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Post by FOTH on May 27, 2013 14:38:43 GMT -6
Memorial Day, and I hope each of you will take a little time out of whatever you're doing today, and remember the price of our freedom. And those over the years who have paid it.
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Time to eat, little one still on his lap, and Einar struggled to manage both tasks at once, Will grabbing for his food and wanting tastes of everything. Liz did not mind this, knowing Will could not take a significant portion of Einar’s breakfast even if he wanted to, and seeing that Einar seemed to find it easier to eat something, himself, while distracted by trying to feed the child and keep him from getting into too much trouble at the table. Susan had joined them by that time, having finished a few phone calls she’d needed to make that morning. Liz, for a change, was able to serve her breakfast also, an omelet of eggs, sharp cheddar cheese, green chilis and sausage, with generous portions of sour cream and Susan’s own home-canned salsa on top, and she was glad for the turn-about, after all Susan had been doing for them.
Though still finding it somewhat physically difficult to do much eating, swallowing reflexes not back to normal and the entire process somehow a good deal more exhausting than a person inexperienced in such matters might have guessed possible, Einar did a pretty good job on his breakfast, managing to keep up with Will’s rate of consumption and perhaps even to surpass him by a bite or two.
As they ate, Susan switched on the radio as she did every morning, tuning in to the local news and weather report out of Clear Springs. It was with some apprehension that she did this on mornings when Bud was away doing his work with the feds—never for, always with, he would correct her, if she ever slipped up and said the former, never working for ‘em, but sometimes working on ‘em—and having been out of communication with him for going on three days at that point, there was an edge to her concern, that morning. There was no news, however, about the search, no report of an avalanche wiping out an overly ambitious team of federal investigators, no arrest of a wayward tracker—obstruction of justice would be the least of the charges, she knew, should that day ever come. They’d have him on material support of a terrorist, and worse. Patriot Act stuff. She’d probably never see him again—and she could only hope that in this case, no news was good news.
The biggest news of the morning came in the form of the weather report, which for the first time in nearly a week and a half was calling for a fair chance of snow, eight to ten inches to fall over the course of the following two days. Studying Einar with some concern as the coming storm was announced, Liz saw him quietly lay down his fork and stare so hard at the curtained window that she wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d been seeing right through the blinds, through the spruces that overhung that side of the house and up into the sky beyond, scrutinizing, judging the likelihood of that offered storm. She could see what he was thinking before he said a word, wanted to shake her head but instead just watched him.
For a moment, easing Will onto his mother’s lap, he stood up straight as a rail—he’d always managed to hold himself straight and tall like that, Liz noted, even at the worst of his exhaustion, when he’d barely had the strength to hold up his own head—no hint of the weariness that had dogged his every step for the last days and had earlier that morning halted his weight lifting endeavors, blue eyes flashing, and in that moment, he was once again the Einar Liz had come to know, the leader, the warrior. Too bad, she thought, that the answer almost certainly had to be no…
“Sounds like it might be our chance, Lizzie. Let the snow come in, make sure it’s wanting to stay around for a while, and head out. Let it cover our tracks, conceal our passing, and we’re home!”
They were quiet for a minute, Einar paying them no heed as his mind wandered through the soon-to-be snowy corridors of spruce, pine and sub-alpine fir which would lead them up away from this house, from civilization, and back into the heard of their mountains, Will tucked snugly away in the fur-lined pouch on his mother’s back, what few possessions they had brought along on his own and their lives once more before them, free, gone without track or trace which the enemy could follow…
It was Susan who finally broke his reverie, Einar starting at her words and sitting down hard in his chair, suddenly dizzy and not entirely steady on his feet. “What about Bud and the feds, though? Don’t you need to wait for Bud to get back and tell us what’s been going on up there, what they’ve found, and where—and where they’re heading next with their search? Hate for you to walk into the middle of something like that, snow or no snow…”
Einar nodded slowly, considering. “Mighty big place up there. We know they were heading for the area of the slide, and planned to go on from there. So, we’ll go off in the opposite direction. Across the highway, into the Wilderness Area over there where the Spires are, where I had my old cache and spent a couple months that fall…they don’t have any reason even to be looking over there. We’ll go to the Spires, Liz. Find one of those narrow, overhung cracks between the rock walls, put up a roof of sorts down inside to keep out any stray snow, and stay there until things really start melting out. This looks like our opportunity.”
Silence from Liz, and he went on. “You know we’ve got to get away from here. You both got to realize that. Before something happens, some curious neighbor or customer or maybe even the feds getting suspicious for some reason…one visit to the house under the wrong circumstances, and it’s over for all of us. That’s got to be remedied, and the sooner the better.”
Well, he’d done it, Liz had to admit, nearly got her agreeing with him once again. He was right, of course, about the dangers posed to them all by their little family continuing to stay on at Bud and Susan’s; every day the risk of discovery inevitably increased, and sooner or later, someone was bound to slip up, some set of circumstances beyond their control conspire to reveal their presence, and then, as Einar had said, it would all be over. Perhaps it made sense to take advantage of the coming storm to make their escape, if they were going to make one… But then she looked at him. Really looked, not at the warrior who had stood before her a moment ago, fire in his eyes and a plan fully formed and ready for execution in his mind, but at Einar the man, who was despite what would surely have been vehement protests to the contrary on his part still severely emaciated and nearly dead. But she couldn’t bring herself to say it.
Susan said it for her. “Do you think you’d make it to the highway?”
“I think we would. Know this place pretty well, and under the cover of snowfall, and partial darkness…”
“You, though. Do you think you could physically make it down there, right now? When you can’t even quite make it from the library to the kitchen without stopping to lean on something and rest, and you start shivering the minute you sit still, even here in the warm kitchen. Is there any reason to think you wouldn’t end up leaving this baby and his mother all alone down there by the highway, with big decisions to make?”
