Over the Edge

-4-

Evan fought his way back to consciousness. Pain racked his body in waves of scarlet lightning. He didn't know what had happened; could barely remember his name, couldn't imagine at all where he was or why he hurt so badly everywhere or why it was so damn cold.

But he knew he had to open his eyes. Had to see – what?

It shouldn't be so hard to just open his eyes.

But it was. It seemed like the hardest thing he'd ever had to do.

When he finally managed to pry them open his vision was blurry and thick stickiness ran into his eyes. He reached up to rub them and –

Oh, God!

Pain like he'd never felt before rolled over him, stealing his breath before he could even groan in protest. Nausea twisted his stomach and he clamped his jaws closed. Not here, not now!

Gradually, minutely, the pain eased just a bit. The fire cooled. He panted, gasping for air even as the cold flowed in, freezing him from the inside out.

"Okay, moving the right arm is bad."

He startled to hear his own voice over the roaring in his ears. He hadn't realized he'd even opened his mouth, much less spoken.

But he couldn't hear anything else. Where was he? Was he all alone?

Try opening the eyes again…

This time he was expecting the – whatever it was – to rush into his eyes. He gratefully realized his left arm worked, sort of. He couldn't seem to figure out where his fingers were, but he swiped his wrist at his eyes and that helped. The substance smelled rusty, familiar…blood? Was he bleeding?

Braver now – well, actually, just more desperate, he forced his eyes open. It was dark. Night. But he was staring into the sky and the full moon shone above him, giving everything around him a silver sheen. But – he seemed to be hanging? Something wrapped around his waist, keeping him from falling into –

Into –

There was someone next to him. Crumpled into a ball below him. Face turned upwards, toward the moon. A face that didn't look like a face, all covered with more… blood?

Was that… that couldn't be… not Ford, not his brother, not his white blond hair in the silver cold night…!

No!

No, not Ford –

Ty.

The name came to his mind, slowly, from somewhere inside. Ty.

"Ty?" he whispered.

No response. And suddenly he knew there wouldn't be one. Ever. Ty's glazed eyes were unseeing. And the angle of his neck –

Nausea tore through Evan again and he slammed his eyes closed. "Ty," he said again, a broken whisper in the cold night.

His friend was dead.

But—

And then everything came crashing back, flooding his mind in visions and half-heard snatches of words. The game, going to The Cave. Ty laughing about borrowing his mom's Mustang, her "baby". Leaving and getting in the convertible and heading back to Murphys. Ty driving, too fast; Evan yelling at him to slow down, trying to grab the wheel…

The car crashing through the guard rail, tires leaving the road and soaring out into space.

Knowing his brothers were in the back—

His brothers!

Ford. Guthrie.

Panic wrenched his eyelids apart and he looked around wildly, he couldn't see, the moonlight…where were they? Where were his brothers?

Were they even alive?

"Ford!" He yelled, crumpling under the crash of pain as he drew in a breath. But he didn't care, he didn't matter, he had to find them.

"Guthrie! Ford! Where are you?"

The shattered remnants of his voice faded away into the silver moonlight.

Darkness rushed in to cover him. He fought to stay awake, to keep his eyes open… but the soft velvet night wrapped around him and, with a sob, he slipped back into its embrace.

7Bf7B

Someone was crying.

What the hell?

Evan struggled toward consciousness. He couldn't open his eyes yet, couldn't see. But he could hear, strangling heartbroken sobs. Someone talking, gasping for air. "Evan. Evan, please wake up! Please!"

He knew that voice. The fear, the desperation in the words convinced him he needed to wake up. With enormous effort he pried his eyelids apart.

Evan was still there - wherever there was. Still feeling like he was hanging in air, but in addition to the restraint around his waist, someone was holding him now. Arms wrapped around him, face buried in his neck, shoulders shaking with sobs. The wetness on his neck wasn't rain – there could be no rain on a silver clear night like this. No, what he felt was tears.

His mouth was dry. Words choked off in his throat. Blackness beckoned, so enticing. It would be so easy to just let go…

He couldn't. His little brother needed him.

He ran his dry tongue around equally dry lips; forced air into his lungs. Wincing against the searing pain, he brought his hand up to touch the dark hair buried under his chin. "Guthrie," he managed to say.

His brother's head shot up in response to his faint voice. Tears still running from his eyes, Guthrie breathed, "Evan!"

