Mission Survival 8

by Bear Grylls

  ‘Trust me,’ Beck told James, ‘you don’t want to get poisoned out here. We have other food sources. Think of the big picture. Stay healthy. Get Lumos. Survive.’

  James hobbled back in his socks, and Beck decided to let his own feet have some air. As he reached for the laces, he had to force his injured leg to bend – he hoped James hadn’t heard his grunt of pain.

  James had, and was immediately at his side. ‘That sounded bad. How is it?’

  ‘It’s . . .’ Beck knew that they had to be able to trust each other and he didn’t want to lie. ‘It’s not good,’ he admitted. ‘It’s painful and swollen and it isn’t healing. It just needs a rest.’

  ‘You should change the bandage again.’

  James didn’t sound like he was going to accept an argument. Beck sighed and wriggled out of his trousers so that James could get at the bandage around his thigh.

  James winced. The white gauze was stained brown with crusted blood. ‘You shouldn’t have let it get like this.’

  Beck shrugged. ‘I’m, like, full of this red stuff, and when my skin gets a hole in it, it comes leaking out. I’m funny that way.’

  James frowned at him. ‘OK, well, at least let me change it . . .’

  The old blood had glued the bandage to Beck’s skin. James had to soak it in water before he could peel it off. He went white, and even Beck, who had suspected what they might find, was shocked.

  On either side of the gash made by the bear’s claw, Beck’s leg was badly swollen. The skin was dark red and inflamed, and stretched so tight it looked like it might burst if James pricked it with a pin.

  But the wound itself was dark, black and jagged. It wasn’t just the clotted blood – some of it was the flesh itself. It was dark and rotten, and it smelled bad.

  Beck had seen this before. Or rather, he had seen the after-effects. Without proper treatment, this would turn into gangrene.

  He could lose his leg, and without help he could lose his life.

  Chapter 30

  ‘Oh, man!’ James exclaimed. ‘How did it get like that?’

  ‘Had some mountains to walk over.’ Beck bit his lip. He hadn’t expected it to look that bad.

  ‘Well,’ James said doubtfully, ‘we can probably— Hey, get away!’

  A couple of flies from the cloud that hung around the cows had ventured further and settled on Beck’s wound like squat, black little aliens. They immediately buzzed off out of range of James’s hand.

  Beck swallowed. ‘No, leave them.’

  James stared at him. ‘Eh?’

  ‘Let them be,’ said Beck. ‘I want them to lay eggs.’

  ‘B-but . . .’ James spluttered. ‘Eggs will hatch maggots! You’ll have maggots in . . . in . . .’ He waved a helpless hand at the wound.

  ‘This is rotten, and maggots eat rotten flesh,’ Beck told him. ‘At the moment the rotten flesh is all on the outside. If the rot goes in, if it gets into my bloodstream – then I’m good as dead. I’ll get blood poisoning and gangrene. So, let ’em be. They’ll soon produce maggots, which will start eating. They’ll swallow up all the dead flesh and pus. Once I start to see fresh blood – then I’ll know they’ve dealt with it.’

  He didn’t add, I hope. This felt like the hardest thing Beck had ever done. He had swallowed all kinds of creatures in his time, but he had never knowingly let them get inside his skin, lay eggs, breed . . .

  Still, he had seen it done. He and his Uncle Al had visited a friend in hospital. The friend had suffered a bad case of frostbite in the Arctic. Part of his feet had turned black and gangrenous. He had risked losing his legs. Instead, the doctors had gone for the maggot treatment. And it had worked. The little wrigglers had nibbled away the rotten flesh, one tiny bite at a time. Small chunks of his feet and toes were missing, but he could walk and he was alive.

  The same thing should work here. Should, Beck thought to himself.

  A couple more flies had settled as he spoke. Presumably the word was going out in the fly community that there was a pleasant alternative to cows.

  ‘How will you know when they’ve laid their eggs?’ James asked.