Silence, an angry glare, but he couldn’t answer her, left the table and returned to the library to work on the problem.
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Post by FOTH on May 29, 2013 15:01:55 GMT -6
Snow beginning to fall outside the library window, big, lazy flakes that drifted to the ground to accumulate with a deceptive swiftness that soon had the deck entirely covered, obscuring bits of rock and tree which had after many sunny days been beginning to show, and Einar, pacing from window to window, felt trapped. Knew they ought to be moving, taking advantage of the concealing effects of the storm to cover ground, get themselves to a safer spot where they wouldn’t have to be forever worrying about the next vehicle to come up the driveway, the potential raid which might one night descend on the house, should something arouse the suspicions of the authorities… Halting in his incessant pacing, he braced both arms on a windowsill, stared out at the increasingly heavy swirl of white that had by then all but obscured even the nearest trees. Wished he had a way to contact Kilgore, get a sense for what was going on in the high country, where the search was currently focused and what sort of risk he would be taking leading his family into—or at least through—the search area. As things stood, he lacked a clear idea of the scope of the thing, the expected duration…he was, in fact, almost completely ignorant when it came to this latest scope and intention of the search. Not good to head out from what so far at least had been a reasonably safe location, and into the unknown, without any current intelligence. Without much intelligence at all, Liz would probably say. She seems to think the whole idea of leaving right now is a real bad one in the first place, not saying too much about it, but I can see from the look on her face that she tends to agree with Susan on this one. What a mess. Here lately I’ve started wondering if I ought to just go, myself, head for the hills and let them stay here where they’re among friends and can probably pass as folks other than themselves with Bud’s help. Live a pretty normal sort of life, which they’ll never do with me. Not that I want my boy to live a “normal” life by the standards of the world, really. Was looking forward to raising him these mountains, seeing him grow and change and come to know them and to draw strength from them…
But maybe Susan is right about me, about my probably keeling over and leaving them somewhere between here and the highway if we try to leave right now, and if she is, I got no business abandoning them partway into this thing, leaving Liz to bear the entire burden not only of completing the escape, but of starting a new life for the two of them in the still-winter high country. Without any more supplies than she can carry on her back, while also carrying Will.
Think of it, Einar. What kind of an existence would you be consigning them to? Lizzie is one strong mountain woman, but how long would they really make it out there, under those circumstances? Especially considering that she wouldn’t be able to head back up to the cabin and all of our caches, since we wouldn’t have heard from Kilgore and would have no idea whether or not the place had been discovered by the enemy… Yeah, pretty rough for a full grown adult in decent health to squeak by in times like those…winter conditions, no supplies, I should know, after my first fall and winter out there, and for a woman by herself with a child to care for…would be little short of a death sentence.
Little as you like to face the fact of your own condition, this is one time when you can’t simply keep pushing forward and insisting that you’ll find a way, or make one…you might, seeing as so far you’ve mostly just proven too doggone stubborn to die, even when by all the laws of physiology, biology and common sense you really ought to have done so several times by now, but this time, the cost is simply too high should you prove to be wrong. Can’t risk leaving them all alone somewhere in the snowy woods between here and wherever it is you’re going, and to leave now is definitely to do that. Half the time when you’re ready to go somewhere right now, even just across the room, there’s more than a few seconds’ delay between standing up and actually getting moving, even when you’re trying your hardest to just get up and go, and that time’s increasing. Even when you do gain a little momentum your balance is no good, you really would benefit from a walking stick just to help stay on your feet, and how do you think that’s gonna translate to climbing snowy, timber-covered slopes? Mighty slow work that’ll be, and one of those times when you try to start moving again after a little delay, the message just isn’t gonna get from brain to body, and there you’ll be, a solid block of ice before long, and leaving Liz with the dilemma of whether to try and stop long enough to thaw you out and get your sorry carcass moving again—and maybe risk her own capture by the delay—or go off and abandon you. No way. Not putting her in that position. If you go out there, you go alone, and only after making sure she has a full understanding of what it is you’re doing, and why she’s not to follow. Which, shook his head, sat down heavily on the weight bench, snow falling too heavily now to allow any view but whiteness from the windows, she would never go for, and you know it. Would have to leave without discussing it beforehand, or she’d find some way to stop you. Which, considering Will and all, probably is her right, if it’s ever anyone’s. Which left him right where he’d started from. Trapped. Pacing. Wishing to take advantage of the weather, but unsure how best to do it. * * * Bud watched the advancing weather with a hopeful eye, praying that the storm would descend, and without too much delay. Already the agents, led by Shirley, had begun forming opinions about the trail preserved there beneath the timber, and he knew that unchecked, the current direction of their investigation could well spell disaster not only for the fugitive family, but for their hosts in the valley, as well. Shirley, though understandably not saying much about it, was quickly coming to the conclusion that the second man in the party which had accompanied the dead reporter left tracks which bore an uncanny resemblance to Kilgore’s own, even if his boots had been different ones. Something in his walk, left toe turning out just a bit more than the right, combined with the boot size—certainly not conclusive, on its own, but perhaps part of the puzzle—strongly suggested to him that their tracker might not have been telling the whole truth in his rendition of finding and recovering the body of the avalanche victim. With some of the men beginning to eye him suspiciously and give themselves a bit of separation from him, distance-wise, as they went about their search, Bud figured that the storm could not get there fast enough. |
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Post by icefire on May 29, 2013 18:21:38 GMT -6
Gee, maybe NOW would be a good time for the "other Bill" to leave a few tracks in the new snow (and we KNOW he could make them look like Bud's) for the feds to find, and take suspicion off of Bud!