"It's okay," Evan said, drawing in another pained breath. "I'm okay."

He was so far from okay it wasn't even funny, but the words had the desired effect. Guthrie hastily wiped tears mingled with blood from his face with a shaking hand. "You're hurt," he said.

Evan noticed the dark splotches on Guthrie's clothes and was afraid it had to be blood. "Are you hurt?" he demanded.

Guthrie shook his head, wincing. "I got a bump on my head," he said. "And my foot… I'm okay." His eyes drifted past Evan, into the crumpled remains of the vehicle. "Is Ty-?"

Evan didn't want to say it, but he knew he had to. "He's gone, Guthrie. Guthrie?" he repeated, demanding his brother's attention. A stab of grief, of guilt for passing his friend's death off so easily. But he had to be focused on his brothers, now. "Where's Ford? Can you see him?"

Tears sprang to the twelve year old's eyes again. Evan felt his heart freeze. "Guthrie! Where is he? Ford's not… he isn't –" He can't be dead. He can't be dead!

"He's over there," Guthrie pointed back behind himself. Evan strained but he couldn't see anything. "He's breathing," Guthrie snuffled. "But Evan, he's not moving. He's just lying there…"

"Okay, it's okay," Evan tried to soothe his younger brother. "Is he… can you tell if anything's… broken on him?"

Guthrie shook his head. "I don't know…. I don't think so. But he won't wake up!"

Panic flooded Evan, bitter in his mouth. He struggled to free himself, tried to move, he needed to help his brothers – but agonizing pain twisted through him. Everything swam in a circle, the sky, the moon, Guthrie –

"Evan!" Guthrie shrieked. Evan rocked with the force of the boy's shaking, new pain blasting through him. He sucked in air and forced his eyes open. "Guthrie, stop. It's okay. I'm not…"

"Don't leave me," Guthrie whimpered. "Don't leave me alone."

Evan was rocked back in time, back to another time. He could see another little boy, staring up at the stars, begging his parents to come back. "Don't leave me alone," he prayed.

Adam's arm wrapped around him. The other arm cradling Guthrie, just a baby back then. "You're not alone, Evan," his oldest brother soothed. "You'll never be alone. We'll always be here."

He repeated those words now, to another frightened little boy. "You're not alone, Guthrie. Okay? I'm not going anywhere. And neither is Ford." God, please let me be telling the truth about Ford. "I need you to help me, okay?"

As he'd hoped, the plea for help strengthened Guthrie. The younger brother swiped his eyes again. In the bright moonlight Evan could see he was smearing tears and something dark – blood? - all over his face in a horrifying nightmare design. But his voice was firm when he asked, "What do you need me to do?"

Evan knew this was going to hurt like hell. He had to steel himself to say it. "I need you to try to unbuckle my seat belt."

The belt was holding him here, suspended in air. But without it he'd crash down to the crumpled driver's side of the car.

He'd fall on Ty.

Ty. Who was dead.

Ruthlessly pushing those thoughts from his mind, Evan coaxed Guthrie. "Just… try to get it open."

Guthrie looked doubtful. He looked at the position Evan was in and frowned. "But your legs…"

"My legs?" Evan heard the words echo around him. My legs? With a jolt, he realized with all the pain searing through him, he couldn't feel any from his lower body. He couldn't feel his legs.

Oh dear God…

He steadied his voice with an effort. Guthrie was terrified already. He needed to try to calm him. Needed to hold his own panic and fear inside. "What about my legs, Guthrie?"

Guthrie studied him, then backed away a little bit. Evan felt his hand touch his hip, then slip lower. And then he couldn't feel it anymore. "Guthrie. Tell me."

Guthrie's face reappeared. "I can't see your legs," he said, voice shaky. "They're stuck underneath the…"

The engine. Evan knew the truth even as his brother whispered the words. He couldn't tell, Guthrie wouldn't be able to tell, if he couldn't feel his legs just because of the pressure of the heavy engine, or if his spine was injured… or if his legs just weren't there anymore.

Bitter bile flooded his mouth and he struggled to contain it. He couldn't puke. Not now.

He felt Guthrie's hands, ice cold, grip tightly to his own. He squeezed back, comforted by the touch.

Slowly, the nausea eased. He swallowed the liquid in his mouth, fighting it down. "Okay then," he said, trying to keep his voice even. He had to keep Guthrie calm, steady. Had to make him feel everything was under control. "So, new plan."

