by Ann Gimpel
“Okay, guess I’m good here,” he said, his voice carefully neutral.
He had to be having a far worse time than she scrabbling for a modicum of control. She watched as he went through the same wasted motions she had trying to carve something approximating comfort from their slender ledge. A rustling noise caught her attention. She sought its source and watched a small group of kites rise out of the smoke, their long graceful wings spread as they sought to escape the inferno. “Too bad we can’t fly,” she said wryly, pointing at the raptors.
“Do you suppose they’re coming for us?” The question was casual, but John looked apprehensively at the birds.
“Why would you even say that?”
Color flooded his sharp-boned face. “There’s an old Indian legend about kites being spirit guides. About them showing up to cull the warriors from the cowards.” He dropped his gaze, obviously embarrassed. “I know I don’t look it,” he tugged at a coppery dreadlock, “but my grandmother was Lakota Sioux. She told me lots of stories, because she said a man without history is like wind on the buffalo grass.”
Cara laughed to cover sudden discomfiture. “Those birds don’t mean a thing. They’re trying to get out of here, just like us.” Taking a deep breath, she pounded in another piece of hardware, pulled up the rope, and threaded it through a breaker bar into a figure eight. Double-checking everything, she moved one hand behind her and rappelled down about twenty feet. Her breath whistled loudly through her teeth when she located John’s crack. “Jesus, how could I have missed that?” she snapped, furious with herself. “It’s practically a chimney. Tension!” she yelled, as she began swinging the rope back and forth.
Understanding she needed more rope, she rapped down a few more feet. Back and forth. Back and forth. Penduluming could be a risky maneuver. Hope he doesn’t let go. She reached with the fingers of the hand that wasn’t holding her rappel position and flattened her body, stretching. Just a couple more feet. Aha! The tips of her fingers grazed the edge of the crack. Next swing, she’d have it. Sending every second of her years of experience into her fingertips, she felt them connect with the edge and clung to it like a limpet. Triumph soared, but she didn’t let herself relax until she’d jammed a foot into the crack.
She was just getting ready to call over to John when she heard wings rustle again and felt a stab of pain in her rappel arm. Surprised more than anything, thinking a rock must have fallen, hitting her in the forearm, Cara looked over. One of the birds had landed on her. Its sharp black beak was firmly buried in the folds of her jacket, and the pain was excruciating. Shocked and sickened, she put her other foot atop the first one to stabilize her stance and tried to shake the bird off, but his talons tightened.
“Okay,” she said in measured tones. “Take that you son of a bitch.” Cara flung her arm hard against the wall. The bird dropped like a stone once his head cracked open on the granite. Examining her jacket, Cara saw bloody tracks where the kite’s talons had dug deep into her flesh. Aw shit, we don’t need any more problems. It’s not like there aren’t enough of them already.
“It’s good,” she shouted, trying to control her sense of outrage and angst about her latest assailant. “Off belay. Coil the rope. Give me a couple minutes to shinny up this crack and I’ll get my rope down to you. John, watch out for the birds.”
“What?” He sounded confused.
“Watch out for the goddamned birds. Looks as if you might have been onto something. Put on an extra jacket if you have one. Do it before you rescue the rope.” She worked her way up the crack, which widened slightly as she climbed. Unfortunately, it was angling away from where she’d left John. “Okay,” she called out. “I’m going to snake the rope your way. Be ready.”
“’Kay. Hurry, Cara. Those fucking birds are dive-bombing me.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
“Just hurry.”
The plaintive note in his voice chilled her and she swung the rope, gratified he caught it on the first try. “Got you,” she shouted. “Give me a minute to secure you to this piton. I’ll tell you when to come. Double check your knots.”
There was a brief pause and she heard him say, “Now?” The single word sounded like a prayer, and she got set up for him as fast as she could.