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Post by FOTH on May 31, 2013 15:40:48 GMT -6
Gee, maybe NOW would be a good time for the "other Bill" to leave a few tracks in the new snow (and we KNOW he could make them look like Bud's) for the feds to find, and take suspicion off of Bud! It would indeed be a good time! Thank you all for reading...  _________________________ Einar alone in the library as he heard Susan and Liz go about their day elsewhere in the house, muted sounds of conversation, plates clinking together as they were washed, the sing-song voice of Will trying out a few new sounds which, it seemed, would soon lead inevitably but no less amazingly to the miracle of speech, and in the quiet he seized hold of the two weights with which he had spent so much time earlier that morning, standing, staying, staring at arms which could not be made to raise them. Might have got angry then, rage lending him a temporary ability to complete the task at hand, far as it might have been beyond his reasonable physical boundaries at the moment, but instead he sat, letting the weights thump to the floor and staring at his own withered hands, arms no bigger around than those of a child, turning them over and inspecting them as if they were foreign objects, wholly unknown to him. The strength that had brought him through those days in the jungle...the same that had got him alive if not entirely unscathed from one end to the other of that terribly difficult first winter in the high country, the loss of his toes and the numerous other injuries and trials this life had brought him over the years…where was it now? Where had it gone? Why could he not call upon it again, to get him through the present difficulty—which, one had to admit, was nothing, really, in comparison to some of the others—so that he could once again be useful to his family, have some chance of making it through the coming month, let alone evading and, in his own way, defeating his enemies? Had he really lost his way so badly as that? Yes, seemed he had, but surely he could make the choice to reclaim that strength, just as he had every day chosen to keep going a week, ten days into his jungle evasion, when he was so dehydrated and weak from fever, blood loss and the other results of his captors’ treatment that he couldn’t keep his legs beneath him half the time and was spending more of his hours lost in a world of hallucination and waking nightmare than he was in the real one…yet somehow he’d managed to keep himself going, win his way to freedom. Ought, he told himself, to be able to apply that resolve to the present situation, call on that strength—built and increased by a lifetime of deliberate challenge—to keep himself eating, gaining strength, weight, rebuilding his physical being and taking himself a bit further from the edge of the abyss on whose dark, precarious rim he seemed always to be dancing of late, balancing, black empty space yawning up from beneath him and a dizzying lightness in his head, movements, which told him without doubt that the fall could easily come at any time, claim him with the next step, and though something in him thrived on the possibility, on the challenge of going on despite its nearness, he did not want the end. Not really. Not with little Will growing and changing so, every day. But instead of helping, the remnants of his old strength seemed always to be working against him. Telling him that he must push himself farther, always a bit farther, that it was the only way. Which it wasn’t. Must not be, though after a lifetime of experience telling him so, it was difficult to bring himself to see that there might be other options. To want to see them, even, for he knew that the sort of strength he needed this time would be the kind that allowed a man to be weak, to admit his weakness, both physical and otherwise, work on it, look—which perhaps he dreaded more than anything, though he denied the fact, even in the quiet of his own thoughts—at the things which had brought him to this point, and which would doubtlessly do so again in the future if he did not find some better way to address them… Not the sort of thing he’d ever tried to do, before. Or wanted to do. And he did not know whether he was capable. Or even willing. * * *
Whiteout conditions on the mountain, and in the timber, the agents huddled ill-prepared and inadequately protected against the force of the wind, having been caught out on that inhospitable slope after the overzealous Shirley, unwilling to abandon the newfound and potentially very valuable evidence presented by the trail beneath the timber, had ordered everyone to stay and go on investigating as the storm swept down on them from the jagged white teeth of the peaks above. This he had done against the advice of Bud Kilgore and the good judgment of all, any with even minimal experience in the mountains knowing that avalanche danger in the area, already high, would grow exponentially with the weight of the additional snow on already highly unstable slopes. A major concern, but one which the party would only concern the party if they managed to live through the night… Wind increasing, no dry wood for a fire and temperatures plummeting towards zero, not even taking the wind chill into account, Bud knew they needed a snow cave if they were to see morning. Trouble was, the scouring force of the wind had left their little pocket of stunted timber nearly devoid of the fresh, soft snow that would have made such a task slightly easier, little remaining atop the hard, icy crust left after so many days of high-altitude sunlight. The very conditions which so greatly increased their chances of avalanche seemed to be conspiring to tremendously reduce their chances of sticking around long enough to find themselves in danger from a slide, and Kilgore, gritting his teeth against the wind, kicked at the slick, icy surface with the heel of his boot, making little headway. Needed a shovel, an ice ax, something with which to dig, and he wished the agents had not abandoned all such devices back at the slide site when they’d begun following the fugitives’ trail up the slope. Now the tools were drifted over or in the process of being so. Bud couldn’t tell, the way the snow was blowing. Couldn’t see much of anything, entire world beyond the nearest trees a maelstrom of icy whiteness. Had to have one of those shovels, and in a hurry; darkness was coming. Rising from the chilled huddle into which each of them had settled, he braced himself, started off in search of the abandoned tools. Shirley stopped him with a shout, voice just bit too high, sounding near panic. “Where’re you going, Kilgore?” “Get a shovel.” Bud had to shout his answer in order to be heard over the wind. “Got to dig in, here. Get out of the wind. Wind’s gonna kill us. Need a shovel.” Shirley was on his feet, arm all wrapped up in the flexible twists of a fir branch as if to prevent himself being torn away by the wind and sent tumbling down the slope below; a real danger. “You’ll stay with the group. Not having the group split up.” “Then you’re all coming with me, because we’ve got to have that shovel. Snow’s all icy. Too hard to dig by hand.” “We don’t have to dig. Can shelter under these emergency blankets until the wind slows. Now sit back down. Nobody is going anywhere.” Shaking his head and turning his back on the shouting agent, Bud started off down the slope, bending his head into the wind. A sudden metallic clanking stopped him in his tracks, and when he whirled around in search of its source, it was to find Shirley no more than two feet behind him, still clinging with one hand to his anchor-tree, service pistol in the other, and it was aimed directly at Bud’s head. “Sit back down, Kilgore. I don’t know what you’re up to, but don’t trust your intentions. You’ll stay with us, until this storm clears.” “You’ll all freeze in this wind and die…” But Shirley clearly did not believe him, gesturing impatiently with the pistol. |
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grizz
New Member
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Post by grizz on Jun 1, 2013 9:26:24 GMT -6
Surely Shirley doesn't think he knows more about the high country than Bud, But of course he does he is in charge, Bud can just sneak away while the agents let themselves sink into hypothermic sleep, but then what another avalanche? with a little help?