  ‘I’m not sure, but we should just leave them for a while.’

  ‘You sit there, then. I’ll boil some water . . .’ James tore his gaze away and stood up. He cast a final look back. ‘Y’ know, that wound’s quite high up inside your leg.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘So, um, how high up will the maggots, um, eat . . .’

  ‘They eat rotten flesh,’ Beck said firmly. ‘Nothing else.’

  ‘Nothing?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘OK, OK, just saying.’ James trudged over to the stream to collect some water.

  They ate their lunch and washed it down with pine-needle tea. After that, Beck decided that the flies had had their chance. James helped bandage his leg up again and Beck pulled his trousers on.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ James announced, ‘roll up for Beck Granger and his Marvellous Munching Maggots . . .’

  He was reaching down to help Beck up when an angry squeal echoed around the valley. Something heavy came charging through the trees towards them. Branches waved and cracked. For a moment Beck had a ridiculous flashback to the rhinos he had seen in Africa.

  But there wouldn’t be a rhino halfway up a mountain in Nepal . . .

  There wasn’t, but it was almost as bad. Half a ton of beef burst out into the open. A very large, very angry bull, its eyes fixed firmly on them.

  Neither of the boys had given much thought to the fact that where there were cows, there would also be a bull.

  It pawed the ground and snorted. In bull talk, it was basically saying, Clear off, and fast.

  ‘My, we’re big, aren’t we?’ Beck whispered calmly. He slipped the bergen straps over his shoulders, slowly, without any sudden movements. The bull snorted again and took a step closer.

  ‘If it charges,’ Beck continued quietly, ‘you go left, I’ll go right. It can’t get both of us at once.’

  ‘No, it can get both of us, one after the other.’

  ‘Got a better idea?’

  ‘No . . .’

  The bull tossed its head and its horns flashed in the sun. They looked like an afterthought – something the bull had put on like Beck might put on a pair of earphones. They curved out on either side, almost as wide as Beck’s outstretched arms, each ending in a vicious point.

  The bull lowered its head until those two points were aiming right at them, and then it charged.

  ‘Go!’ Beck yelled, and they leaped away in opposite directions.

  Leaping was a mistake. The moment the weight was transferred to Beck’s bad leg, he felt pain spear up into his thigh. His leg crumpled and he ploughed into the grass.

  Even as he fell, he was desperately twisting round to face the bull. He had to get away.

  But it was still coming towards him, head down, those powerful, sharp horns barely metres away . . .

  Chapter 31

  A flash across his vision. A fleeting glimpse of spotted fur and a sleek, lithe body. A hiss, a furious yowl, an angry bellow . . .

  All Beck knew was that the bull wasn’t charging at him any more. He grabbed the opportunity to scramble to his feet, making sure that his leg didn’t let him down again.

  James was beside him, helping him up. ‘Blimey. It just came out of nowhere – right out of the trees – look at that!’

  Beck risked looking back at what sounded like a pitched battle.

  His rescuer was a snow leopard – three times the size of a large house cat, forty kilos of muscle and claws and teeth. The bull had its head lowered and one of those horns could have run the leopard through, but the leopard wasn’t going to let it get near. It hissed and bared its teeth and danced lightly on its powerful paws. Whenever it lunged forward, the bull retreated. Sometimes the bull would take a swing with its head, but the leopard always sprang nimbly away before the horn reached it. Bit by bit, lunge by lunge, the two
battling animals were moving away from the boys. The other cows huddled together, well away from the big cat with the fangs, seeking safety in numbers.

  As they watched, the leopard took a final spring, over the bull’s head and onto its back. The bull bellowed and bucked but the leopard clung onto its powerful shoulders, its claws drawing blood.

  They were evenly matched. The bull had strength and staying power, the leopard had agility and powerful jaws. But Beck didn’t want to hang around to see who won.

  ‘Let’s get out of here – and fast,’ he said quietly.

