Part 9

"Sheppard!" Ronon lay on his belly across the trail with his legs bent, toes pinned to rocks on the far side. Teyla lay curled beside him with her eyes closed and a small puddle of iced over vomit by her hand.

The ex-runner stared over the ledge at the unmoving form that lay only ten or more feet from the trail. The icy ledge that saved Sheppard was narrow. It was too narrow for two men even at its widest point which was where the colonel lay sprawled on his back, legs and arms akimbo.

"Move it, Sheppard!" Ronon ordered.

It garnered sluggish motion from the colonel. A mittened hand flopped, a foot slid, his head rolled slightly. Nothing coordinated, but it herald life.

As he lay belly down on the narrow icy trail, Dex began unraveling climbing rope. He worked the line quickly through his mittened hands, stringing it down to the Colonel. Sheppard would grab for the rope even if Ronon had to go down there and convince him to do it.

The sudden, crack of echoing gunfire split the crisp air. P-90

Dex's head snapped up. He searched the surrounding empty snowfield that stretched below him.

From his far left, he watched as two diminutive figures broke free from the foot of the ridge line and run haphazardly across the ice. The two seemed to run in a concerted effort but then bump into one another and then run in slightly opposite directions before aligning together for a short distance and then rebounding off one another again.

McKay and Beckett. A hidden grin brightened Ronon's masked features.

Hope was often a good thing, too.

He had learned not to bank on the future but live in the now. Tomorrow was far away, today was here. He had hoped his friends had survived and they had. That was good enough for now. He'd worry about tomorrow when they survived today.

Dex grinned behind his neoprene mask as he watched the antics of the pair far below him. There were only two such un-glorious, mismatched pair in all the Pegasus Galaxy. They were alive; such two unlikely characters that seemed to beat catastrophic odds time and time again. He hoped their luck never ran out.

But Dex wasn't a dreamer. Luck did run dry. In this galaxy the numbers were stacked against them all, and it would only be a matter of time before one of them fell.

McKay and Beckett beat the odds for now and that was all that matter at the moment.

Ronon watched them for just a second. The two men below bumped into one another, staggered to the East and then stumbled to the West and then ran straight ahead.

Ronon stared after them confused by their tactic of evasion.

Both Beckett and McKay were often distracting and baffling.

They were not very fast.

Dex turned his attention away from the two scientists that zig-zagged across the ice far below him. He searched the surrounding field.

A second and third gunshot sounded. Echoes ricocheted off stretching wall of granite.

"Sheppard, McKay and Beckett are in trouble!"

Ronon swung his gaze to the two figures as they ran into one another again.

A veil of blowing snow kicked up. The two scientists were momentarily lost from sight.

The Runner searched the lower steppe searching for the threat.

Dex fingered his blaster. The precious weapon did not have the range to hit a mark at such a distance.

From the base of the ridge, where the two doctors had emerged, Dex watched with apprehension as the Snow Yeti lumbered into view.

A fourth shot sounded.

McKay and Beckett flinched into one another.

Dex followed the sound and there to the distant right of the Snow Yeti stepped a fourth figure, dressed in bright orange.

Ronon turned his attention back to Sheppard. The Colonel swiped lazily at the rope that dangled just above him.

"Sheppard!" He urged.

Another crack of P-90 weapon rolled along the granite cliffs.

Dex watched as the silhouette of the two doctors finally found a rhythm and headed in the general direction of the gate. The snow yeti trailed 100 yards or more behind them flanking them from the right, followed by the figure in orange with a P-90.

Corporal Jones.

"Sheppard! Move!!" Dex hollered. He stole a glance back down at the colonel. The rope swayed with each uncoordinated pass the colonel made at it.

Ronon ground his teeth. He watched as the two doctors tripped and staggered their way further onto the ice, the creature lumbering behind them slowly closing the distance and Corporal Jones with his P-90 trailing even further behind.

"Sheppard! Grab the rope!" The Satedan shouted again infusing more urgency.

The colonel appeared incapable of synchronizing his movements.