Always got us on the edge of our seat FOTH, never taking the easy way out, but then I guess that is the sign of a great author
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Post by FOTH on Jun 3, 2013 8:18:45 GMT -6
Surely Shirley doesn't think he knows more about the high country than Bud, But of course he does he is in charge, Bud can just sneak away while the agents let themselves sink into hypothermic sleep, but then what another avalanche? with a little help?
Always got us on the edge of our seat FOTH, never taking the easy way out, but then I guess that is the sign of a great author Glad to be keeping you on the edge of your seat... Shirley surely is an arrogant fool, and his actions will lead to no good for his party. At least we hope so, or Bud may be in for some real trouble as this investigation progresses! Well, I'm getting restless and am heading for the hills for a couple more days instead of sticking around here and working on a longer chapter…hope you’ll all forgive my absence, the shortness of this chapter, and be around for the next one when I get back. Thank you all for reading. _________________________ Kilgore sat back down with the little group as Shirley had demanded, squinting into the wind as he studied the others, assessing his chances should he decide to make a go of it, disarm the increasingly irrational head of their expedition and take off after the shovel which would allow them shelter, and some chance of seeing the morning. Two or three of the others, he was pretty sure, would respond, come to Shirley’s aid, and unless he was prepared to use the weapon on them, that might very well be the end not only of his attempt, but of other things, as well. Not quite ready to risk so much, and it wouldn’t do to have to explain the bullet holes in several of his companions, should the rest of them make it through the night. Wouldn’t do at all. So he sat, huddling, colder than he would have liked to be but still doing a good bit better than the others because of the layers in which he’d dressed that morning, chilled, but not yet immobile. Some of the others, faces tucked down against bent knees, backs humped against the wind, appeared to be nearing that point, if not already past it. Too bad, he could not help but think, that Shirley wasn’t among them. That might allow him the chance he needed to take charge of the situation and direct the others to some life-saving activity. As it was, he’d probably just have to wait. Which often as not tended to prove deadly under such circumstances as they faced that evening. Well. All he’d got to do was to keep himself sharp, mind alert and body moving in any little way he could manage as a buffer against the increasing grip of the cold, and this he did, occupying himself first with the details of the strategy he hoped to employ when finally he was able to get the better of Shirley and then, those details all hashed out and still nothing changing with the situation, allowing his mind to drift back across the details of past missions—all of them, incidentally, seeming to be in locations where malaria presented a far greater danger than did the possibility of hypothermia, and the fact seemed in some small measure to help keep him warm—reviewing their success or failure and analyzing the for lessons which might be applied to his current situation. Pretty soon though, all lessons and plans aside, it became clear to the tracker that the only strategy which was to matter much on the mountainside that night involved getting himself, and anyone else who wished to survive, out of the killing force of that wind. Had to take some action, and without too much more delay. Shirley’s back was turned, and this time when he rose and started carefully down the snowy slope below, the man made no response, and Kilgore picked up his pace, swinging arms in an attempt to bring himself a bit of warmth, hurrying for the spot where they’d left the by-now buried shovels. Decisions to make… * * *
Still unready to rejoin the cheerful voices out in the kitchen Einar remained in the library, pacing from one window to the other and staring out and the swirling snow, passing him by, time, opportunity, the chance for freedom all passing him by with those falling flakes, and he chafed at his own inaction, at the logic which had led him to conclude that he must not act, even as his every instinct screamed at him to get his family ready and out there, disappearing into the sanctuary offered by the ferocity of that storm. Logic. He’d reasoned it through, listened to the reasoning of Susan and of Liz, and knew the three of them were right, and he must wait. Which knowledge didn’t make the waiting too much easier, really… As to his own dilemma he had no answers, could understand, to some extent, the things that were keeping him going round in circles and all but ensuring that he would continue his enthusiastic dance along the ragged edges of the world until the abyss finally claimed him, but he did not know how to turn that knowledge into action. Into answers. Maybe he didn’t need answers, didn’t have to have them, at least not right away. Ultimately, he knew he’d have to get things figured out but perhaps for the moment, it was enough simply to follow the gentle guidance Liz was always trying to give him, eat her food and wait out the storm, wait for Bud’s return so he could get the latest news of the search and formulate a plan which would give them the best chance of escaping without a trace from beneath the noses of their pursuers. Not an easy thing to do, any of it, as all of those actions—from the eating to the waiting for Bud before leading his family on their departure—meant relying on others in areas of his life where he was long used to being sole decision-maker. Not going to be easy at all, and sitting back down on the weight bench, staring at his feet, at the abandoned weights, he prayed for the strength to do it. Stick with it, for as long as would be necessary. Liz was coming, he could hear her footsteps in the hallway, figured she was coming to get him for another meal of some sort, and he rose to meet her. |
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Post by FOTH on Jun 5, 2013 16:18:08 GMT -6
Back from the hills now, here are a few images from Einar's country...      _______________________________ By the time Bud had succeeded in locating and digging out two of the abandoned avalanche shovels down near the edge of the slide site, Shirley had noticed his absence and nearly got himself talked into following the man out into the howling whiteness, but not quite. If the tracker was abandoning them as the agent suspected, let him go. He wouldn’t make it far in the storm, would be back perhaps would be a bit less reticent when he did return, less difficult to handle. Shirley had taken a distinct dislike to the man, and would have sent him away long before that time, had he not known how seriously they needed his services. Bud was indeed contemplating, as he probed the windswept contours of the new snow with a long aspen stick in search of some hard object which might prove to be a shovel, whether the situation might be best served at that point by his departure. The men would make it through the night, some of them, regardless of his decision, might make it down off the mountain, too, if a slide didn’t take them, and then he’d have some explaining to do. Which could be done, a claim that he’d become disoriented and lost in the whiteout hardly an easy thing to dispute, and he had for some time not liked the direction in which the investigation was heading, the suspicion in Shirley’s eyes as he’d