  For the next hour the boys kept moving as fast as they possibly could.

  The leopard had spooked them to their core, and they realized how close they had come to disaster. Out in these mountains they weren’t top of the food chain.

  From the high valley with the cows and the leopard, they made their way down beside the waterfall to another river plain. Still off the tourist track, still with barely any other creatures about. Just James and Beck, two specks of humanity surrounded by the immensity of the Himalayan peaks.

  Beck’s leg, though, was already feeling a little better. It might have been the fact that James had changed the bandage. Or that the leopard and the bull had taken his mind off it. Or maybe that the flies had laid their eggs and lots of new little friends were down there, munching their way through the infection . . . Time would tell.

  Finally they came to the river. The only crossing place – without making a huge detour – seemed to be a line of boulders that ran almost from bank to bank.

  James went first, leaping from one to the other while the water rushed by beneath him. Then he tied one end of the rope around himself and threw the other back to Beck. James stood secure on the far bank and slowly reeled Beck in as he jumped across carefully, one stone at a time, making sure his injured leg could handle each leap.

  On the other side, they filled up the water bottle, then walked for another couple of hours, up the valley, away from the river’s mosquitoes. They stopped to make camp just inside the tree line, where there was shelter from the cool breezes that blew down from the mountains.

  James built another fire and Beck fought the temptation to peek under his bandage. If the maggots were there, he didn’t want to know. If they weren’t, there was nothing he could do about it.

  Dinner was the usual fare of fish, followed by nuts and berries and Himalayan candy. Beck switched on the GPS and pursed his lips in satisfaction. The red spot that showed their position and the yellow blob that was Sangmu were very close.

  ‘Tomorrow,’ he said. ‘We will get there tomorrow.’

  James just nodded, his mouth full of pine nuts.

  Beck gazed down the valley, back the way they had come. It was already shrouded in night. When he twisted round, the way ahead was lit a dull red by the setting sun.

  It seemed fitting. There was no going back. Not now.

  Chapter 32

  The next morning they rose again, saying very little. They had grown used to working as a team, understanding what needed doing without speaking. They dowsed the fire by peeing on it – there was no point in wasting good drinking water; but they always ensured that not even a spark could escape into the dry pine needles that lay around it.

  Forest fires were always a danger; moreover, any fire would betray their presence. Beck’s dad had once told him, ‘It only takes a spark . . .’ According to his dad, this applied to life and survival and spirit as well as to forest fires. Beck had always remembered that: a little spark could be just enough to keep you going.

  After another hour they had left the trees behind them. Beck saw what was ahead and faltered for a moment. He hadn’t wanted to do this . . .

  But he had no choice. He gave the GPS a final check to be sure. Yup – they were going up onto high ground, and staying there. No more coming down into the valleys to shelter. By the time evening came, they would be well above the trees, maybe even above the snow line. It would be a completely different ballgame.

  But they had made their choice. If they were to reach Sangmu, then the only way was up.

  They set their faces towards the high ground, and climbed.

  For the rest of the day Nepal seemed to fall away beneath them, but there were always mountains ahead. Beck knew they were climbing higher than ever before and all his worries about altitude came flooding back.

  Food, water, shelter – all three times harder to find here than down below.

  The cold dry wind both dehydrated you and made you hypothermic.

  And the oxygen – or rather, the lack of it.

  The worst thing about oxygen starvation was that you didn’t realize it was happening. As long as you were breathing something, your body stopped noticing it wasn’t getting much in return. Beck had watched videos of pilots training for high altitudes. Their oxygen was turned off and they were told to do normal things like put wooden shapes into holes or count up to ten. They couldn’t do it, and they couldn’t even work out that something was wrong.

  That was what frightened Beck the most. He was breaking the most important survival rule he knew – he was actively heading into danger. And his oxygen-starved brain might not be able to spot it before it was too late. In the training films they always turned the oxygen back on, and five minutes later the pilots could have a good laugh, watching themselves act like zombies on video.

