PART SEVEN: THE FALL (REDUX)
John feels the tremor beneath his gloved hands half a second before the big one hits.
"Dev!" he cries at the top of his lungs, breath hanging in the frozen air surrounding them as the mountain shifts and moves like a live being. "Mike!"
He hangs on to the two axes stuck into the frozen mass before him even as his double boots slip and slide, metal teeth unable to find purchase as the mountain itself begins to shake.
Looking down to his left, he sees Dev hanging on for dear life to his own two axes, the boots with spikes built into the soles, which he insisted on using, keeping his feet a lot more steady than what John's wearing – boots with detachable spikes. Then he looks down to his right as a yelp of surprise and something solid and heavy sails past him, even as Denali tries to throw him from her rugged sides.
All he can do is watch Mike fall to his death, and brace himself against the pull he knows is going to come when the slack in the rope's all used up. John squeezes his eyes shut and clings to what little he's got to keep him from following the experienced climb guide.
Pieces of ice crack and break away.
Several boulders roll down, one glancing off his right shoulder blade. That's when he realizes there was never any tug at the rope. Either Mike knew the anchors might not hold when he hit the end of the slack and cut himself free just before he fell, or he didn't have his tether through a carabiner to begin with.
But there's no time for John to question or mourn Mike's actions. Because it's not the shaking that throws Dev off his perch below. It's the sudden wind that blasts into them like a brick wall just as the earthquake fades away, shoving John's cheek into a jut of rock even as Dev yells his name.
John yelps, breathless and in pain as he tries to crane his neck down and around to find his friend.
But he sees nothing. Visibility has dropped to zero in a heartbeat, and John's hanging on the side of a mountain called Denali in the state of Alaska, five thousand meters above sea level, in a raging snowstorm. Alone, for all he knows, with blood freezing almost as fast as it seeps out of the gash on his cheek.
The wind is really whipping, tossing John against the mountain like a ragdoll. Spots of bright red blood join the larger gash on his cheek as the rock and breaking ice cuts his face and forehead, the only parts of him that are exposed to the bitter Arctic air.
Snow has begun pummeling him as well, covering his thermal hat so quickly it dumps off in a huge clump when he bends sideways to try and get eyes on Dev. He can hear his friend's cries for help, but he can't fucking see him.
And his training kicks in.
He's not going to be able to keep his grip on the two ice axes the way the wind's hitting him. And he's pretty sure with all the strain they're taking, he can't trust the anchors through which his rope is laced, to hold. First order of business: securing himself. Second: finding and securing Dev.
John stabs the metal spikes attached to the soles of his shoes as far into the ice as he can, adjusts the grip of his left hand on its axe, and steels himself to hang on. After a deep breath, he releases the axe on his right, twists his arm back and grabs for the ice screw up, a rolled pack about ten inches top to bottom, that's lashed to the bottom corner of his backpack.
The Velcro easily tears away, and he struggles to hang on with his left hand, digging his feet into the ice face harder. One-handed he opens the screw up, takes the end of it between his teeth, and grabs a twenty millimeter ice screw. He flicks the yellow plastic protector off the end of it with his thumb. He's not sure if it's his own strength or the sudden gust of wind that slams into him like a freight train that jams the screw into the ice, but he doesn't care. Quickly he screws it in, gloved hand slipping a few times as his nose and cheeks numb completely under the onslaught.
He knows the weather can turn nasty here. It's another of the reasons people don't usually climb this time of year. But to have a series of earthquakes and then a sudden raging storm that wasn't on any radar when Mike checked the weather satellite feed this morning? HAARP, is all John can think as he grabs another screw from the pack and jams it in around twelve inches above the first.
That done, he grabs a third one out and positions it a foot to the left and up from the second, at a forty-five degree angle to form the tip of what will wind up looking like the outline of a house with a triangular top and square bottom. Now he's got to change hands, and here's the fun part, because he can't even see his damn ice axe through the swirling mess surrounding him.
Dev's frantic voice carries to him on an updraft, and he yells as loudly as he can for him to hang on, that he's coming. But he doubts Dev hears him. The wind is trying to push John up the side of the mountain as much as it is into the side of the mountain, and it's all he can do to feel around until the handle of the axe bangs painfully into his wrist bone where his glove has separated from the sleeve of his coat.
The litany of curses that flow through his mind don't escape his lips. He's keeping his mouth closed to preserve as much body heat as possible. It's a small thing, but it can mean the difference between hypothermic and just goddamn cold.
He gives himself less than a handful of seconds to rest his left shoulder after bearing all his weight before he firms his grip on the right ice axe and lets go of the left one, pulling out an ice screw and jamming it in as evenly as he can with the one directly opposite it to his right.
John's about to reach for another screw, the final one to be placed, when he feels the trembling of the mountain begin. He quickly grabs his safety rope and loops it through the biner* attached to the top-right screw, then shoves it into the top screw and just about manages to get it through the top left screw he just placed when the entire mountain seems to lurch. He gasps, dropping the screw pack from his teeth, and grabs for the left axe handle.
It falls away as the ice his spiked boots are dug into breaks apart.
His cry is carried away on the air as he swings out and the entirety of his weight is caught by his right arm and shoulder. But his glove can't keep his grip with the sudden pressure and his hand slides right off the handle. John compacts his body as much as he can, drawing his knees up, holding them to his chest, tucking his head down so he's in the fetal position when his safety rope catches him and he slams into the side of the mountain. Into hard, cold rock, just beneath the sheet of ice.
He loses consciousness when the back of his head connects with two-foot bulge of rock. Body going limp, he's helpless to resist the wind buffeting his body wherever it wants.
*biner: short for 'carabiner,'