Ronon pounded his fist into the snow in frustration. "Grab the rope, Sheppard!"

Leave it to McKay and Beckett to find trouble on an abandoned ice planet.

-------------------------------

Sheppard heard Ronon yell. Recognized the urgency in the tone. It seemed important.

He felt something slap against his hood and then lay across his face. He blinked his eyes open as something as thick as a garter snake slithered across his goggles. He flinched slightly, moving a hand, hoping to wipe the snake away from his face.

It slapped against his hood. He heard someone shout for him, shouted for him to move, grab the rope.

Not a snake. A rope. He raised his hand and let it fall across his face. It hurt. Under the thick insulation of his mitten his could feel the rope move and wiggle.

"McKay and Beckett are in trouble!"

There's a news flash. Sheppard blinked, trying to focus the sheet of orangey yellow above him. He concentrated on it, trying to reason what he was staring at.

The rope coiled over his face again, momentarily blocking his view. He blinked, focused again and realized he stared at blue sky through tinted lenses.

Wraith Worshippers. Sheppard groaned.

An explosion. His head ached as the sun beat down on him.

Teyla. They had to find Rodney and Carson. He made a grab for the slowly moving rope that coiled on his chest.

"Sheppard! Hurry!" Ronon sounded angry, desperate.

Sheppard pulled on the rope, using it as leverage to help himself sit up. Vertigo hit him like sack of sand to the side of the head and he tipped sideways. His grip on the rope tightened as his right hand attempted to brace the ground, but finding only empty air. Wind whistled over and around him, buffeting him.

"Tie the rope around you!"

Sheppard fumbled with the line, but educated hands, conditioned to working blindly, secured the rope. Once the knot was finished he simply raised a hand and offered a thumbs up.

The wind knocked his hand back and forth.

Within seconds, the rope cinched painfully tight around his chest severely restricting his ability to take a breath. He felt himself get hauled up off his narrow ledge. The line bit through his parka, layers of clothing and bunched under his arms. The rope stretched up past his collarbone and jaw, pinching and bruising the bones. His feet slowly left the ground and wind twirled him in tight circles occasionally bouncing him into the rock face. The rope cinched around his chest, constricting it, threatening to smother him. Inch by painful inch, seconds crawled by, he was dragged up along the rock and ice.

He couldn't draw a purposeful breath. Panic began to settle in.

The sharp explosive crack of P-90 fire below caused his heart to race.

McKay and Beckett were trouble. Nothing new, but not good, either.

He smirked to himself….least they were alive.

-------------------------------

"Carson!" McKay shouted and nudged Beckett slightly to the left. The tether between them tightened. Rodney ignored the pressure and kept running, pulling Beckett in a new direction.

The ice was a different shade. Something wasn't right, something changed and Rodney couldn't believe that it would be for the good.

The Snow Yeti trailed behind, closing the distance with a lumbering, lazy gait. Its thunderous foot falls vibrated along the ice.

Watery shadows moved just under their feet.

McKay whimpered, "Not good…so not good."

The firing of a P-90 cracked somewhere behind them. Almost instantly, snow and ice kicked up just to the side of McKay's right boot.

Water bubbled forth.

"Carson!" Rodney hollered breathlessly.

"Aye?" Beckett's response was nothing more than a labored exhale. Anything that required formed syllables and interrupted breathing was discarded. Aye would have to do.

"The ice." Rodney fought for breath. The thin air was crisp and brittle. His lungs burned. The sloshing of water from the tiny projectile hole made his heart race. "Off the ice!" McKay shoved Carson to the left, angling them around toward the north.

Beckett merely dipped his head. The ice sounded different under his footfalls. It gave a little more with each heavy stride. It reminded Carson of stepping on a floating pier at high tide.

The doctors ran the best they could in heavy gear and lashed together by their tether. They fell into an uneasy rhythm with Rodney a step ahead, leading the way with his sight and uncanny sense of direction.

The frightening sound of crashing ice and splashing water erupted behind them.