Guthrie giggled nervously. "What?"

Evan twisted his head around. He really couldn't see anything above or below the wreckage of the car. "How far down are we?" He knew they couldn't have crashed all the way to the bottom of the ravine. He doubted any of them would have lived through that.

Guthrie hesitated, then stepped away. Evan tried to follow him with his eyes but couldn't. But his little brother didn't go too far. Evan could hear him clearly. "It's… I don't know. A long ways."

"Can you see the road?"

"No," Guthrie said. "But I can see trees and rocks… It's dark up there but I don't think we're that far down.

It couldn't be a sheer drop, maybe more of a gradual incline. Climbing it wouldn't be easy, but with the moonlight, Guthrie should be able to manage it.

He hated himself for what he was going to have to do. Everything in him, everything protective, everything taught to him by his family, by being a brother, shouted at him to keep Guthrie with him. To keep him safe.

But Evan was hurt. And he knew he was running out of time. The waves of pain were being replaced by a cold numbness that was even worse. And Ford was unconscious, Evan couldn't reach him, couldn't tell how badly he was hurt.

Someone would come along in the morning, in the daylight, and see the crushed guardrail. No doubt someone would look down and spot them.

But daylight was still hours away. Hours that Ford might not have. Hours that Evan was afraid he didn't have, either. Like it or not – and he didn't like the idea at all – Guthrie was the only hope to get help right now. Even this late there should be some traffic on the road.

He bit his lip. He didn't want to do it. Somehow he could convince himself they would be okay, if only they were all together. But that was a lie.

Guthrie reappeared in view and dropped on his haunches beside Evan. "What do you want me to do?"

The calm trust in that voice was almost Evan's undoing. He took a deep breath. "Guthrie. You need to climb up to the road and flag down some help."

He waited for protest, for fear. Instead he heard nothing. He looked quizzically at his brother and felt, more than saw, Guthrie nodding his head. "I know," the younger boy whispered.

Somehow that acceptance flooded Evan with more sheer terror than if Guthrie had cried or protested. He looked at his little brother, really looked, and saw two things:

One: Guthrie knew what was happening. He knew he was the only one able to get help.

And two: where exactly were the rest of his clothes?

Evan couldn't believe he hadn't noticed before. He'd been so busy worrying about the bloodstains on Guthrie's white t-shirt that it hadn't dawned on him at all that Guthrie was wearing only a white t-shirt with his jeans. No jacket. No warm flannel button down. Just the cotton undershirt.

No wonder the kid was so cold.

"Where's your jacket? And your shirt?" he questioned.

"I put my coat over Ford. He looked cold," Guthrie said.

Evan should have figured that out. "What about your flannel shirt?"

Feather light fingers touched his arm. "You were bleeding," Guthrie explained, his voice shaking with the memory. He touched Evan's head. "You have a big cut on your forehead, and your arm… the blood was coming out so fast. So I cut my shirt up and made bandages."

Evan gaped at him. Guthrie said it in such a matter-of-fact tone. Like he was saying, I watered the stock or something. Like it was just a routine matter. As if he tore up his clothes to bandage bleeding brothers every day of his life and twice on Sundays.

Those first aid tricks Hannah was teaching all of the family had sure paid off.

Suddenly, Evan realized just why Guthrie had been so hysterical when he'd first woke Evan. No doubt his little brother was afraid Evan had lost too much blood and couldn't wake up. Remembering the fiery agony when he'd moved his arm before, Evan had to admit, if only to himself, that Guthrie had reason to be afraid.

All the more reason to get little brother out of here, now.

But he had to know… "How'd you tear up your shirt?" Because flannel wasn't that easy to separate.

For the first time Guthrie's face relaxed into his usual impish smile. He scrabbled in his jean pocket, pulling something out and dropping it into Evan's good hand.

Evan recognized the sleek shell of the five-bladed Case pocketknife he, Daniel and Ford had gone in together to buy for Guthrie's Christmas present a month ago. It had been Evan's idea. Case knives were expensive and he'd thought about buying a cheaper one, but he'd heard the story before, how his dad had bought Adam, and then Brian and Crane in turn, a Case knife for their twelfth Christmas. Adam and Brian had given Daniel, Evan, and Ford each one when their time came. And he had no doubt his older brothers would have bought Guthrie one as well. But Evan had overheard Adam and Hannah talking about how Guthrie needed new clothes – he was outgrowing his really fast as he hit a growth spurt. McFadden brothers were no strangers to hand-me-downs. But apparently after having been worn by one, two or even three brothers before him, Guthrie's clothes were practically threadbare.

