Solitude
Scagway, Alaska was hardly an upbeat town. Just coming out of winter didn't help the town's pace. Few tourists began visiting the state this early in the spring. The land still held a decent amount of snow, mainly in the mountains. It rained lately, which was a nice change from all the snow.
He hadn't settled down since Singapore. After the scare in London, Sark hopped around quickly and laid low. He even stayed in Wyoming for awhile, as a low-profile role in nightly performances for a chuckwagon dinner show. The tourists really started to get on his nerves, with large family reunions and old people in group tours. So he moved on, when he felt safe.
The next stop, and a more permanent one, was Scagway. The climate was a stark contrast to Singapore. Sark hadn't worn a long-sleeved shirt the whole time he was in the Asian country. But the change was welcomed.
Snow suits seemed like they could be the norm in Scagway. For that reason, Sark was glad spring was coming. He couldn't lower himself as low to look so . . . ridiculous.
He'd been indoors too much. It was partially the snow's fault, but Sark knew it was time to get out.
He examined his appearance in the mirror. His black hair was growing out, leaving light roots. He didn't care. Sark gathered a backpack with supplies, a warm weather-resistant coat, and sunglasses. He stopped by the general store and picked up some new rope.
"Thanks, Jerry," he said as he tossed the man a $20. The man just nodded at him. That's all the man seemed to do; Sark had yet to hear the man utter a word. He smirked as he left the store.
The mountain ahead had tempted him for awhile. It was large, but not any Mount Everest. It was covered with pine-needled trees, rocks, and mud. Judging by its appearance, the first hour or two would be simply dodging trees. Once he got above those, though, the real challenge would begin. He started up it with little concern, for now.
His chest didn't move much as he weaved through the trees. The exertion was hardly extensive. For Sark, it was a leisurely walk.
"Leisurely," he said aloud to himself, for some reason. Who cares? I'm alone out here.
Pine needles scraped his skin as he hiked through the trees. His boots lightly squished in the wet soil, and his jacket rustled as he swung his arms at his sides. For awhile, he just listened to the noise he made. Squish, rustle, squish squish.
Then thoughts started flooding his mind. He reflected on the last few months. They'd been quiet, relatively when he excluded the London stop. Singapore, Wyoming, and a half dozen other small stops were relaxing.
Well, when he wasn't looking over his shoulder.
But his hiding had its moments. He was able to do things he never imagined he could—not when working for Irina Derevko, or in any part of the world that involved espionage or terrorism. There just was no peace when you were planning a theft or assassination, or when you knew that at any moment you could get a call for such a job.
So perhaps this was true freedom. He didn't even have to worry about protecting those his life had endangered. Sure, he wished he could be with them, but this being away was perfect given the objectives. At least that's what he told himself.
He shook his head as a branch swept past his head. Moving on.
Wyoming had been quite funny. Try humiliating. In the midst of cowboy- and tourist-central, he took a brief job as the role of an Indian for the chuck wagon dinner. Not that he needed money, but it provided a cover for him beyond dyed hair. Every night, twice a night, he came out with black and white paint on his face and a large coonskin hat on his head. He saddled up and rode a horse around the "dinner wagons" and yelled at the fascinated tourist groups. He even fired blank bullets. Yipee indeed. Two things were annoying about the job. One, those tourists. Of course, they had to bring cameras, and of course they wanted a picture with the Indian. So Sark was huddled about with old people, children, and Japanese groups. That started to worry him; photos could always prove dangerous to him, even in his Indian disguise. And with more people being foreigners . . . well, you just never knew.
What was he thinking before? Oh—leaving Wyoming. Sure, it was a nice country state, low-key enough for his liking and all. But those damn horses were just not friendly to one's body. Sark's thighs ached after sitting for hours at a time. He knew before how to ride a horse—a random idea of Irina's—but that didn't make the experience more comfortable. His rear even ached, and frankly, that just wasn't dignified pain.
So Scagway. He couldn't get any more remote without being alone on an island. He breathed in deeply that mountain air, wet with the lingering scent of rain. Suddenly, he stopped, and looked down from where he'd come.
Not bad. He checked his watch. Good time too. The tops of the trees were below him, and a smirk graced his face in pride. The path he'd taken was almost directly vertical. He let out a long breath and watched his breath hang in the air.
With that, he turned up to the rest of the mountain above. No longer were trees in his way. Instead rocky mud cliffs challenged him. And above that was just rock and snow. The weather was nice; the clouds above were non-threatening. It seemed like the day would be a good one indeed.
Sark stepped forward resolutely and then charged. With his momentum, he ran to the rocks and clawed for holds. His feet sought out places to jump from, and he acted much like a spider as he crept and leapt up the rocky mud.
Again, he found himself slipping into an easy pace and then started thinking.
Scagway was the epitome of loneliness. Sure, it's what he wanted. And he wasn't completely alone; tourist season was about to pick up, with helicopter rides to glaciers and train rides from the docks where cruise-liners brought the people in. Then there were the residents, who really only worked during tourist season. Many even moved away to other parts of the state or country during the winter months.
The people who remained . . . well, in his mind, they were less than mentally stable. They braved the harsh winters, alone with their food storage and solitary hunting. Most stayed alone the whole winter, and Sark wondered what they did.
"Probably started talking to themselves," he said. He smirked at himself as he realized that irony. He leapt again over the point of a boulder and onto the next.