McKay swiveled around, peering over his shoulder. He stutter stepped, the toe of his right boot kicking the side of his left lower leg. He flailed his arms latching onto Beckett's coat, regaining his balance and knocking the physician to the right.

They bumped into one another. McKay pushed Carson back on course.

McKay stepped heavily onto his right leg. Pain spiraled up the bone and shocked his knee. He gasped, closing his eyes briefly.

Behind them, no more than a few hundred yards, the Snow Yeti crashed through the ice. Water erupted forth, freezing almost immediately when caught in the wind. The thicker ice crystals pelted the two scientists who stood down wind.

The creature roared, flailing briefly in the narrow expanse of broken ice and exposed water. The sound crashed down around the two scientists forcing them to put hands over their ears and curl away.

McKay straightened, guiding Beckett up. They watched the creature struggle for just a bit before disappearing through the hole in the ice. Rodney tried to ignore the fact Carson stared in the wrong direction.

It was unnerving.

He pushed Beckett forward, away and to the north of the failing creature.

Sharp gusts of wind swirled snow into the air. Visibility was diminished to just a few feet.

The P-90 fire mysteriously stopped.

-------------------------------

Ronon struggled with Teyla's limp weight across his shoulders. The extra weight had him placing each foot more carefully on the narrow icy trail.

Dex didn't like careful, it could get someone killed.

Before him, Sheppard staggered and weaved on the tight path, maintaining just enough balance to keep his feet from slipping over the sharp edge.

Dex stared past the Colonel's shoulder and tried to keep the trio of forms on the ice shelf in view.

With each passing moment, McKay managed to put more distance between himself and Beckett and their pursuers…and his team.

"Move faster, Sheppard," Ronon urged.

-------------------------------

"Colonel Sheppard?" Bishop's voice sounded over McKay's radio, shocking the scientist into a cross step. "Doctor McKay?" The Captain's commanding tone sounded like an angel's voice to the astrophysicist.

"Captain!" McKay shouted. His voice sounded weak. He fought desperately for breath, dragging in deep, draughts of brittle air. His chest heaved with exhausting effort. The neoprene mask that protected his face from the sun threatened to smother him.

Beckett staggered into him, jostling his injured shoulder. Rodney shoved him back.

The two men continued to jog in the general direction of the gate.

Every foot placement of McKay's right leg shot fiery bolts of pain up along his tibia and fibula. An ache settled in his calf muscles. His knee became a reservoir for the spiraling pain that traversed upward from his lower leg.

P-90 fire no longer dogged their heels, but the lone figure in orange, still tracked them relentlessly. Occasional brutal gusts of whipped snow obscured them from view, camouflaged them a wall of swirling snow.

"Doctor McKay, what is your position?" Bishop sounded calm but tense, alert and ready for danger. "Where is Colonel Sheppard?"

"South….we're South of you." McKay fought for air. Every labored breath seared his chest, burning it with frosted air.

"Doctor McKay?"

Rodney ignored the voice. Through the veil of blowing snow, he could make out a knot of men in dark winter wear. He angled Beckett to the left again.

Their heavily treaded boots crunched and squeaked with each labored footfall.

Watery shadows swelled just below the crust of ice.

Rodney's legs felt leaden. He could feel every flexion and contraction of his quads. He never realized his knees could ache so badly, the bottom of his feet knot so intensely or his calves tighten so relentlessly.

His right leg felt afire.

This was the reason why Ancients developed puddle jumpers, people from earth drove cars, or used some sort of transportation other than ones own feet. Self mobilization was painful.

Running was agony, only a fool would do it for fun.

McKay pulled Beckett along, listening as his friend fought for each breath, felt him stumble with increasing frequency. No neoprene protected Carson's lower face. He ran open mouth and McKay feared his friend would have burns on the roof of his mouth.

Reflected sunlight was painfully damaging.

The wind relented. Sun glared down, arcing sharply off the snow. Even with protected goggles, McKay raised a mittened hand to shield his eyes from the sharp solar glare.

"Captain," Rodney tried to shout, but the brittle thin air muffled his attempts. "Your left." He panted. "We're to your left."

