The Edge of Death: (Sequel to ADRENALINE)

by John Benedict

  “Yup. He’s a birthday present.”

  “You’re the best, Chip,” she said and leaned over and kissed him on the cheek.

  Chip felt himself blush. “Happy birthday,” he said.

  “It’s the best birthday present I ever got,” she said, tears rolling down her face.

  “What do you think you’re gonna call him?”

  She thought for a moment while stroking the pup’s fur. “You’ll think I’m crazy, but—”

  Chip observed a respectful silence.

  “I’m leaning toward Smokey,” she said. “It’s a funny name for a golden, but somehow it just seems right.”

  E P I L O G U E

  Southwestern slope of Denali, Alaska

  Present day

  Kyle Waters crested the ridgeline and paused, gazing in wonder at the majestic Arctic vista spread out before him. Jagged mountain peaks and snow-blanketed evergreen forests stretched out as far as the eye could see. Ever since yesterday’s storm had cleared out, the weather was perfect except for some residual strong winds. Besides the glaring sun, just a few wispy clouds inhabited the dazzling blue sky. Below him, the mighty Kahiltna Glacier, two miles wide and forty miles long, wound its way down from the high mountaintops where it was birthed to the valleys far below. The frozen river of ice sparkled in the waning sunlight, traces of shimmering blue glacial ice catching the light.

  Here on the exposed ridge, the wind whipped over him, urging him to seek cover, but Kyle held his ground. Behind him, the lone peak of Denali loomed ridiculously large, blotting out the whole northern horizon. The sun was sinking fast and he knew they needed to hurry.

  Beth joined him, out of breath. “Check out the view,” Kyle said loudly, to be heard over the wind.

  “Amazing,” she said.

  “You can even make out Fairbanks over there.” He pointed.

  “I see it.”

  “And the terminal moraine of the Kahiltna,” he added.

  She nodded, smiling. “And base camp.”

  “Right,” he said, “base camp.” Two words never sounded so good. “No more than five miles.” Kyle checked his watch. “It’s two-fifteen. We’ve gotta make some time before the sun sets.” He didn’t bother to add that he was worried. The thought of spending another night on the mountain rattled him more than he cared to admit. Last night’s storm had been horrendous. The unrelenting wind had ripped off their tent’s storm-flap; he was thankful the main body of the tent had somehow remained intact until morning. Today had been unusually clear and this meant the night would be brutally cold—probably twenty below. The wind would make it forty below. And they were also running low on food and fuel.

  Today’s journey had been much more arduous that he would’ve liked; the last two days had seen four or five feet of fresh snowfall added to the season’s record tally, and had created some slow-going and treacherous conditions. He was ready to be done with the mountain, and already imagining a long, hot shower.

  “I feel good,” Beth said. “Set the pace and I’ll follow.”

  She was special, all right. And to her credit, she didn’t sound worried—he knew she trusted him and his advanced mountaineering skills. The two had met in base camp three weeks ago and had hit it off right away. He was drawn to her unusual combination of long black hair and intense blue eyes. She had told him she was of northern Italian descent and that a deep-seated love of the mountains was in her blood. The pair had decided to break off from the main group after summiting four days earlier.

  Kyle had also figured that with her athletic body, she’d be good in the ol’ mummy bag, and in this, his intuition had proven entirely correct. He gave his head a shake and erased the lingering smile from his face. No time for daydreaming now. His unease returned, becoming palpable, and he set off down the mountain at a brisk clip.

  Thirty minutes later, Kyle paused to catch his breath in the thin air. He was once again impressed by Beth’s stamina. Most girls—or rather most hikers, male or female—would have had trouble keeping up with him, especially after the grueling slog this morning. But Beth soldiered on without complaint.

  Kyle could feel the temperature plummet as the sun dropped toward the horizon. He shivered and kept plodding forward. He knew it was dangerous to push it like this when they were tired, but he felt they didn’t have much choice.

  A distant sound made Kyle stop and scan the sky, shielding his eyes with one hand. He recognized the distinctive womp-womp of an approaching helicopter, its rotors clawing for purchase in the frigid, thin air. Soon he made out the chopper’s orange and blue markings. It was from Denali Air, a local tour facility, serving all the cruise ship tourists who had traveled by rail to explore the national park. Hopefully Beth and he wouldn’t be spotted. The tourists loved to see animals on the slopes — Dall sheep, caribou, or even bear or moose, if they were lucky. But if the animals weren’t obliging, a couple of hikers would do in a pinch.

  The chopper flew right by them and headed toward the summit. Good.

  Suddenly the chopper veered in a tight U-turn and headed back toward them. “Shit,” Kyle cursed loudly. “We’ve been seen.”

  “So what?” Beth said.

  “It’s dangerous,” he said, and began flailing his arms in an effort to wave them off. She joined him. The helo circled stubbornly above them for several minutes, ignoring their waves, before it finally buzzed off.

  The two resumed their downward trek.

  Gradually, Kyle became aware of a low frequency vibration in his chest—a building pressure. Soon he could make out a low rumbling sound. Before his brain could process it, the noise level quickly intensified. An inexplicable sense of impending doom engulfed him. A second or two later, he identified the origin of the noise.

  An avalanche.

  Undoubtedly it had been caused by the helo’s rotor wash, high in the unstable peaks, where the new snow lay heavy.

  Kyle whipped his head around, trying to make sense out of anything in the sea of white. Then he saw something—a billowing snow wave that was at most several hundred yards away, and coming fast.

  “Run!” he screamed to Beth.