“Now,” she hollered. “Remember, nice and slow. There will be more rope movement since I’m not directly above you. Don’t let it bother you.” When he came into view five minutes later, climbing like a spider, her eyes widened in disbelief. Birds perched on his arms and his head. Blood dribbled from over fifty flesh wounds. As soon as he came within reach, she batted at the kites, swinging her gear rack at their heads. Some flew away, but most clung tenaciously.
“Thanks,” he gasped, tucking his lanky frame into the chimney right below her. “I was okay until I had to use my arms to climb, and then they were all over me.” As if they understood what John’s hands being free meant, the remaining birds squawked at one another. They let go as a unit and spread their wings. Soon they floated lazily across from the chimney, staring speculatively at the two humans with their beady avian eyes.
Cara scanned the air below them and felt as if someone booted her in the stomach. Air whooshed from her in a rush. More birds, at least fifty of the bastards, circled up from the hellhole below.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen kites in the Sierras before,” John said tremulously. “Have you?”
“No,” she growled, her voice short. “But we can’t worry about that now. Climb,” she urged, shortening the length of rope between them. “We have to get out of here.” Turning, she slithered easily up the chimney. For a brief moment, the joy she’d always found in ascents filled her, but it didn’t last. John’s question about the birds nagged at her. She’d never seen a kite anywhere in the High Sierra, either. What the hell did that mean? Where had they come from? Had the blast from the dynamite altered the ecosystem in some unnamed way?
Wonderfully chilly air wafted from somewhere. Curious, Cara shifted her attention toward it. “Follow me,” she instructed. “There’s a cave just above me. And water I think.”
“What about the top?” John asked, not sounding quite so freaked out.
“We can always get there. It’s only about a hundred feet above us. We need to refill our bottles. There won’t be any water on top of this peak, and not for a long way down the other side.” And I need to think about what to do next. After we get to the top and I can see something.
Pulling her body through a rounded opening, Cara found herself in a rough cavern. Just as she’d suspected, a pool huddled against one wall fed by a small cascade of water running down the granite. John stepped beside her and glanced around the dimly lit cavern. “Here,” he said, and thrust his water bottle toward her.
Cara dropped her pack, pulled out a headlamp, and fired it. She retrieved her water bottle and John’s and stepped across to the pool, trying to keep her elation in line while replaying the events of the past couple days. First the fire, then the suicides when her clients made a run for false shelter, then this climb out of hell, and now water, blessed water. Exactly what they needed most.
“Are you sure it’s okay to drink?” John’s tense query intruded into her thoughts like an unwelcome guest.
“Yes, I’m sure.” Hearing exasperation in her voice, she aimed for a more conciliatory tone and added, “We’re tired. We need a break. Let’s have a little water and an energy bar...” Her voice faltered, and a small yelp escaped. Gleaming whitely, and grinning maniacally at them, a human skeleton balanced precariously between boulders in an alcove in the rock.
“Wonder how he ended up here,” John muttered. He donned his headlamp and twisted side to side, examining the cave, “Shit! There’s more. Hang on.” His voice shrilled, faltering on the last part of hang on. “There’s something on that wall. I’m going to have a look.”
Cara followed his light and saw the other bodies. Methodically, dully, she counted ten, some just bones, while oth
ers had stringy bits of flesh still clinging to them. The scraps of clothing scattered about looked modern, but there wasn’t enough left to tell for sure. Hurriedly filling their water bottles, she dropped John’s near the opening to the cave and moved to stand next to her client. Written in dull dusky red that looked like blood, one repetitive word inscribed on granite made her head spin. Nausea rose so fast, she was sure she was about to puke.
Birds blazoned across the rock, announcement as well as warning.
Birds. Birds. Birds.
“Oh my God,” she moaned and choked back bile. “No wonder I didn’t see that chimney the first time. I didn’t see it because it wasn’t there. Somehow that inviting crack only formed after something sensed our presence. The chimney was macabre bait and we were the... Ach, Christ! I’m so sorry.”