inspected tracks which were clearly Bud’s own, if made by different boots, and the tracker knew that the time to separate himself from the situation had long since come and gone. Yet there was definitely something to recommend keeping one’s enemies close, especially with the evidence they’d so far collected and its implications should agents succeed at getting it back to the lab, and where better to keep his eye on the progress of the search than from squarely in its center? Digging, freeing one shovel and then another, the tracker shook his head, shivered against the wind and tucked the tools under an arm, heading back up the slope. Not time to leave, not just yet, with the outcome of the party’s night so uncertain. Needed to stick around and observe—if not heavily influence—that outcome. Would just have to hope that the opportunity would still exist to separate himself from the group if that necessity did present itself in an urgent fashion, sooner or later. There were things Shirley did not know, both about himself and the manner in which he had come equipped on that particular expedition and, so long as he kept himself alert to the changing mood amongst the men and to Shirley’s intentions, these things gave him a definite advantage, even should the situation sour. Rousing himself to some semblance of alertness as the tracker trudged back up the last few yards of steep, snowy slope, Shirley stumbled to his feet and greeted Bud with a scowl, pistol gripped uncertainly in a hand too numbed even beneath its glove to be particularly reliable, and Bud knew it. “Said to stick with the group, Kilgore.” “Group’s dying. Gonna end up with a dozen casualties come morning, if you don’t do something about this wind. Want to help me dig?” With which he thrust a shovel in the man’s general direction, Shirley unable to both keep his hold on the pistol and prevent the tool from falling to the snow where he feared, only slightly irrationally, that it would become hopelessly lost to them. This momentary hesitation led to a fumbling struggle in which Shirley dropped pistol and shovel both, Bud diving for the former and tucking it into his own belt before the cold and half stupefied agent could come to grips with what was happening. Digging and scraping at the snow, Shirley finally succeeded in locating the second shovel but not his pistol, giving up after a time and joining Bud where already he had dug a fair distance into the nearest snowdrift, doing his best to create the windbreak that might give them all a chance to make it through the night. Even with the windbreak—dished-out cleft in the snowdrift, too shallow to be called a cave as its diggers had run out of energy before quite getting it to that point, though serving some of the same purpose—the night was no easy thing for those faced with its fury. With Shirley and the others now firmly on board and more than a little apprehensive about their own survival, Bud did his best with what they had available to them, cutting branches from the few stunted, snow-plastered firs that were within easy distance and leaning them up against the open end of the cleft-like shelter which had been the end result of an hours’ digging, weaving and crisscrossing them as well as he could do in the darkness and the gale to help break the force of the wind when it swirled around on them as mountain winds are wont to do, several of the men taking turns helping him with the collection and weaving of the boughs. Though with shouted encouragement, threats and finally curses, Bud did his utmost to motivate each of the men to do his share in the shelter enhancements and simply to keep moving, this effort met with limited success, several of them already having slipped far enough into a hypothermic near-slumber that they remained crouched against the hollowed out back of the snowbank, all but oblivious to their surroundings. Shirley was not among these and, arrogant and misguided as his behavior may have been earlier in the day, he possessed enough intelligence to comprehend, even with his limited experience in the mountains, the dire state of their situation, and a level of humility which had been quite beyond the grasp of several of his predecessors who had headed up Mountain Task Force, Toland Jimson chief amongst them. Soon he was giving Kilgore all the help he could offer, cutting, at the tracker’s shouted suggestion, limber evergreen boughs, shaking from them as much snow as he could manage and herding the less able-bodied of his men to one corner of the shelter while he lined the floor of the other end with these insulating branches. Though most of the men would, Bud knew, do quite well if simply removed from the wind and kept from sitting directly on the vast heat sink of the cold ground, several of them appeared to have rather passed the point where these measures would prove sufficient, and for these he knew they would need some source of heat, some way to replace a bit of the energy their bodies had already spent in trying to stay warm. Had they been able to dig a true snow cave, a single candle might have done it, warmed the air by a number of degrees and made a real difference, but such a small heat source would be inadequate in the open-fronted shelter which they’d ended up creating. This meant a regular fire was in order, and once more braving the windstorm outside, Kilgore felt his way up to the bent bodies of the little firs, seeking anything which might resemble dry wood. Little remained untouched by the snow, but cold as it was, this had not begun to melt, and he was able to collect and shake dry a fair-sized heap of little sticks, the foundation for the small fire which he subsequently built in a pit near the front wall of the shelter, up against the green boughs which formed its wind-screen, not wanting to bring down the ledge of snow which remained above to shelter them. They had to keep it small, but the fire did its job. Separated from the cold surface of the snow, warmed by Bud’s fire and shielded more or less from the wind, a number of them were soon faring better or at least no longer losing ground, much to Shirley’s relief and Bud’s silent half-dismay. Was looking as though the storm wasn’t going to do his job for him, at least not that night. Time, when morning came, for another strategy. Looked like he’d have a long night to think it through, to plan. |
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Post by FOTH on Jun 7, 2013 15:30:52 GMT -6
Finally rejoining the others in the kitchen at Liz’s invitation—she wanted him to eat again if he could, and figured, though she knew he’d disagree, that he might benefit from the added warmth of the stove—Einar sat watching as Susan rinsed and drained a batch of barley and wheat sprouts, lightly roasting them the oven before grinding them, now dry, into flour for the sprouted bread for which she was semi-famous in the community. The process fascinated him, captured his imagination as anything and everything related to the preparation of food tended to do those days, and the watching helped him keep still, occupied if not content. Contentment would have come only in pitting himself against the fury of the storm which still raged on outside, leaning into the sharp bite of that wind as he pressed forward up a timbered slope, scouted out conditions on the ridge and planned for their departure, but as such activities were unwise if not inaccessible at the moment—maybe both, with Susan carrying that .45 and he not too quick on his feet—he did his best to focus on the bread-making, gladly nodding and joining in when Susan asked if he’d like a turn at the kneading.
