Chapter 7

Charlie shuddered with terror and cold, shaking uncontrollably. He stared at his legs with grim fascination, as if they belonged to someone else, his thoughts whirling, his mind staggered by the horror of it all. He knew vaguely that he was descending into a state of shock, and with a supreme effort, he pulled his mind back from the abyss, and tried to concentrate on the situation. His eyes fell on the bloody knife on his lap. If he could only get it in his hands somehow…despair beckoned again as he realized the helplessness of his situation and he squeezed his eyes shut, desperately fighting against the black fear that gripped him.

'Come on, Charlie, think,' he commanded himself, frantically trying to grasp control. 'Don wouldn't sit here and panic; what would he do? Think. It's up to you now.' He opened his eyes, and shifted his arms experimentally. When he pulled with one hand, the rope tugged on his other hand, so the rope was not secured to anything, he realized, just tied around the tree.

If he shifted his hips, he could move a bit in either direction, and if he did that enough times in the same direction, he could move all the way around the tree if he wanted to. The rope had enough slack so that he could move his hands up and down the trunk a bit – as far down as the ground, and up as far as his shoulders would allow.

He frowned in concentration. His body could move 360º around the y-axis, and his hands could move a few inches up and down the y-axis. So what did that get him? One hand still couldn't reach the other, and neither could reach the rest of his body. He stared again at the knife in his lap, and his heart leapt as a sudden inspiration struck him.

Leaning sideways, he tilted his hips, carefully sliding the knife off, as close to the base of the tree as he could. It landed a few inches away, and he nudged it closer to the trunk with his hip, so that it was almost touching. He began shifting away from it, moving his hips slightly, inch by inch. It was slow going; his legs were fast becoming a dead weight, and he had to rely on small movements of his torso and hips to make progress.

Finally, he was about a quarter of the way around the tree, and he estimated that he had reached a point where his left hand should be near the knife. He reached down carefully, trembling; if he knocked the knife out of reach, he would need to move it back into place with his hip – it would mean starting all over again.

His hand touched ground. Nothing. He shifted his hips again, moving slightly, gently probing with his fingertips – there. He felt it, but was not quite in a position to grip it; he lifted his hand and shifted his position a bit more, then reached down and his fingers closed on the handle.

He gasped in relief and triumph. Now for the hard part, he thought. He adjusted the knife carefully in his grip, pointing the blade back toward the outside of his forearm. He pressed down with the blade on the rope on his left wrist, and bent his wrist back and forth in small sawing motions.

He could feel small strands of the rope start to give, and he took in a deep breath as hope and relief mingled with the terror and anxiety. As the knife bit deeper into the rope, it also started cutting into the skin of his palm and his forearm, but he was so intent on freedom he barely noticed it, sawing with faster motions as the blood dripped off of his arm.

As he got down to the final few strands, the knife was making deeper cuts in his arm, and he began to gasp in pain. He tried pulling his arm to break the strands, but they still held. Gritting his teeth, he bore down with the knife, groaning as it bit into his skin. He suddenly felt the last strands give, his arms relaxed, and he sat stunned for minute, rendered motionless by the pain and the realization of his sudden freedom.

He came to his sense with a start, and whipped his hands in front of him, inserting the knife under the rope on his right wrist and cutting in a frenzy. He was covered in blood – blood from his chest, blood dripping from his left hand and arm, but he was oblivious to it; all that mattered was getting out. He stripped the tape off his mouth impatiently, and pushed himself away from the tree with his hands, pushing his hips toward the towel, his legs a dead weight.

Reaching over, he grabbed the wire cutters. He had already lost all feeling in his legs, and he snipped frantically at the wires on his thighs and knees, stifling a moan as the blood rushed painfully into his legs. He sliced through the rope at his knees, and grabbing one leg by the ankle, lifted it carefully, and laid it crossed over his other leg. The wires on his ankles and toes bit into his skin, and he had no choice but to dig under his skin with the wire cutters to get to them, opening cuts in his ankle and on each toe. Thankfully, his feet were numb, and the sense of urgency overrode any reluctance he had at the self-mutilation. Finally, his feet were free of the wires.

