by Alex Morel
I laugh for a second. You have to laugh, I tell myself.
I stand up and assess. I have to get inside this damn bag. I kneel and bite down hard on the zipper tag, niggling my teeth against the little hole on the end. Then, like a dog, I pull the zipper as hard as I can with my teeth. For a moment I feel no movement, no give, but then the zipper loosens and gives an inch. I start yanking and yanking against the opening until zip! It moves six inches, then a foot. I grab the two ends with my hands and pull it open as wide as I can.
I reach in. Bingo. I pull out a pair of good gloves and a snow mask and put them on. Suddenly, I’m feeling a little buoyancy.
I take out several pairs of long underwear and wool socks and place them on the seat. I slip off my boots and peel off my snow-wet jeans. The cold wind stings my bare legs, which are blotchy and red. I pull on the first pair of long underwear, then the socks and a baggy pair of snow pants. I tuck a second pair of long johns and a dry pair of jeans for Paul underneath my coat.
I pull out a wind shell that I quickly put on.
Underneath, I find a sweater and a stash of energy bars. I tuck them down my shirt and zip up the shell.
There’s undoubtedly more stuff in the rest of the plane.
I walk down the aisle opening the overhead luggage bins. I pull down what I assume is a sleeping bag brought by one of the climbers. I slide my arm under the bungee cords wrapped around the bag and strap it across my back like a makeshift knapsack. I open the next overhead bin. I leap out of the way as luggage falls out. I start popping open the bags one by one. Hats, gloves. Pants. Sweaters. Wool socks! I grab three pairs and I stuff the extra gloves and hat into the pockets of my shell. I pull out a scarf and wrap it around my neck. I find a bag of chips I pocket for later.
Halfway down the aisle, I find another one of the climber’s bags and I pull it down. It’s stuffed with ropes and all sorts of other, unrecognizable gear. I loop a coil of rope around my shoulder. I look for a knife or any other sharp objects, but there’s nothing.
The yellow bag, I think. Find the yellow bag.
Chapter 15
I walk out of the main cabin and look at the graveyard of luggage strewn across the snow. All this stuff must have been in the cargo belly of the plane, which tore open like a tin can on landing.
I look for yellow rather than the shape of the backpack. Every color in the rainbow pokes up bright and clear against the canvas of white. Red sweaters, brown shoes, toothbrushes and makeup, tan pants and striped shirts. Black bags. Red bags. Pink. Orange. White. And about twenty feet from the far end of the cabin sits a neon yellow backpack.
I push through deep drifts, my right hand grazing the cold metal of the main cabin for balance. When I reach the end, I turn left and walk twenty feet out, wading through a pile of unopened bags until I reach what I really hope is Paul’s backpack. I fish around inside the main pocket of his bag until I locate his knife. I pull it out. The blade is sharp and thick, jagged at the tip. A day ago, had I stumbled upon this in Life House, I wouldn’t have thought twice about using it on myself. Now using it for any purpose other than to save Paul is inconceivable. I unzip my jacket and tuck the knife in the side pocket reserved for wallets and keys.
I sling Paul’s bag over my shoulder, next to the sleeping bag. My burden is bulky and the weight is top-heavy and uneven, making it difficult to walk. A few steps are all it takes for me to know that carrying it to the ledge will be too time-consuming. I take it off and shove it under the roof of the main cabin to protect it from the snow. I trudge back along the outside of the main cabin, using my hand for balance, and then out toward the ledge, with the rope over my shoulder and Paul’s clothes under my jacket. I pat my side pocket several times to make sure Paul’s knife is still there.
• • •
I get back to the ledge and look over at Paul. I call to him, but he doesn’t hear me. The wind has picked up and it makes it difficult to hear anything.
I scream, “Paul,” as loud as I can, and then I kick some snow and he looks up.
“Hey,” he says.
We stare at each other for a brief moment. Even from this distance, or maybe because of it, there’s a lot in his eyes: fear, death, and a kind of desperate loneliness I understand but could never explain in words.
I look down and really study Paul’s predicament for the first time. He is sitting twenty feet below the ledge, wedged between a tree and the slope of the mountain. It is closer to a cliff than a mountain slope. He is still fastened into his seat by his seat belt, which is jammed. If he were to somehow cut away the belt, I don’t see any conceivable way he could exit his seat without causing the whole thing to tumble to the valley floor. Even if he were to hang onto a tree and climb to the top, he’d still be ten feet from the ledge. With great weather and the right equipment, I suppose it could be climbed. But we’re missing both. I look to the sky and then back down at Paul.
“What should I do?” I ask.
“Tie the rope around the knife and lower it to me. Be very careful; it’s my life on the line.” He laughs. Everything is still a joke to him. In the hospital, I never liked his type.
The snow starts to fall again, not too hard, but it is being blown sideways by the wind, making it more difficult to wrap the rope around the knife. Instead, I make a loop of the rope and pull it against the tip of the blade. I jiggle the tip back and forth until it slices through the rope. Then I wrap the rope around the handle and tie a knot and double it—it’s the only knot I know how to make.
I slowly feed the rope over the edge and gently drop the blade down to Paul. He reaches out and pulls in the rope and the blade and wraps the rope around his forearm. One of his hands must be cold because he’s using his mouth to undo the knot.
“Don’t cut yourself,” I shout.
“That’s a good sign when the philosopher jokes,” he shouts. “Means she isn’t scared shitless.” He pauses for a second and then looks up at me with a smile. “I’m glad one of us isn’t.”