  If they hadn’t turned the oxygen on again, then very soon the pilots would have passed out. Then their brains would have died, shortly followed by the rest of them.

  And that was exactly what might lie ahead for Beck and James, if either of them got bad altitude sickness and couldn’t get help.

  But . . . Sangmu beckoned, so they kept going.

  Nepal’s fertile slopes and thick forests were far behind and far below them. They walked over rocky ground scoured clean and dry by the wind. The snow line came ever closer, now only a few hundred metres above them. They were dressed in every piece of clothing they had. Warm hats kept their body heat from flowing out of the top of their heads. Sunglasses protected their eyes from ultraviolet rays that could fry their retinas. As long as they kept moving, they were warm.

  However, as the day drew on, Beck knew that they would have to start thinking about shelter.

  They might be forced to simply bed down beside a big boulder, out of the wind, huddled together to share warmth. Another thought struck him and he cocked an eye up at the snow. Maybe they should head up there and dig a snow shelter; a cave in the snow that would keep them as snug as they liked? He had done that with Tikaani in Alaska and it had saved their lives.

  But even climbing to where there was enough snow, and then digging out the shelter, would take time and energy they couldn’t spare. So his eyes started to scan the barren landscape for somewhere else . . .

  Chapter 33

  They turned a corner and suddenly found themselves looking down on a small village.

  For a long time they both stood and stared down at it, not quite believing it was there.

  ‘Wow,’ James said eventually.

  Beck pulled out the GPS. The battery level was in the red, but their red dot was slap bang on top of Sangmu’s yellow blob. This was where they were meant to be.

  Right here.

  It was obviously an old Sherpa village and it lay hidden away in a small valley. It must have been protected from the wind because there were even a few scrubby fields scattered around it. The low buildings were built of grey stone and timber, battered and worn by the weather. But they were cared for. It didn’t look much, but someone had to live there. The houses were clustered together in a sheltered hollow to one side of the valley.

  All at once the boys spotted a lone figure walking along a track that led up the valley and into the village. They looked at each other, then headed down the slope to intercept him.

  ‘Hello!’ James called as they approached.

  The man stopped and stared. Tourists were obviously a rarity here. A
wizened brown face peered at them with suspicion and surprise out of the depths of a colourful woollen hat.

  And that was when Beck remembered he didn’t speak a word of any of the local languages.

  ‘We’re looking for Lumos,’ James said. Another blank look. ‘Lumos? Lu – mos?’ He clearly assumed that foreigners would always understand English so long as you spoke slowly enough.

  ‘Sangmu,’ Beck said. ‘We’re looking for Sangmu.’

  There was a flicker of recognition in the man’s eyes. ‘Sangmu?’ He obviously thought it odd that two European boys should pop up in his village out of nowhere, looking for Sangmu.

  ‘Sangmu! Yes!’ James nodded vigorously. ‘Ye-e-s. Can – you – take – us – to – Sang – mu.’

  ‘Sangmu . . .’ the man said again, and rolled his eyes expressively. ‘Sangmu!’ He gave his head a jerk towards the village, to indicate that they should follow him.

  There were very few people around. Those still out and about gave them surprised looks. They followed the dirt track between low houses and the man rapped on a wooden door halfway along. He called out something and a woman’s voice answered from inside. He pushed the door open and indicated they should go in.

  The room had a low ceiling and a very welcome fire that roared away in an iron brazier, filling the place with warmth. A girl only a few years older than Beck and James was stirring a cooking pot. She looked up in surprise at her two visitors. The man spoke to her in rapid words that neither boy could follow, apart from ‘Sangmu’ – a word which she repeated in disbelief.

  Finally the man bowed himself out of the room. ‘Sangmu,’ he said, pointing at the girl, and closed the door behind him.

  She put her fingers to her chest. ‘I am Sangmu. I am sorry; if you want my mother, she is midwifing in another village.’