Though glad to be part of the work, Einar did not join in the conversation, remaining silent, withdrawn, lost in his own thoughts even as his senses remained alert for any hint that things might be going amiss outside, danger approaching. He did not expect it in this storm, but one can never be sure, especially down near civilization where aircraft of various descriptions did not always play a vital role in such a raid; the enemy could just as easily come by land down here as by air. Staring out the window as he thought, Einar whirled around with a start when Susan spoke.
“I think it’s had enough kneading, now. Time to put it in the oven.”
A sheepish grin from Einar as he handed over the dough. “Yep, guess it’s more than ready, isn’t it?”
“I would say so! Now have a seat while I get this in the oven, because it looks like Liz has something ready for you.”
Which she did, having prepared a big mug of the banana, peanut butter and milk mixture which had seemed to be agreeing pretty well with Einar when he could bring himself to try it, this time replacing most of the peanut butter with Nutella and giving Will—riding on her stomach in a sling, where he could, to his great delight, be right in the center of the action at all times—little tastes when he grabbed for the spoon. In addition to the mug, Liz had laid out various little measuring cups at Einar’s place at the table, and remembering his agreement to let her lead him for a while—and where, exactly, are we going? Not sure I like this—he made no objection when she told him to drink what he assumed were portions of the various minerals and supplements with which Susan had the previous day returned from town.
Had Susan prepared the repast, he might not have been able to bring himself to partake. Certainly not without first carefully inspecting the bottle from which each substance was taken, reading the labels and making sure no tampering had occurred before he tasted anything, but only Liz had been involved in the preparation, and taking what was for him a giant leap of faith in her he sat, gulped down the contents of the little cups, one by one.
No immediate consequences as he sat there holding his breath, half expecting, despite himself—she wouldn’t do that to you, and you know it—to begin feeling irresistibly groggy, holding onto consciousness just long enough to see the two women coming at him with the webbing straps with which they intended to restrain him, tie him down until he’d been compelled to take in an amount of nutrients they saw fit, a process which would doubtless be repeated several times daily for a week or two, at the least… Shook his head, took a big breath, beginning to feel the lack of oxygen and not wanting to get it mixed up with any other effect that might be beginning to creep in. Sure, they might be wanting to do something like that, might have thought about it, but they hadn’t done it yet and he did not believe it was part of the plan. Certainly not for Liz. She sure was looking at him strangely though, and he glanced away, not knowing what to make of it and supposing perhaps she wasn’t looking at him at all, but at some object beyond him in the room. Not the case.
“What’s the matter with you? Can’t you breathe? Did something go down the wrong pipe, or what?”
Realized that he’d been holding his breath again, quit it. “Can breathe. Nothing wrong. Stuff just tastes weird, that’s all.”
“Says the guy who happily snacks on wolverine liver and the fermented contents of elk stomachs…” she laughed. “I didn’t know anything tasted weird to you!” Einar didn’t answer, and she could see that he wasn’t finding nearly so much humor in the situation as she had been. Scooting Will over onto her hip, she sat down next to him.
“It’s hard. I know. You’d rather not be doing any of this. But you’re doing fine. Just keep it up, and things will get better. Easier. You’re already feeling a little better, aren’t you? A little more energy?”
He shrugged. “Guess so. Can really feel the iron, when I take it. More alert all of a sudden, and a little less tired. Helping, I think. And of course there’s energy in the food, and I can feel that, but…”
“You’d rather quit again, is that it?”
“Don’t like to say it, but yeah. Really like to do that.”
“You know where that leads, though. Right?”
“Yeah. Guess I know the facts. Even if I would like very much to challenge them at times, prove them wrong… But you see, my mind just keeps going round and round about it. On the one hand, I know now without too much doubt that I can keep going, push my body further and further, live on less and less until it finally gives out, and what’s more I can perform useful work along the way the entire time, until the very end. I know that because I’ve almost been there so many times, and I like that fact, like knowing that I can keep myself on my feet and active until everything’s gone and I lie down for the last time, but really, what’s the point? That doesn’t prove anything, does it? If I keep going and things end that way. Only proves that I’m too stubborn once on a set course of action to stop and consider whether or not it makes sense to continue in that direction…”
She nodded. “I think that’s a good way to look at it.”