Cara was babbling, but she couldn’t stop herself. “This whole thing’s nothing but a trap, like something out of a grade B horror movie.” Twirling abruptly, she flung on her pack, stuffing her headlamp into a pocket. “We’ve got our water,” she gritted out and had trouble breathing around the knot in her chest. “We need to go. Now.”
Goddammit. I’d been planning to settle in here. Mistakes. More mistakes.
“I don’t figure it will be that easy.” John sounded terrified; his voice broke on every other word. He spun away from her. She heard the zipper of his pants and then smelled urine, acrid and pungent, as it spattered against the stones littering the floor.
“What did you mean about it not being easy?” she asked once he’d turned back to face her. “The birds are still a huge threat, but why would you think we couldn’t get out the same way we got in?”
“They,” he flung his arm in a semi-circle, “weren’t able to get away. So, someone—or something—lures people in here and...and...”
“Maybe that was a long time ago,” she interrupted sharply. “These bones have been here for a while.”
“If something’s eating them, there’d be no way to tell how long they’ve been here.”
“My, aren’t you the cheery one,” she muttered as she bent to ease herself back into the outside world through the crack leading to their freedom. “Come on. Pick up your water and follow me.”
The deafening sound of granite grinding against itself filled the cavern. Tasting dust, Cara threw her body through the opening, turning an ankle as stone jaws very nearly closed on it. John’s screams followed her from the other side—the wrong side—of what had nearly become her prison.
Guilt threatened to obliterate her. She tore at the rock until her fingers were abraded and bleeding. Birds circled cawing, but none of them landed. It’s as if they’re mocking my efforts. Telling me how futile and trivial they are. The next thought, when it surfaced, was so outrageous she pushed it aside as soon as it formed. Maybe they’re not really birds.
Defeat settled about Cara like a shroud. She didn’t know how long she’d been digging at the rock, only that her hands were bruised and aching from the effort. John had long since stopped talking with her. Either he was dead or he’d given up. You’ve gone and lost another one, her nasty inner critic noted. Cara, the great mountain guide. Bet if you told the truth, you’d never find another client.
“Shut up!” she shrieked. “Just shut up.” Twisting to re-establish her body in the chimney, she looked down. Flames still dissolved every living thing they came into contact with. Then she looked up and saw the kites. They’d settled on each outcropping, as far up the chimney as she could see.
It’s like they’re waiting. Waiting for me.
The screech of granite grating on itself had her on her knees in an instant. Somehow, John managed to pry whatever was blocking the entrance to the cave back an inch or two. “I’ll help you,” she shouted. “On my count of three...”
She counted and pulled so many times she lost track. Her hands, already sore from grappling with the rock, bled so profusely she dug out her gloves. Sputtering and panting, she fought with the intransigent boulder as if it were a living assailant. From time to time, she talked to John, but he didn’t answer. She could her him grunting, though, from inside the cave, snuffling snorts that sounded inhuman.
“Put your feet against it,” she exhorted. “Brace yourself against something and push while I pull. Your legs are much stronger than your arms.” That last bit of advice did it. After a shuddering moan from the rock, a sibilant echo hung in the air. John stuck his boots through the hole, first one, and then the other. She thought about telling him to start with his shoulders since they were the broadest part of his body, but was so exhausted she couldn’t find words.
Wriggling his slim body back and forth like a snake, John gradually emerged. Cara tried to pull on his clothing to help, but didn’t get much purchase until she grabbed his climbing harness once his upper thighs came into view. A grueling whimper escaped him, and she stopped yanking on the harness long enough to ask, “Are you hurt? Damn it, John, talk to me.”
“Leave me alone. I’ve got this figured out.”
“What?” She started to say more, to demand what the fuck he meant, but shut her mouth. A part deep inside her—the same intuitive part that understood she had to leave Mom and Betty—was so terrified her tongue stuck to the roof of her dry-as-dust mouth.
What in God’s name is going to come out of that cave? If I leave now, I can out climb him. And outrun him once I hit the top.
I can’t do that. I have to stay. He’s my client for chrissakes. His welfare is my job. Scrunching her eyes shut, she reinforced her shaky decision to wait for John, no matter what.
