One Step Too Far (Frankie Elkin #2)(78)

Miggy draws up short. We come to a crashing halt beside a slight bend in the stream. In the falling light, I can just make out a pile of moss-covered rocks, then a giant hollow formed by a toppled pine tree. Half its roots are now ripped out of the ground, standing at attention like a massive, fan-shaped wall. Between the gentle cradle in the ground and the thick backdrop for defense, it is the perfect resting spot for a group of humans looking to disappear.

Miggy has done good.

We start setting up camp in the dip of cool earth. We left our sleeping bags and tents behind, but I’d grabbed all the emergency blankets I could find, given the nighttime temps. Now I pull them all from my pack and start doling them out. The blankets are thin and crinkly, but with a silvery lining designed to reflect body heat; they’re warmer than they look. Bob removes a heavy-duty black garbage bag and spreads it on the ground to create a barrier between the damp earth and his body. We all quickly follow suit.

“Out,” Neil moans from the travois. “Please!”

Miggy and Scott work on untying Neil from the travois and help him sit up. He winces, holding his head.

“Fuck me,” he states. He tries to stand. Miggy catches him just before he falls. This time, Neil stays seated next to the travois. “Not getting back into that . . . ever again.”

None of us argue.

“We don’t have any of the instant cold packs left,” I offer up finally, “but I could ice down a bandana in the stream.”

“We’re near a river? Freezing-cold water?”

“Pretty cold.”

“Take me . . . to it.”

He holds up his arms. Miggy grabs him from one side. Scott attempts the other, then gasps as it pulls at the infected wound in his chest.

I nudge him aside and take over. One invalid at a time.

It’s only ten feet to the stream, which is good, because I don’t think Neil could’ve made it an inch farther. Now unwrapped from his cocoon, he’s shivering hard. When we get the water’s edge, he collapses onto all fours.

“How deep?”

Miggy shines his flashlight on the water. I stick my hand in and move it around. “Shallow,” we declare at the same time.

“Awesome. I’m gonna . . . on my back. Can you . . . put head. Just let water . . . flow over. Need cold. Very cold. Please . . . be fucking freezing.”

I get what he’s doing. Using the stream itself as an ice pack to both clean his wound and help reduce the swelling. Not a bad idea, especially given the day’s abuse of his already-concussed brain.

It takes both Miggy and me to get him in position. We all end up wet. And yet, the second the back of Neil’s head makes contact with the cool stream, his sigh of relief is palpable.

Miggy and I stay on either side of him, squatting in the rocky streambed to help cradle his neck. We’ll need to get out of these wet clothes the second we return to the tree hollow. Bundle up for the impending chill. But for now, witnessing Neil’s badly needed respite, it’s worth it.

“If the chopper doesn’t make it tonight . . . tomorrow I walk. No travois . . . litter . . . death trap. Done.”

Miggy and I both nod, then exchange glances above Neil’s head. Rescue chopper had better make it tonight.

Finally, Neil’s had enough. We help him sit up, then give him a moment to get his bearings. Miggy examines the head wound by the beam of his flashlight. I think it looks slightly better, but that could be more fanciful thinking on my part.

Neil holds out his arms; we help him to standing. At least his steps back to our little encampment are stronger than the ones he took away from it.

We lower him onto a trash bag. Miggy peels off Neil’s soaking-wet T-shirt. I dig out a long-sleeve top from his pack, then add a flannel shirt and jacket over that. Miggy handles the redressing, then tends to his own clothes.

I turn my back to the men to strip off my top layers. Then realizing how much I soaked my pants in the stream, I change out of them as well. We’re all much too exhausted to worry about things like modesty.

I pull on all the layers I have left in my pack, then grab one of the crinkly blankets and wrap it around my shoulders. I’m still cold. We all are.

“Fire?” Miggy asks Bob softly.

“The smell of the smoke . . .” Bob shrugs. In other words, no.

We all nod morosely, no one surprised. We’re a pathetic little crew. Terrified and wrung out, but hanging in there. One by one, we peer up at the sky. Looking, listening, for a sign of our imminent rescue.

Not yet.

I recover Josh’s stash of chocolate candies and start doling them out. We each get three mini peanut butter cups, though Bob tries to wave his off.

“I’m not that into chocolate.”

“Everyone’s into chocolate. Come on, we all need each other to remain as strong as possible. Take them.”

Bob eyes the gold foil with longing, then caves with a sigh, snatching up the candies and cradling them like precious gems. I understand. I can’t decide whether to eat mine or simply inhale the intoxicating scent over and over.

Just yesterday, I promised myself that if I survived this expedition, I’d never eat granola again. Now, I think if I just survive this trip, I’ll never complain about granola again.

One by one, we polish off our treats. Scott produces two PowerBars. We break them into thirds, creating six shares for five people. Scott hands the extra share to Bob. “Because you’re, like, twice our size.”