One Step Too Far(Frankie Elkin #2)(76)

“Need . . . more people . . . to carry. Not enough . . . people.”

Now I almost do cry. Because we’re not enough people. I am not enough people. I have never been enough people.

Bob speaks up. “We can do this. Just . . . need a moment.”

“Fuck that.” Miggy turns to Scott. “We don’t need more bodies. We need better physics.”

Scott straightens up, his gaze sharpening. “Rope and pulley? But we don’t have pulleys.”

“We do have rope.” Miggy turns to Bob. “Don’t suppose you have any anchor plates, D rings, or mechanical grab devices in your pack?”

“Um, I have a few D-shaped carabiners?”

Miggy contemplates. “Rope, carabiners”—he glances around—“and all the trees and boulders a person could desire. What do you say, Scott?”

Tired, strangled moan. “Nerd powers activate.”

“That’s the spirit. All right. New plan.”



* * *



—

We all comb through our packs, producing every carabiner we can find. I had no idea carabiners came in so many shapes and sizes, not to mention pretty metallic colors, but no one except me seems impressed by that detail. Miggy and I take up position with the piles of gear beside Neil’s semiconscious form while Scott and Bob stumble off to recon available woodland features. I unsheathe my evil blade, ready to attack rope, though my fingers are so thick and swollen it might result in the loss of a digit. Miggy doesn’t want shorter segments, however, but longer.

In the end, I play go fish with nylon cords, matching them by approximate width and flex as Miggy starts tying together the similar pieces in a series of lightning-fast knots.

“Fire and knots,” I mutter. “Former Boy Scout?”

“Yep.”

“But you don’t love camping?”

“Hey, I was there for the soapbox derby cars. Even from a young age, I had a need for speed.”

I don’t know car design, and I’ve never been good at physics. But as Miggy explains it, the intent of this particular rope-and-pulley system is to use the pulleys to create enough friction to lighten the load of the descending weight. Given we don’t have actual mechanical pulleys, Miggy plans on using two to three natural formations handpicked by Scott to wind the rope through and around in a fancy figure-eight.

Rope will be forced to twist left around this tree, then right around that tree, creating the friction necessary to naturally slow the descent of the travois while easing the burden on the two bottom hikers trying to catch it.

Sounds good to me, though given all of Miggy’s muttered cursing, I gather it’s not quite that simple. Or maybe even possible.

Scott and Bob return with their tree choices, and after one final sigh, prayer, and expletive, Miggy declares we’re ready.

Miggy and I glove up. Miggy will be the primary for slowly feeding the rope into the elaborate tree-trunk system. I get to serve as backup, in case the friction isn’t enough and the rope starts uncoiling too fast. Which leaves Bob and Scott to serve as the descending hikers. If Miggy and I do our job right, Miggy explains, the weight should be low enough for Scott to handle.

Miggy threads the rope through the system, using a few carabiners to guide it around select trees, then connects the rope to the head of the travois. Then Bob and Scott each take a pole at Neil’s feet and start their initial descent. Within seconds, the travois is tilted sharply upright, with Bob and Scott having to fight to keep it from plummeting down. Miggy yanks the rope hard to the left as it wraps around the tree closest to him, creating a temporary brake. Then the adventure begins.

In the beginning, I’m a big fan of the system. For one thing, I get to stand around and do nothing, which is about all I feel capable of. For another, even Miggy seems at ease as he unwinds the rope bit by bit through the first carabiner, around the first giant tree trunk.

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.”