based pulley system. The rope slows slightly before once more starting to accelerate as the racing cord shreds the bark from the anchor trees, reducing the friction and increasing the weight of the load. Miggy grits his teeth. We both throw our weight against the pull, Miggy’s muscled arms bulging, my scrawny sticks screaming. Then . . .
The rope goes slack. So much so that Miggy and I both almost topple over. We don’t hear yelling or cursing. Quickly we scramble forward and peer down.
Bob and Scott are standing way beneath us. Bob is wearing a huge grin, while Scott is partially keeled over, laughing hysterically.
“That was fantastic!” Bob booms up at us. “Again!”
Miggy sways. Before I can catch him, he falls to his knees. I stumble down in alarm. But he’s not collapsing, he’s not crying. He’s just shaking his head.
“I can’t believe that actually worked,” he mutters. Then his eyes rise to meet mine: “I’ll be damned if Tim wouldn’t be proud of us right now. Son of a bitch, he would’ve loved this.”
CHAPTER 31
The sky is darkening by the time we finish our strenuous descent. We’re an exhausted, messy group of misfits as we splash our way across the stream at the bottom of the hill and stumble our way into the clearing. Bundled in the travois, Neil opens glazed eyes.
“Please tell me . . . done.”
“Almost,” Scott soothes his friend. Scott’s feverish coloring has now faded to ash white, and he’s spent the past twenty minutes shivering uncontrollably. The temperature has plummeted with the sun, but Scott’s shaking clearly has more to do with his internal thermostat than the outside.
“I need out,” Neil moans.
I can’t blame him. We’ve been banging him about like a human doll for hours. If he wasn’t in pain before, he certainly should be by now. I’m not sure I’ve ever felt so wrung out, but then, I’ve been saying that for days. Apparently, physical exertion is a never-ending scale, and as fast as you think you’ve reached your limit, there’s still more to go.
Now we all stare at the growing shadows self-consciously. Bob has the rifle slung over his shoulder, trigger at the ready. I tell myself nightfall is good. The dark offers cover. The late hour meaning we’re that much closer to imminent rescue. Surely Nemeth, Luciana, and Daisy have hit the town by now. I picture them on the phone with this highly respected Sheriff Kelley. Then some cool, movie-set airfield where a chopper is even now revving to life, filled with eagle-eyed search experts who are heavily armed and bearing platters of hot food. While I’m at it, I add a steaming bubble bath to the rear cargo section, even if it does strain credibility.
In real life, we make our way to a line of pine trees, then stare at one another uncertainly.
This is the same area where we broke for snacks just two days ago. When we were younger and fresher. When Martin was still alive, and the college buddies had only their grudges to nurse and I thought my impulsive decision to join a wildland search was an adventurous lark. Now we look like earthquake survivors, and not all of us made it out of the rubble.
Bob peers up in the direction from which we came. He holds up a hand for silence, and we do our best to quiet our labored breathing. We listen for sounds of crashing tree limbs, advancing footsteps, sliding rocks. Mostly, I can hear my thundering heart. Then, as my pulse slowly calms, the sounds of night emerge around me. The whine of insects, a growing chorus of frogs, a lone owl’s inquiring call.
My pulse slows more. Such a busy place, the grand outdoors. We are the interlopers with our enormous appetites and booming guns. I wish we could truly settle, spend a single evening savoring the cacophony of life all around us.
But while we don’t hear any sign of our pursuer just yet, it’s only a matter of time. Once he investigates the camp closer and realizes we’ve abandoned our post, his next logical step is to pursue us down the lone trail leading out of the canyon.
Maybe our hunter will decide he has all the time in the world to catch such wounded prey, and not rush on our account. Stop and have a hot meal first. Take a nap. Wash up in the lake. Make himself look his very best before tracking down and shooting five innocent people. More wishful thinking on my part, but it’s all I’ve got.