Chapter Twenty-Six

White-Out

Simon no longer fights with Faye about taking it in turns with the heavier wooden sled. Every time it's his turn, the weight of dull exhaustion presses down on his complaining body. It feels like a giant hand descending from the sky to crush him into the snow. He suspects Faye is starting to stretch out her turns, pushing on ahead and pretending not to realise it's time to change over. And because he can't bear the thought of swapping from the lighter pulk to the agonising weight of the wooden sled, sometimes he lets her. He hates himself for this.

At first they're lucky with the the weather, but after they've made their way through a labyrinth of ice-blocks, a white-out blots out the sun. They keep moving, because they have no choice, but without shadows to give perspective, it's hard to see obstacles and dangers ahead. Once Simon almost stumbled into a crevice, his leg sinking up to the knee before he managed to pull himself free. He was lucky not to shatter his ankle.

And the cold, the constant, all-pervading cold. When Faye helps him off with his gloves at night, the ends of his fingers are black, the skin cracking. Outside his fingers are constantly numb, but in the relative warmth of the tent, the pain is agonising. Worse is the fear of frostbite; the thought that he might actually lose part of his fingers terrifies him.

And now the sled has overturned again. He swears and hurries forward to help Faye right it. They heave it over, the muscles in his shoulders screaming in protest, and he sinks back, wondering what the hell he thinks he's doing. At that moment he would have done anything to be back at Camp Northern Light again, grilling steak and playing music and watching the world end. Even if it means being alone.

When Faye holds her hand out to him, in the depths of his exhaustion he almost doesn't know who she is. With the ski-mask she's faceless. She could be anyone. Maybe Faye is gone, and this person is a stranger...

But that is madness speaking, so he takes her hand and lets her help him up.

"Time to swap," he says, his voice muffled by the ski mask. For a moment, it looks like she's going to argue, and then she relents. Simon's heart sinks as he takes over the straps of the dog sled, and they begin the journey again.

The truth is that even when Camp Northern Light was warm, it was never safe. Would he have made it through the winter without Faye? Maybe. But he's pretty sure that he wouldn't have survived another year, even with her at his side. Another three months of darkness, and he would have snapped, gone Jack Torrance on himself. And maybe not just himself.

He has a sudden horrible image of Faye's crumpled, broken body, a splatter-spray of blood arcing across the pristine snow. The gun in his hands.

"Fuck."

He bends double, jerks the ski mask up. It sticks to his stubble like Velcro, but he tears it away just in time to vomit into the snow. His puke is streaked with the last of the frozen chocolate they crunched through the night before. He retches again, spits sour-tasting bile onto the snow. Faye catches up with him, her hand on his back. He tries not to flinch at her touch.

"Are you okay?"

He straightens up, wiping his mouth. "Yeah, just need to rest." He's already sinking down, leaning against the sled.

"Okay," Faye says. She tries to sound calm, but he can hear the strain in her voice, the worry. She kneels beside him, her hand on his knee. "We can do that."

I'm not sure I can do this much longer, he thinks. He's not built for this. He's too thin, too fucking weak. His back and shoulders are an amorphous mass of aching pain, and every other part of him is numb.

He's never been so tired in his life, but still even so, he looks at Faye and he knows he wouldn't change a thing.

He knows he's not going to make it, but he's damned if he's going to give up. He'll get Faye as far as he can.

He's shivering when Faye cups his cheek. She still has her mittens on and he longs to feel her skin against his. Instead, she tugs his ski mask back down.

"We have to keep moving, Simon," she tells him.

He wants to beg her for just a little longer, but he knows she's right. The longer he sits here, the more tired he gets and the deeper the cold sinks into his bones. In his exhaustion it takes him a few moments to realises she's slipping the straps off his shoulders. "Wait, what are you doing?"

"I'm going to take the sled for a bit longer."

He backs away from her, shaking his head in a sudden fury. "The hell you are!"

"Simon–"

"No! I'm not fucking useless."

"I didn't say you were. But–" She breaks off. He's pretty sure he knows what she was going to say: I'm stronger than you.

"It's my turn," he says, fighting to keep his voice calm.

She hesitates, then holds up her hands in a gesture of surrender. Beneath his mask tears are freezing on his cheeks. Faye is about to move away, then she comes closer instead, and pulls him down so that she can press her masked forehead against his. She doesn't say anything. He's not sure there's anything left to say. As she steps back, he rolls his shoulders, wincing at the shaft of pain that darts up from his stinging skin where the straps have chafed.

And they get moving.

When they reach a downhill patch, it's almost a relief. The wooden sled isn't so much of a load, and he feels the exhaustion start to recede. Maybe he can do this.

But behind him the sled starts to pick up speed, and with the white-out he doesn't see the shadow of the crevasse until it's too late. And the sled is sliding past him, pulling him off balance. He digs his heels in, but there's nothing he can do. The straps have him gripped tight, and the sled has too much momentum now; there's no way he can stop it.

Behind him, Faye is screaming at him to let go. But if he does they've lost everything. Then he's almost wrenched off his feet and he knows that if he doesn't get the straps off he'll die. He tears his mittens off with his teeth, scrabbles at the straps with numbed, useless fingers. They're pulled so tight around his shoulders he can't hook his fingers underneath.

The sled's left runner slides out over the edge of the crevasse. In that frozen moment, he sees a scatter of sparkling ice crystals flung over the edge. His breath freezes inside his mask. The sled teeters on the brink.

In a blind panic, he digs his fingers under the straps. Agony arches up through his hands, along his wrists. The pain is blinding; it nearly blots out the world. And the sled starts to fall. As he's torn off his feet, he twists free, but it's too late; he can't stop himself. He rolls in the snow, tumbling helplessly towards the drop.

He scrabbles at the snow, searching for purchase, for some way to stop himself. He hears the crash of the sled from inside the chasm, Faye's muffled screams. His own frantic breath.

And then Faye's there, grabbing at him. But it's too late, and now the two of them are sliding towards the crevasse.

He swings out over the edge, sees the shining walls of ice stretching down. And they stop.

The two of them lie frozen for a long moment. He's dangling over the edge, , with Faye's arm flung around him. Another inch or so and he would have plunged to his death and taken her with him. His hands press into the snow, totally numb. He squeezes his eyes shut, because he can't bear to look at the gleaming ice.

I'm alive, he thinks. We're alive.

And then he opens his eyes again, sees the sled wedged in the chasm. Most of their food, all the weapons aside from his handgun and Faye's rifle. And all of the diesel.

It's only fifty feet down, but it might as well be on the fucking moon.