  They both ran pell-mell down the slope. He knew they couldn’t hope to outrun the massive snow wave, which typically traveled at speeds over 100 mph, but perhaps they could get out of its direct path. He led them diagonally off to the right.

  Within seconds, the ground around his feet came alive with moving snow, like a fast-moving stream, threatening to trip him. Kyle ran faster, but soon the snow was up to his knees and he went down hard onto his belly. He felt himself being carried down the mountain in a monstrous churning wave that was alive, hugging him and wrapping its tentacles around his body.

  Soon the tentacles constricted and the wave became heavier and heavier. As Kyle felt its crushing weight pressing onto his body, he tried frantically to bodysurf and stay near the surface. But his arms quickly became pinned to his side by an unyielding, overwhelming force. Soon his thrashing legs were held motionless as well. The cold snow pushed in on his face and snaked up his nostrils, freezing his brain and making it almost impossible to breathe. He was completely at the mercy of the boiling snow.

  Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the writhing snow mass stopped moving. Dead silence. Kyle couldn’t move a muscle; the snow held him in its viselike grip of cold death. He thought about clearing an airspace around his mouth and nose, but his arms were immobilized at his sides. He was buried alive under a mountain of snow. The cold flowed rapidly into his body.

  Kyle knew his only hope was the locating transceiver in his pack. Surely base camp had seen the avalanche and would be sending rescue parties. He just needed to hold on for a little bit. As he exhaled, the snow melted several inches around his mouth and nose. Kyle moved his head for all he was worth, trying to create a little breathing space. He found he was able to breathe in short tiny gasps, using just his diaphragm, as his chest was immobilized by the crushing weight of the snow. But without
a fresh air supply, he realized this would just prolong the inevitable for a few minutes.

  As the cold rapidly seeped into him and he felt his consciousness flicker, his thoughts turned to Beth. With any luck, she was closer to the surface or the edge of the snow mass than he seemed to be. Sorrow welled up in him; she had placed her trust in him, yet he had not been able to protect her from the unforgiving mountain.

  Soon Kyle could no longer ignore his hunger for air; his breaths became more and more rapid as the carbon dioxide built up. With his air supply now exhausted, he succumbed to the blackness.

  The German shepherd started barking insistently and Brad knew she had picked up a scent. His transceiver indicated there were two victims, and that they were both nearby. “Angela’s got a scent,” he said over his walkie-talkie.

  Several hundred yards away, his buddy Joe on the snowmobile answered. “Okay, good. I’m on my way. Don’t get your hopes up, Brad. I just found a loose pack over here with a transceiver in it.”

  Angela was now digging furiously with her front paws. Brad began piercing the snow with his eight-foot-long snow probe, searching for anything solid beneath the snow. He got a hit at roughly six feet. Yanking the shovel from his pack, Brad started digging beside the dog, being careful not to put the shovel blade through a victim’s skull.

  Five minutes later, the two men hauled a limp body out of the snow. The person looked dark gray and showed no sign of respiration. No pulse, either. Brad started CPR. Joe dashed to the snowmobile and grabbed the emergency pack. They stripped off the victim’s parka and applied the defibrillator machine’s patches.

  The AED went to work analyzing and then announced, “Shockable rhythm.” Its mechanical voice sounded eerie on the windswept glacier. Brad figured the vic must be in V-fib from a combination of hypothermia and hypoxia. The machine said, “Clear,” and moments later fired its electricity. The vic’s body heaved off the snow.

  “Get the oxygen and the warming blanket,” Brad said, but Joe was already on the move.

  The AED repeated, “Shockable rhythm.”

  Shit, Brad thought, not good. Been buried too long.

  The AED fired again.

  Joe came back with the oxygen tank, Ambu bag, and portable warming blanket. Brad gave the vic two breaths while Joe got the warming blanket going.

  The AED discharged a third time.

  Seconds later, the vic’s eyes flew open, startling the hell out of Brad.

  “C-can you hear me?” Brad said. Joe stood there with his mouth hanging open.

  “Cold,” came the weak reply. “So cold.”

  Brad quickly checked the settings on the warming blanket. “What’s your name?” he asked.

  “Beth.”

  “You’re going to be okay, Beth,” Brad said, feeling the emotion well up in him. This part—the saving someone’s life—made this job the best in the world.

  Joe slapped his back. “Way to go, man.”

  The woman, who had the most intense blue eyes he had ever seen, didn’t say anything for several minutes, but stared up at Brad, her face expressionless. Finally she spoke. “Did you find Kyle’s body?”

  Brad exchanged glances with Joe. “Not yet,” Brad said. A vague uneasiness settled on him. Joe was looking over at the snowmobile; the hiker’s pack he had found was strapped to the side.

  “Thanks for rescuing me,” she said.

  “Sure,” Brad said.

  “Will you thank Angela, too?” she asked.

  “You can thank her yourself.” Brad nodded toward Angela, who was sitting at attention off to the side, panting and waiting patiently for further commands. “She’s one hell of a rescue dog. She’s got a nose on her that’s—that’s—off the charts.”

  Beth turned her head toward the dog and smiled.

  Brad’s unease now turned to confusion. “Hey,” he asked, “how did you know her name?”

  Dr. John Benedict, husband and father of three sons, graduated cum laude from Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute and entered post-graduate training at Penn State University College of Medicine. There, he completed medical school, internship, anesthesia residency and a cardiac anesthesia fellowship. He currently works as an anesthesiologist in a busy private practice in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania.

  Author website: johnbenedictmd.com

  Author email: johnbenedictmd@yahoo.com

  (The author welcomes all feedback and correspondence.)