Shouldering her pack and coiling her ropes for travel, she scooted about five feet up the chimney and watched, mesmerized, as John continued to lash his body from side to side, grunting and heaving. Dust peppered the smoky air, and displaced rocks rolled off the ledge in front of the cave.
It was slow work, and John’s shoulders did get stuck, just like she’d thought they would. There was a sudden cracking noise and she knew he’d broken a collarbone exiting from the vise like opening. It had to be a collarbone since that was the thinnest of the bones in the shoulder array, always the first to snap under pressure. Jesus, did he do that on purpose? She felt momentarily dizzy, but bit down hard on a gloved knuckle to give herself something to think about besides her fear.
John jackknifed his body around so he fit into the crack. He grinned, baring teeth that looked as if he’d been eating dirt. “Told you I had this nailed.”
“But your shoulder—” she began, and then gathered herself together. “Do you think you can climb?”
“’Course I can. Lead on, oh guide of my heart.”
“Let me toss you the rope. I can come down to tie—”
“Nah,” he interrupted, an unpleasant undertone in his voice. She thought about telling him he probably had a broken collarbone and needed something to stabilize it, but something in his response curdled the words in her throat.
Cara dropped her gaze. Something was terribly, wretchedly wrong here, except she didn’t know what it was. When she looked up, the birds that had been clinging to the chimney, eyeing her with vulturesque greed, were nowhere to be seen. What the hell? When did they leave?
“Are you ready?” she called.
“Ready,” echoed back to her.
Cara grabbed a convenient handhold and pulled herself up. Just climb, dammit. I can think later. The chimney was just as simple an affair as she believed it would be. In very little time, she hauled herself onto a ridge top where she could look down the easy side of Mount Rixford.
John was still about twenty feet from the top. He climbed using both hands, which meant he was putting pressure on a bone she thought was broken. Why wasn’t he screaming when the bone ends jammed against one another? She’d broken bones; they burned like liquid fire.
I could still leave, her inner voice suggested silkily. I know the way down, he doesn’t.
No. I’m not losing any more clients. This is about me taking care of
him like I’m supposed to.
Part of her wondered if maybe, just maybe, John wasn’t already beyond her reach. Since she didn’t understand why she would think that—or why the fine hairs on the back of her neck stood on end—she forced herself to stand quietly and wait for her client. She ferreted a water bottle out of one of her pack’s side pockets and took a long drink and then another.
She took advantage of those few minutes to test the ankle she’d injured escaping from the cave. It was tender, likely bruised, but she didn’t have any trouble standing on it. Next she scanned the flanks of Mount Rixford down to Bullfrog Lake. No fire. Would it be smarter to hole up next to the lake or to make a run for it over Kearsarge Pass?
She was still pondering their route when something latched onto her arm. Her heart ramped into overdrive, and she whirled to find John only inches away, a pained expression on his face. “How did...I didn’t hear...” she stammered and yanked her arm out of his grasp.
“You wouldn’t have. Not now.” His blue eyes scanned the same vista she’d been staring at.
She eyed his right arm, hanging at an unnatural angle. “Do you want me to tape that shoulder?”
Before he could answer, a whooshing sound filled the air and the kites, conspicuously absent for the past hour, rose from both sides of the high ridge. The air above her turned black with their bodies, and warm little globs of bird shit fell like raindrops. Wing beats rose and fell in the same stiff breeze that tugged at hair escaping from her braids.
“I don’t have much time,” John said, sounding more like himself again. “I made a deal with them back in the cave. Only reason they let me go is because of my Native blood. Remember I told you about sorting the warriors from the cowards?” At her terse nod, he continued. “They told me if I could get myself out of there, they’d consider me a warrior and would take me somewhere. A place of honor. Hells bells, Cara, I’m not even sure I’m still alive. I heard my bone when it snapped and I can’t feel a thing. No pain. Nothing.” A fine edge of panic was back in his voice.