His legs were recovering quickly; they were stiff but moving, but his feet were another story. He rolled over, crawling toward his boots, which were just beyond the towel. He sat and massaged his feet frantically, hands slippery with blood, finally starting to gain a little feeling, then shoved them into his boots and tried to stand. He made it to his feet, but collapsed on the first step, falling on his hands and knees. Desperately he tried again and again, rising and falling forward, scrambling on his knees, moving toward the end of the canyon. Bit by bit, as the circulation returned, he gained more control, and by the time he reached the thick growth at the end of the canyon, he was on his feet, staggering, but moving forward.

He paused for a moment as he faced the wall of growth. Was there actually an opening there? It looked as if the walls of the canyon were unbroken behind the trees. There must be a way out, he reasoned, Mansour went this way. He pushed his way through, fighting thick scratching branches of pine, moving faster, with more desperation, until he finally plunged out on the other side. The rock walls of the canyon rose behind him and there was a thin bit of trail in front of him, but he was moving so quickly that he overshot it, and he tumbled over the edge of a slope.

He plunged down the grade, hitting rocks and trees on way, and finally came to a stunned stop at the bottom. Subconsciously, he knew that his mind wasn't working correctly; it was overwhelmed with shock, pain and terror, but instinct took over. The need to get as far away from that place as he could overwhelmed all other thoughts, and he clambered to his feet, and staggered desperately away through the forest, running, stumbling, crawling, moving as quickly as he could through the moonlit trees.

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Megan couldn't sleep. She lifted her head from her sleeping bag, and looked over at Don's motionless form. He was still sitting on the log that she had guided him to earlier. He had refused to eat, refused to go to sleep, and insisted that he would stay up and keep watch. Megan could only imagine the demons that were keeping him company, and shivering; she crept from her bag, pulled on her jacket, and stepped quietly over to join him.

His face was in shadow, but she could see his breath on the cold air, illuminated by the moonlight. She sat, and glanced at his profile. From this new position, she could see the silvery glint of tears reflected on his cheeks, and she felt a painful stab of sympathy. She said nothing, just put an arm around him, and they sat in silence for a moment.

He spoke suddenly, a whisper ragged with pain. "I should never have let him go up there."

Megan sighed and shook her head gently. "Don, you couldn't have known, none of us could. Edgerton knew the area; even he thought it was safe there. He was only a few yards up the trail."

Don shook his head. None of them would understand, he thought. Charlie wasn't one of them, he didn't think like them. The amazing power of his mind, his ability to focus on a problem to the exclusion of all else, was also his biggest shortcoming – it made him vulnerable in real-world situations, when quick reactions and keen senses were needed. Don had felt that difference instinctively since he was a child. When he was younger, it frustrated him to no end; he couldn't understand how his brother could be so brilliant in some situations, and so clueless in others.

When he had come back from Albuquerque, and really began for the first time to get to know Charlie, he started to realize both how amazing his brother's mind really was, and at the same time how limited. With age came understanding; Charlie still could frustrate him to be sure; but Don slowly began to comprehend what his brother could and could not control. Social situations, physical situations; were Charlie's vulnerable areas, but Don's strength, and he felt instinctively that it was his duty to protect his younger brother. Some people would argue that it was not his responsibility; sometimes he chafed at it himself, but rightly or wrongly, he couldn't escape it. It was part of him, and as their relationship deepened, so did his protectiveness.

He couldn't explain it, so he didn't try. In his own mind he accepted it; he was responsible, he had failed his brother, and the knowledge would haunt him for the rest of his life.

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Charlie staggered on through the forest, aimlessly at first, but gradually some rational thought returned, not total clarity – he was in too much pain, too much fear, and too cold for that – but the thought that he needed to move with some direction was taking hold. He was shivering violently; his torn and blood soaked T-shirt flapped at his chest, and he clasped his arms around himself, trying to hold in some heat. He remembered reading that someone lost in the woods would tend to travel in a circle, so he tried to orient himself by looking at the position of the moon, and picking out landmarks ahead.