“Yeah, maybe. Guess some things would change pretty fast with me if I could really see it that way, but it doesn’t stop there. I start debating with myself, the other half of my brain coming right back and saying that actually, yes, it does prove something. Proves that I have the will and the strength to do it, to endure anything that comes, and that has value. Is worth the cost. Any cost. And I really believe that, and if it was just me, I think there would probably be no question, no reason to take a second look at what I’ve been doing. But then I think of you, and of this little guy here, and it starts all over again, the argument.
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Post by gipsysmith on Jun 10, 2013 13:46:49 GMT -6
Perhaps the light is starting to come on.
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Post by FOTH on Jun 10, 2013 15:21:42 GMT -6
Perhaps the light is starting to come on. That light just seems to flicker on and off. Maybe Einar needs a new bulb, or something! ;D _____________________________ No one felt much like talking that night as they huddled cold and weary around Kilgore’s little fire, jostling and occasionally shoving for position as each sought a place nearer the flames. No one seemed interested in venturing out into the still-howling storm to gather more sticks when the pile began growing short, so the task was left to Bud, with the eventual help of Shirley, who he all but dragged out of the shelter with him and set to work snapping off the mostly dry, snow-free dead branches that tended to linger beneath the narrow canopies of each stunted little subalpine fir. Bud knew it would be a long night of such trips, trying to keep a fire going with such small stuff, but the terrain presented no other options, so far as he could see. No large fallen trees from which they could hack or saw pieces, even had they possessed the tools. Which they did not, having left everything of the sort back at a base camp rendered entirely unreachable just then by the fury of the storm. Bad planning, to be sure, and the sort of situation in which Bud would have liked to leave a group of students—had they been his students—entirely on their own for a few hours to fade the consequences and learn their lesson about the seriousness of travel in the winter backcountry, only in this case, said students had appeared unlikely to make it through the night had he abandoned them to the natural results of their poor choices. A situation not wholly objectionable to him under the circumstances, except that he was known to be along, and as the only survivor of such a night, would face far too much scrutiny back in town. Didn’t need that just then, not considering the sort of houseguests he and his wife were currently hosting. If he was to come back alone— which you’d doggone well be considering, seeing the sort of evidence them fellas were managing to collect, and the sort of suspicion you saw in that snake Shirley’s eyes as he inspected those “mystery tracks”—he would need a plausible explanation. Breaking another handful of sticks he tucked them under his arm, shuffled back towards the crowded little shelter, grumbling under his breath, stopping, a slow grin spreading through several days’ worth of salt-and-pepper stubble that he wished was a bit further advanced so it might offer him more protection against the cold. Had an idea… * * *
Liz felt trapped, frustrated, at a loss. Seemed she’s been here before, right here in the very same place with Einar, and more than once. Every time it appeared something might be changing just a bit, that he’d had some small revelation or resolved that things must, for one reason or another, change, they ended up right in this very spot together before the change had been given time to have much of an impact. To do anything beyond giving him the energy his battered body needed to somehow hang on for a few more days. Which was something, but it wasn’t enough, and could not go on forever, despite what he might think, despite the fact that already it had been doing so for months on end. Even his agreeing to let her lead him, to trust, follow and not question for a while—she could see him struggling to stick to it, working hard to carry out the motions, but even that, she feared, was temporary. He’d be back to his standard mode of existence just as soon as she stopped insisting, demanding. Which made the entire thing somewhat of an exercise in futility. Except that it was keeping her son’s father alive for the moment, which meant that it was not entirely futile. He was staring at her—or through her—waiting, she supposed, for her to say something. Or maybe he was simply in a daze, too weary to do anything else. Or listening intently for sounds coming from outside. Anymore, it was difficult for her to tell the difference. He startled when she put a hand on his arm, sat up straighter. “This argument you’re having with yourself…I can see that it would be really difficult to come to a conclusion, the way you keep going back and forth on it. And I know it’s got to be absolutely exhausting, having to go through this repeated debate in your mind before doing even a little thing like finishing a glass of banana milkshake. Or even starting it. What would seem to us like a little thing, but it isn’t to you. I know that. But you need to try and put all that aside for now, and just eat. Things probably aren’t going to make complete sense to you until you really take some time and give your brain and body adequate fuel for a while. The argument may never reach a conclusion, and you’ll just stay stuck here, going round and round in circles until it ends. Can you do that? Set it all aside, focus on eating, just let the rest of it come later?” Susan was nodding, not leaving him time to object. “You know she’s right. It’s what you need to do. A person’s brain can’t work right without a certain amount of nutrition, energy…things really would be so much easier for you if you could just do like Liz is saying and focus on getting plenty to eat every day for a week or two. Things would start looking clearer, and think what you could do with all that extra energy!” Exasperated but trying not to let it show, Einar crossed his arms—cold, and he started shivering, pressed hard against his middle with his crossed arms in an attempt to get it to stop—head bowed, staring at the mug in front of him, white with an intricate little pattern of blue flowers and leafy tree limbs, feeling rather nauseous at the thought of consuming its contents. Things were getting too complicated, and all he wanted was to flee to the timber, push himself up a good fifteen hundred feet of treacherous, snowy slope, find a good dense thicket of firs and hunker down in the snow. Where no one would be able to find him. Instead— coward. What are you really afraid of? Not the enemy, apparently, because they’d find you pretty quick, leaving that sort of trail… You’re afraid of a houseful of women, then? Is that it? One of them your wife and the other her friend, a fine lady and really not a threat of any sort. Is this what it’s come to?—he grabbed the mug, drained it in three big gulps, nearly choking as a result. “Doing it.” While encouraged at Einar’s apparent willingness, the glance exchanged by Susan and Liz said that both knew this was not the end of it, not a real solution. That, it seemed, would have to wait until he was really ready. Whenever—if ever—such time might come. |
