52: Snowbound
Pleistocene Park, at the northern end of Lake Svetlana (somewhat earlier)-
The hover-sled had been attacked. All that Fermat recalled was a sudden explosion of white, as though something enormously powerful had burst from the snow directly beside them. The hover-sled, traveling at least 40 miles per hour, had stopped short; seized with a single, sharp crack! Then it flipped, hurling Fermat and Dr. Aginbroad into a tangled thicket of bare willow.
Everything hurt more, in the cold. He'd had a confused impression of tumbling pale sky and flopping earth, then the raking slash of broken twigs. No sound, though; he heard nothing at all until his own pained...
"Uhnff!"
…on strikinga patch offrozen ground.
Fermat didn't recall losing consciousness (too sudden), but certainly noticed the change when he woke again. Sharp snow, abrasive as sandpaper, ground against his face and head. He was being dragged along on his belly by…
Something had hold of his right ankle, painfully tight.
Reflexively, Fermat tried to kick loose, only to have his pinioned ankle nearly shattered. Even through his leather snow-boot Fermat felt the instantaneous, mechanically powerful clamp. But the grip did not belong to an animal. He hadn't felt any teeth.
Assess the situation…
There was snow jammed in one ear and all down his bloodied parka. His left eye was swollen shut, his view from the right as blurry as a bad water color. All he saw was light and shade, blinding snow, blue tree-shadows and a dark form that might have been Dr. Aginbroad, towed alongside.
No. Not an animal. The pull was too smooth… no stops, no snuffs, grunts or nudging. A person, then; one who might be reasoned with.
"Hey…" Fermat called, although it actually came out more like, "Hhhh…"
A viciously sharp jerk ended that experiment, filling his mouth and nostrils with snow. His hands weren't tied, but they weren't doing him any good, either, just clutching ineffectually at roots and passing outcrops with a newborn's feeble grip. He was going weirdlynumb, like he'd been drugged, or something.
They bumped a few hundred yards further. Then Fermat was released, dumped on his back in the snow at the base of a tree. Its half-glimpsed branches formed a pattern of dark, moving cracks against the sky.
He heard noises; scuffing, and the creak of over-burdened limbs. Snow was shaken down from above. Some of it fell on his face, choking off the boy's breath, but a weak head-toss knocked it away.
Come up with a plan of action…
His captor wouldn't talk. Escape seemed impossible, given that he couldn't seem to sit up. The wrist comm, maybe…?
One hand flopped across the boy's body and found the other. His gloved fingers were stiff and unwieldy, but very familiar with the location of the International Rescue communicator; always on his left arm.
He felt about, probing beneath parka sleeve and padded glove, but the wrist comm was missing. Something heavy landed in the snow beside him before Fermat could decide what to do next. Another shadow blocked the sky, briefly, about the size and shape of a man's head.
"Ex- excuse me…Sir," Fermat began.
"Quiet."
The voice wasn't angry or loud, but its passionless force nevertheless shut the boy up. He was hauled off the ground in a single, powerful move. And then, using one hand and his legs, the man (?) began to climb.
High into the tree he carried Fermat, surging upward with a speed and ease that most men couldn't have managed unburdened. Up where the wind and ice nested, where the branches were dangerously thin, the boy was left.
The man jerked or slashed a hole in the back of Fermat's parka, providing a means to suspend him. The boy moved his feet, but there was nothing near enough to rest upon, or grab for support.
A few minutes' further work on his captor's part got some kind of heavy belt wrapped around the boy's waist.
"W- Why are you…?"
Rough hands tightened the belt with a quick jerk, then made a further adjustment out of Fermat's view.
"Listen," that cold voice issued from the retreating, shadowy figure, "because your life depends on it. This is a bomb. Try to climb down or call for help, and it blows you and Dr. Doolittle across the lake. In pieces."
Relieved to hear of the zookeeper, Fermat ignored the threat. Hefound himself asking,
"Dr. Aginbroad? Is… h- he okay?"
At first, only the wind responded. Then the half-seen man seemed to smile (at any rate, the tone of his voice changed).
"Stay nice and still, Kid, and maybe you'll find out. Meanwhile, I've got work to do. See you."
He was gone before Fermat could ask any more questions, dropping from the tree rather than climbing down. After that, for a long time, there was only cold and wind and bony, rasping branches. Once or twice he whispered,
"Dr. Aginbroad? S- Sir…?"
There might have been a delirious mumble by way of reply, but Fermat couldn't be sure, and didn't dare raise his voice for a louder call.
He still couldn't see well, and cold was creeping inside, as wary-curious as the dark birds which had begun fluttering up to perch and watch and wait. Company of sorts.
Because poetry came as naturally to him as math, Fermat gave the croaking flock a bit of chilly, misquoted Stevenson:
"Under the wide and starry sky
dig the grave and let me lie;
glad did I live and proudly die,
and I lay me down with a will…
Home is the sailor, home from the sea;
and the hunter home from the hill."
Not so glad, nor so close to home that he missed TinTin's searching-soft voice, though. Never that far gone. A rapid query, a hurried explanation, and together they set to work putting a killer out of business.
For the moment, at least.