He'd found himself in much the same situation now as those brave loners. He'd only been in Scagway for a month, but it was enough. He sat in the cabin he rented. He read books. He stared out the window. He imagined foes finding him. He longed for a human presence.
And the closest he got to that this early in the season was Jerry, the general store owner.
He sighed and stopped his hiking. He'd finished the rocks and mud. Another smirk covered his face as he looked back down at his accomplishment.
The smirk disappeared as he looked at the next phase. Sark pulled off his backpack, digging through it to find a bottle of water and an apple. He consumed both, slowly.
He removed a harness. He wasn't sure how much he'd need it, but he put it on anyway. The rope came next and he started to secure it to the harness. His blue eyes ventured a glance above him.
The rocks were jagged and straight above him. The snow started not far above, and that would prove to be difficult. But that's how I want it. Sark took out some fasteners and clipped them to his harness. He pulled out spikes as well and tucked them in various pockets easily in his reach. The last touch was some gloves to protect his hands.
Sark let out a breath, loudly. His feet inched their way closer to the rock face, and then he started to climb. He made it up about ten feet before he got stuck. And that's when he took out the first spike and fastener.
He quickly found a rhythm as he climbed. Pound the spike, clip the fastener and rope, reach for the next spot. Pound the next spike, fasten rope to it, and remove the last fastener. Sure, they were different steps, but it became a little song in his head.
Pound, clip, reach. Pound, clip, remove.
Pound, clip, reach. Pound, clip, remove.
One, two, three. One, two, three.
1, 2, 3. 1, 2, 3.
He hummed it to himself over and over again, never looking down or deviating from his rhythm.
One, two, three. One, two, three.
1, 2, 3. 1, 2, 3.
1 2 3, 1 2 3.
1 2 3, 1 2 3. 123123123.
Rhythm, rhythm—
"—rhythm. Rhythm, rhythm, rhythm."
Suddenly, Sark paused his ascent.
I think the altitude's getting to me.
He settled on just humming some little song he heard on the radio. Listening to the radio was something he never did, not since he became Sark. The only times it interested him was when he was avoiding capture from authorities or looking for confirmation of some job he'd ordered or completed. But when he stuck himself in a dank cabin in Alaska, he decided to cut himself some slack. Hence, the radio, and now this annoying tune in his head.
Wow, you're really on a lot of tangents today. He scowled at himself, and just kept climbing.
There were a couple of helicopters in the distance, the rotors whirling up to speed. It was a little early for flights out to the glaciers. Tourists weren't out in full force yet to warrant many rides, but someone must have chartered the helos. Sark could hear them chopping up the air in the middle of Scagway. Sooner or later he planned on flying out to a glacier. From what he'd learned, you could go out and walk on the ice, exploring it or whatever. It sounded neat, and he had time.
Time.
Rhythm.
Rhythm, rhythm, rhythm.
There I go again. He shook his head for a moment, and hung from the anchors he'd made in the rocks.
That's when he realized his fingers were numb. They were bright red from the cold and scrapes. He didn't linger on that, but looked up to see his progress. The snow was just above him.
It was precarious at first, but the snow stabilized as he ventured on it. Pretty soon, the rocks couldn't be reached and they really didn't need to be either. Instead of rock faces, he now faced icy ones.
Cool.
It amazed him that mountains were like this. The layers of growth on them, or just layers in general, were diverse and sometimes repetitive. As he kept looking up, he saw more trees, surrounded by snow. Sark furrowed his brow and glanced back at how he'd come up. His path was less straight now, and Sark found himself off to the side of his original path. The trees were just higher growth from another side of the mountain. He shrugged, and pulled himself to his feet.
He sunk to his calves in the snow. It wasn't terribly deep yet, and he continued forward towards a peak of the mountain that caught his eye. His hands were starting to shake, which meant the elements were starting to get to him. He ignored it and moved ahead, the snow crunching around him.
Soon the snow was up to his thighs. He stopped, or perhaps froze was a better term for it. Sark's lungs expanded quickly, the thinning air obviously taking its toll.
And then he heard it. Those helicopters again. Sark looked around the mountain, down towards the town. There it was, just one helo. But instead of a random tour towards the glaciers, Sark found the helo coming towards his mountain. He frowned at that.
Maybe it's going elsewhere still. But it kept coming towards his mountain. It disappeared as it went around the side he hadn't ventured on, but Sark could still hear the rapidly whipping blades.
Suddenly snow and wind slapped his face. He squinted, looking up at the helo. It hovered up and ahead of him, but it wasn't moving away.
Dread filled his body. How could anyone find me here? He moved to get up quickly and start running, but exhaustion was starting to set in. The cold and high snow didn't help.
He glanced back at the helo, sure to see a sniper rifle. Instead he saw a figure, poised to drop out of the helicopter. Sark's eyes widened. They want me alive. He'd been there and done that before, and wasn't about to repeat the experience. Sark tried to move again, succeeding this time in inches.
He couldn't help but glance back again, and just in time saw the figure leap out of the helo, ski posts in hand and skis on both feet. His eyes followed the insane skier, who actually landed on the snow and started towards him.
The steep incline of the mountain made his time very short. Sark quickly took action and trudged towards the trees. The snow was getting less deep, but still his speed was slow. The skier was not far behind. As he looked back, he saw him approach too closely.
And then he slammed into Sark, sending both of them flying backwards and tumbling in the snow down towards the dangerous rocks Sark had so careful climbed earlier.