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Post by gipsysmith on Jun 12, 2013 10:15:21 GMT -6
swap it for an LED and a new battery is what he needs
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Post by FOTH on Jun 12, 2013 15:17:33 GMT -6
swap it for an LED and a new battery is what he needs Hey, that might do it! ________________________ Up and out of the makeshift shelter long before the others with the return of daylight, Bud did a quick assessment of the area, snow still falling, though not as heavily as before, and all around ominous signs as to the stability of the newly burdened snowpack. The stuff sunk under him as he walked, lower layers settling with a hollow, sickening whump whenever he stepped too far from one of the trees, and after a few such incidents he stuck carefully to the more heavily timbered areas, few as they were up so high. Everyone, so far as he could tell, had made it through the night without too much damage, though he had little doubt there would be some frostbitten fingers and toes amongst the men. Shirley, after taking inventory, was even more sure of the thing Bud had only supposed. Two of the men had fairly serious finger damage, and though it did not appear anyone was likely to lose toes, the situation was sure to worsen should they have to spend another night ¬out there with minimal shelter, no dry socks and only a couple of granola bars left between them. Water they did have, but only because of the efforts of Shirley and one of the other agents, a first-year recruit from Montana, who had stayed up a good portion of the night tending one of only two water vessels that had not been left down at the bottom of the slide area when the storm set in—a stainless steel bottle belonging to Bud—and passing its slightly warmed contents around in turns as they painstakingly converted dry, high-altitude snow to water over the little fire. Bud had to admit a grudging respect for the man and his persistence, even after their little disagreement that past day which had ended up with Shirley pointing a pistol at his face… This was a man who would go places, a natural leader. Which places—a grim chuckle from Bud—and exactly how quickly, and on what sort of trajectory, were yet to be determined. It was clear to Bud, and to Shirley, joining him beneath his chosen shelter-tree and watching a somber grey light creep across slopes of flat, unbroken white, that they needed to go down. Any tracks they might have hoped to follow, any further evidence they may have been hoping to collect on the fugitive party’s backtrail—it was all gone beneath the snow, as they might well end up themselves, if prompt action was not taken. The difficulty came in deciding exactly what sort of action to take. Bud, though he did not say so at first, waiting instead to see what Shirley’s plan would be, was all for taking the straightest safe line down the mountain—if such could be found—and waking out to the nearest spot where either choppers or snow machines could come and haul them down the rest of the way. Chopper evacuation from anywhere near their current elevation was out of the question, unless they were to wait until the weather broke a bit, and neither he nor Shirley believed they had that much time. Not all of them, anyway. Not the men already suffering frostbitten fingers, and with toes heading in the same direction. Shirley shared Bud’s concerns, was intelligent enough, though far less experienced in the mountains, to see that they were all heading for disaster if they tried to stick out for another night up on that high slope, but he had other priorities in addition to the welfare and safe return of the men in his charge. Shirley was thinking of the evidence, of the numerous samples they risked losing irretrievably should they fail to stop back by their base camp before evacuating. When he expressed to Kilgore his desire to make a pass by base camp before heading down, the tracker remained silent for a long moment, mentally debating his best course of action. The return to base camp—any return, by any possible route—that day meant to place themselves at serious risk of getting caught in an avalanche or two, which, he could not deny, might well prove just the opportunity he had been looking for. Lead them into a trap. Return alone. Or, just as likely, not at all, not being the most experienced winter mountaineer, himself. Hadn’t even been skiing since sometime in his 20s, and knew he might easily misjudge the danger, miss the signs and go down with them. He opted, then, to try and keep everyone alive, at least for the moment. Which meant challenging Shirley on his desire to return to base camp. “Awful open in that direction, you know. Pretty good chance for slides. Best if we head straight down from here, follow this spur of timber and hope it leads us down into a lower basin where things aren’t so steep, open, unstable…” “Not happening. No way I’m leaving all that evidence there to be drifted under by the wind, swept away by another slide or even tampered with by Asmundson and his lot, if by some chance they’re still up here. We’ve got to recover it. Should only take a few hours, and then we can head down the way you’re describing. Or some better way, if we see one between now and then.” Bud shrugged. “Go if you got to, but how about I stay here with most of the men? Cut down on disturbance to the slopes you got to cross, maybe reduce the chances of a slide, and leave somebody uninjured to come dig you out when the mountain lets go.” “You know what I think about breaking up the group. We’ll stay together. Now I know you kept us alive through the night, Kilgore, you and your mountain man skill, but I have to wonder what else you’ve been doing with those skills. Where you’ve been, and with whom. You’re on my radar, tracker, and no whiteout is going to change that. We’re going together, and you’ll travel in the center of the group. I’ll lead this time.” A blank stare from Bud, who had plenty of responses he would have liked to use, but decided it best to remain silent at the moment, seeing as several others had emerged from the shelter and were watching them. Later. The time would come. For now… “Surely, Shirley. Middle of the group it is. Better get them men moving, if you don’t want them to sit there and freeze their toes off now that the fire’s gone out and no one else is collecting sticks to keep it going.” “No one’s going to freeze. Half an hour out to base camp, then straight down the mountain. We didn’t get that much snow. I know how you operate, overestimating the dangers, trying to manipulate this operation. Not falling for it, tracker. The game is up. Now you’re going to wait right here while I go pry the men out of that shelter for the day. Bud waited, considering, hacking idly at the nearby snow with a spruce stick, digging, inspecting, weighing the odds… |
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