McKay forced himself to continue running, to lift his feet one more time, bend a knee and drag his leg forward. Muscles and bone alike protested hotly.

His hip thrummed with abuse brought about by a hitched gait.

Running was for fools and he was far from foolish.

Running had some acceptable qualities, McKay had to concede. Not that he ever intended to call it enjoyable, or do it for entertainment purposes or to 'burn time'. But he did recognize the importance in being able to move faster than a brisk walk for a sustainable amount of time.

Running had its place. It certainly wasn't in his labs. Or in his previous life back on Earth. However, it did have its uses here in the Pegasus Galaxy. He could run, had improved in his ability to sustain a jog, and would readily admit he'd never break speed records or reach levels of legendary endurance.

But when push came to shove, Rodney McKay could run with the best of them. If a puddle jumper wasn't readily available, or if a Wraith or Wraiths were on their tail, or Genii gunning for them, or an ill tempered Snow Yeti, Rodney McKay could maintain a pace for whatever distance or time was needed to assure self preservation.

Rodney was no fool.

Besides if his heart truly did rupture in his chest from exertion, or his lungs did actually burst into flames, Rodney had no doubt in his mind that Carson could fix it. Probably with a lot of hemming and hawing, but Carson was pretty good at manipulating the voodoo.

Yes, Rodney McKay could run. He just didn't embrace it with the same level of psychosis as say---the military. He could do it but he loathed having to do it.

Not only did his life depend on his ability to run, but so did Carson's and probably more likely than not, so did Sheppard, Dex and Teyla. Well maybe not Teyla, she was amazingly self sufficient, but the other two. The other two would undoubtedly need saving---by him.

He couldn't save them if he couldn't run. And he didn't have to be the fastest; he just had to be faster than the Abominable Snowman and a bullet.

No hardship there. Not at all. Faster than a speeding bullet… No pressure. None at all.

Rodney needed to keep moving. He dropped his chin to his chest and fought for a little more strength. Endurance wouldn't hurt either.

Beckett followed mutely but by no means quietly. Carson's harsh labored breathing sounded wet and constricted. His foot falls stuttered and scraped more times than actually land solidly. The swish of synthetic fabric was lost in the whistle of wind.

The ice plain stretched before them, unevenness only perceived through shallow shadows and breaks in sharp drifting banks of snow.

The third SGA team seemed no more than dark dots far off and not getting any closer.

The plain of ice felt vast. A frozen sea of blinding white broken only by brutal gusts of violent wind stretched before them.

A monstrous dark shadow moved under the ice, sliding from under their pounding feet, traveling in a stream line fashion just before the two doctors.

"Oh no," McKay muttered.

Suddenly the ice erupted just a few feet in front of them.

McKay slapped his arms out wide, slapping Carson in the chest with his forearm, trying to halt and protect Beckett.

Both men skidded forward.

The Snow Yeti burst up from the surface. Teeth and claws bared with furred arms raised over its head.

Chunks of ice and a violent spray of water cascaded into the air and enveloped the two doctors.

Muscles conditioned to moving forward and too tired to stop, barreled forward off the suddenly slick ice, and over the jagged newly formed ridge and into the darkened water.

McKay fell belly first.

The splash of water burned his face like stovetop. Through his own underwater screams, he heard the creature's fantastic roar. The water vibrated with the sound. Then the solid weight of Beckett landed on Rodney's back forcing the astrophysicist even deeper under the dark water.

McKay could hear himself scream as bubbles rushed past.

Panic seized him as glacial water bordered into the realm of fiery heat. Nerve endings and skin so shocked lost the ability to distinguish cold from hot. Pain enveloped him as surely as the water engulfed him.

Rodney slid further from the surface. Frigid cold water embraced him like millions of electrified needles. His body became momentarily shocked into not moving as icy water burned his skin.

Air was crushed from his lungs. His heart fluttered, paused, skipped a beat and then resumed a frantic pace.

The paralysis was only momentary. A rush of bubbles and muffled roars surrounded him.

Then McKay fought. He struggled and strove with the same singular focus that made him famous and infamous amongst the expedition members.