From time to time he thought he would hear a noise, and he would stop in panic, heart beating painfully, listening. Each time it was nothing, and finally the frigid air would drive him on. He knew he had to keep moving to stay alive – aside from the threat posed by Mansour, stopping and resting in the cold would be a death sentence.

He had come to a flat area at the bottom of a valley; he could see large stretches of what looked like grass and he started to cross, grateful for the flatter terrain. The moon illuminated the setting, and crossing the open ground, he suddenly felt exposed. He looked behind him, and then across.

To the side of him, a distance away, were stands of trees. It wasn't the most direct way forward, but he figured that they would provide needed cover. Heading for a tree line, he began carefully pick his way through the trees and shrubs. He had gotten close to halfway across the valley, when he picked up the sound of running water. Heart sinking, he pushed his way forward, praying for a way across.

He came up to a stream; it was about twenty feet across, but he noted in relief that it was shallow. In the moonlight he could see water a few inches deep covering sand at the edges, and rocks stuck out in the middle of the stream, so he knew it was probably only between ankle and knee deep. The moon illuminated the sandy patches, making them look white against the dark rocks. He walked up and down the bank looking at the water, shivering, knowing that he had to try to find the shallowest point, to stay as dry as possible.

He finally decided on a path, and stepped around a boulder onto the sand. The water swirling over the sand was only about three inches deep. There was a boulder in front of him and another large sandy patch behind it, and he stepped over it carefully onto the sand; only to suddenly plunge to his chest in the icy water. There was no bottom, and he turned instinctively and pulled himself out on the boulder, drenched, shivering in shock, panic enveloping him in a delayed reaction. 'What happened?' he thought wildly. 'There was sand there!'

He stood cautiously and backed out of the stream, staring in disbelief as the water cleared and what he had thought was sand reappeared. Shaking violently, he bent and grabbed a large stick, and stepping forward cautiously, he probed the sand with the stick. The sand on the side of the boulder closest to him was firm, but when he tried the same thing on the other side of the boulder, the stick plunged in easily, tendrils of sand drifting around it in the water. 'There must be an underground spring bubbling up through it,' he thought, his teeth chattering, and then in shock, 'That's quicksand!'

He stood for a moment in despair, shaking, trying to decide what to do. He realized he had no choice. He was already wet; it didn't matter where he crossed. He moved down the bank to a less sandy spot, and probing carefully with the stick in front of him, picked his way across. By the time he got to the other side, he knew he was in a desperate situation; he was shuddering violently and his hands were going numb. He clambered out onto the other bank, shaking in uncontrollable spasms, and staggered forward, unconsciously heading to the right, along the river. 'Have to keep moving,' he told himself.

An hour or so before dawn, he was still moving, but no longer in control of his faculties. His body temperature had dropped to the point that hallucinations had set in, and he staggered and wandered aimlessly, stumbling, falling and pushing himself to his feet again. Each time, getting up was more of an effort; it would be so nice just to lie there, to sleep, but each time, he drove himself up onto his feet again. He no longer consciously even knew why – he had a vague notion that he was looking for Don, but even that thought was elusive.

He could feel fear and desperation hovering in the back of his mind, but the feelings were growing more distant, like they belonged to someone else. He crossed a section of ground, not realizing that he had been there before, unconscious on Mansour's shoulder; and fell sprawling, and then began struggling up the slope that had materialized in front of him. It took nearly his last ounce of his strength to make it up, and he crawled over to a tree on his hands and knees and tried to pull himself up to his feet, managing to get only part way before he collapsed, twisting; sliding to a sitting position with the trunk at his back.

He was no longer shivering; he felt warm and sleepy, and he closed his eyes. A slight frown appeared on his face, something told him he couldn't stay there, but his body told him otherwise, so he lay against the tree in the frigid pre-dawn darkness, his mind slipping into oblivion.

---------------------------------End Chapter 7----------------------------------------------