Hannah had mentioned something about maybe the church or the Red Cross having some donations that would fit Guthrie. Poor Hannah. She couldn't know that taking charity – especially something as basic as clothing – was a big thing with Adam. Not to mention Brian!

So Evan had come up with the idea to volunteer to buy Guthrie the traditional twelfth Christmas knife, leaving money for clothing. When he realized how much the knife he wanted cost, he'd asked Ford to go in on it with him. Then Daniel had overheard and joined in, so they'd been able to get a really nice one. Evan was grateful Guthrie had it. Not just so he could bandage his older brother's injuries, but because it would be some protection to him on his climb. Maybe not against any animals… but probably a mountain lion or wolf wouldn't be this close to the highway, and bears were hibernating. But the knife might be protection against a more human kind of predator.

Evan caught a breath. He couldn't believe he was thinking that, that he was thinking about sending his youngest brother out on his own. But… they had no choice.

He opened his eyes and met Guthrie's. "Can you climb up there okay?" Geez, Evan, fine time to ask him now! You just told him you and Ford are depending on him, do you honestly think he's going to say no?

Guthrie nodded, his face intent. "I can do it, Evan. I know I can. I can get help."

It was the hardest thing Evan McFadden had ever had to do. He looked at his baby brother and said, "Then go, Guthrie. Go right now."

Guthrie hesitated, then leaned over Evan. Evan felt his lips kiss his aching forehead. "You stay awake, okay?"

Evan managed a smile. "I'll try." At the fear in Guthrie's face, he said, "I'll stay awake. You just be careful." And that was the only reassurance he could give.

Guthrie studied him for a second, then nodded and left. Evan strained to hear him, to follow along as Guthrie started his climb, but far too soon the roaring in his ears over took him, flooding away his little brother and anything else but darkness.

7Bf7B

Guthrie sagged back, panting. Icy cold sweat streamed down his face, soaked his t-shirt. His cold hands bled from dozens of scratches where he'd grabbed for purchase on rocks or anything he could.

He looked down. He couldn't see the smashed car; all he could see was a pool of shadow below. He glanced upwards. He'd maybe gone… halfway?

His head pounded with the beat of his pulse. He'd thrown up twice on this climb, cramps ripping through him without warning, expelling the junk food from earlier. Both of his feet throbbed. He had to force through the pain to find secure foot holds. Blood ran down into his eyes again and he swiped it away with his arms. His lungs starved for air, even as he gulped it in huge frigid mouthfuls.

It seemed like he'd been climbing for hours. He stuck his icy hands under his armpits to try to warm them up. He'd ripped out two nails when he'd lost his balance and skidded down a few feet.

He wanted to curl up, go to sleep, find out this was all a bad dream brought on by too much crap at The Cave. But he couldn't. He had to keep climbing. Evan needed help. Ford needed help. And Guthrie was the only one that could get it for them.

He took a deep breath, pulled his hands away from their heat source and reached up, grabbing onto another chunk of rock.

His brothers were depending on him.

And a McFadden never let his family down.

7Bf7B

Guthrie dragged himself over the edge, rolling onto the stable ground. Lying there for a minute, just gasping in air, he tried to push the pain and the exhaustion away. He had to get up. He couldn't rest yet. He still had to find help for his injured brothers.

Pushing himself to his feet, he suddenly lost his balance and fell backward, almost losing his footing and crashing back down into the ravine. Panicked, he threw himself forward, falling on his hands and knees. A sob escaped him as the sharp gravel and pine needles ground into his already raw hands.

Once he was steady, no longer afraid of falling, he coached himself, "Okay, you can do this." He grabbed onto the mangled remains of the guardrail. The distant sound of an approaching car engine spurred him on and he staggered to his feet with a cry, stumbling into the road. He saw the headlights as the car came around the turn and he frantically waved his arms, trying to get the driver's attention.

Blinded by the acid white beams, he froze, arms still over his head. The car wasn't slowing, didn't seem to be slowing down at all, and he couldn't move. The headlights rushed toward him. It was suddenly too much. He was done. From somewhere he heard the squeal of brakes but his head was swimming and he couldn't stand anymore. He closes his eyes and let himself fall into darkness.

To be continued...