The water moved violently, sloshing in all directions, buffeting him, pushing and pulling, raising him up and shoving him down.

The creature swiped its great arms through the water, batting blindly for its prey. It's massive paw caught the body of the tether and dragged the men backward with crushing force.

The rope became slack. The Yeti pawed again, splashing the water, creating swirling currents and a curtain of bubbles.

Rodney struggled for the surface, fighting the drag of his sodden clothes and sudden deadly weight of his boots.

He could feel Beckett flailing beside him.

Rodney clawed toward the bright surface, hoping to break free to the light of day.

The rope at his waist suddenly cinched tight and drew him away from the surface, dragging him deeper into the dark water. It lacked the frightful strength of the Yeti.

Beckett was swimming and struggling in the wrong direction.

Rodney yanked on the rope, desperate and terrified. His lungs burned with an intensity that could not be ignored. He would be forced to take a breath soon, whether he made the surface or not. Icy water stung exposed skin and his winter clothing hung on him like hundreds of pounds of dead weight. Sand bags.

He kicked wildly, but systematically. He clawed for the surface, fighting the lethargy that drenched his muscles.

Surely his lungs would burst.

McKay broke the surface with a heaving open mouth gasp. The thin layer of newly formed ice easily gave way. Rodney slapped a leaden arm up on the edge of the jagged hole. It was a feeble anchor at best. His second arm flopped beside the first. Plumes of crystallized breath disappeared under in the relentless wind.

Crystalline snow covered his eyebrows and lashes. His day old beard sparkled with ice.

A weight still tugged at his waist, slowing dragging him back under the surface. He tried kicking his legs, but the frigid temperatures stripped his body of warmth and strength.

The water encased him like wet concrete.

He could run, but swimming really was a fool's endeavor. He had feet to run, but no gills or webbing to swim. There was a reason for outboard and inboard motors and boats.

Rodney couldn't force his legs to move.

Thin ice formed over his coated arms, his mittens glistened and reflected sunlight as they froze. Icy water lapped up over his slowly retreating shoulders, the added weight patiently forced him back deeper into the blackened water.

His ragged breaths crystallized in short ballooning plumes, turning his panic into a visual show.

His goggles frosted over. He couldn't see. Water sliced at his neck, squeezing his head creating intense pain.

P-90 fire sprayed the area with its staccato tell-tale sound.

Suddenly hands were reaching for him, tugging at him, trying to haul him from the water.

He had nothing left to help. As desperate as he was to aid with his own rescue, his muscles remained unresponsive and useless. He apparently couldn't even find the coordination to shiver.

Voices, urgent commands and shouts washed over him as he was pulled and tugged. Hands hauled his upper body up onto the ice. Biting, pinching pressure on his waist anchored him close to the surface, resistant to the hands that worked to draw him completely free of the water.

Suddenly the pressure was gone. Rodney was dragged completely from the water and sprawled onto the ice. He found himself lying belly down unable to focus on anything but the thin uneven crust of frost on his goggles.

He couldn't move, couldn't feel a thing, and yet he knew he hurt, hurt worse than he had in a very long time.

Through a small crack in his protective eyewear he could see the cut end of the tether that kept him connected to Carson.

"Carson?" he whispered despondently.

His quiet cry was drowned by the sudden re-appearance of the Snow Yeti and then repeated multiple P-90 firing and shouted orders.

Tinny voices rang over his radio. McKay never registered it. He didn't feel the cold or blistering wind, didn't listen to the voices that shouted all around him.

His vision, narrowed by the icing of his goggles, and the simple break in the lens afforded him only a splintered view of his world.

He focused on the knife cut rope. The tiny frayed ends wavered in the wind, thickening minutely with ice.

Rodney ignored the stark white snow beneath him. He felt no relief at the occasional flash of bright green of the new SGA team or the multitude of legs and boots or the tumbling of smoking, empty shells from unseen firing weapons.

He stared at the wet, severed rope.

"Carson," he whispered as gunfire and voices sounded all around him.

'