He laughs to himself while perched precariously above death. Somehow I find it inspiring. I clench my fist and kneel down, nervously watching Paul maneuver in his seat.
He frees the knife by remaking the loop and holding it in one hand and pulling the knife out with his mouth. He looks up at me with the blade tight between his teeth like a pirate.
He grabs the knife with his right hand and then places it inside his jacket. He examines the seat and the tree, and I watch his eyes, trying to discern what is plaguing him, what it is he can possibly do to get out of the seat and then up the cliff.
The problem, from my viewpoint, becomes increasingly clear. The seat belt is hooked around a large branch. When cut, it will release the full weight of the seat and Paul. Another branch may hold them both up, but odds suggest he would be free-falling to his death.
“You can’t cut it,” I shout, fearing he hasn’t figured that out.
“I know, but I have to.”
Dusk is blooming above us, and because we are in a valley and the light is diminished, we should be in total darkness in less than an hour. Then what?
“Tie the rope around your waist. Then cut the belt. I’ll secure myself here and then we’ll walk you up.” That’s me calling down. I’m not sure where the idea comes from—or my bravado and confidence.
He watches me for a moment and makes a decision.
“Find a tree to brace yourself against!” he calls up.
I scan the area around me and choose a pine fairly close to the edge.
Paul moves the rope around his torso with one hand, and it takes longer than you might expect. He fastens a big knot he fits tightly under his armpits. He calls up to me, “Hey, I’m gonna cut this; are you ready?”
“No! Wait!”
I tie the rope around my waist and walk back maybe ten feet from the edge and crawl around a small tree whose branches sprout out a few feet above the snow. I’m careful to keep the rope free of branches that could cause fraying or a
cut, but I make certain it’s wrapped well around the tree. I only wish I had enough rope to go around twice. Then I get to my feet and walk to the edge, pulling the rope behind me. I hold up my thumb. He nods and then starts sawing the belt.
It starts to fray immediately, and the shoulder strap snaps free. The seat totters and then dangles in mid-air around Paul’s waist. He is jammed on a branch and lets out a blood-shocking scream. It is the sound of agony itself. He slams the knife down toward his side. Then, snap! The whole seat falls and I am lifted into the air with one sudden jerk of the rope. My face and body hit the snow hard and I am dragged about five feet into the trunk of the tree. The impact is painful. I can feel where I’m going to bruise on my shoulder.
“Paul,” I shout. “Paul!”
I adjust my body and straddle the base of the tree, hooking my legs around it, and hold on for my life.
“Paul! Can you hear me?” There’s no answer, but his weight is still pulling against the tree.
“Paul!”
Nothing. Then suddenly the rope goes slack, and there’s no longer any pressure on the line. I scream.
“Paul!”
“You need to do as I say,” he calls back. “On the count of three, can you walk away from this cliff?”
I am flooded with relief.
“Yes, but count to ten; I’m kind of tangled here,” I shout.
“Just say when, okay? But try to hurry.”
I crawl back under the tree and free myself. The rope feels slack. I walk back to the edge and peer over. Paul is now standing in the tree and has one hand on a nub of rock. He’s planning on climbing up the wall. My walking is supposed to assist him.
“What if you fall?” I call down.
He looks up and smiles.
“It’ll be romantic, Jane. We’ll die together, like Romeo and Juliet.”
I take a big gulp of air and breathe out. What an ass.
“Nothing personal, but I don’t want to die with you, Paul.”
“That’s extra incentive for you, then. Don’t slip.”
I make sure the knot around my waist is tight.
“Hold on a second,” I call. “I have an idea.”
I scurry back to the tree and crawl under and around again, creating a primitive pulley. Instead of walking away from him, I pull in all the slack, and then walk sideways, parallel to the ledge.
“Go!” I shout.
With his weight displaced against the tree, I use my lateral force to help move his weight up the mountain. I can’t see him, but every time I step into fresh powder, I can sense his weight moving up the mountain.
Come on, Jane, I think. I leverage all of my one hundred and eighteen pounds into each step. Then I hear myself let out a grunt that turns into a scream, from deep inside that I didn’t know was there. It’s primal, like life itself announcing its return to my body. Pull, Jane, pull.
My feet lift out of the powder with an unbelievable force, and step after step, I feel a sense of euphoria taking over my body. Then the weight pulling against me disappears, sending my body flying forward into the snow.
I sit up and turn around, brushing snow from my face. For a second I see nothing but white. A hollow feeling fills my gut. I look to the ledge and then back over the landscape, which is flat and empty. Then, like an animal waking up after a long night hidden beneath the snow for warmth, Paul Hart pops up in my line of vision. Where did he come from? His chest heaves up and down. His face is bright red and his broad grin tells me he’s okay. I start to cry as I walk over to him, I can’t help it. He is still kneeling down. He looks up at me; his smile just gets bigger. He falls onto his back and lets out a big laugh.
“Jane Solis,” he shouts, still flat on his back, “you pull like a donkey.”
Like I said, what an ass.
Chapter 16
With some effort, Paul lifts himself into a sitting position and then stands. He looks around, surveying the area.
“Which way?” he says, still breathing heavily. “To the plane, I mean?”
No hello or “thank you for saving my life.” Just “which way?” I chalk it up to his nearly dying, the thin air, and general guy-ness.
I pull out a pair of gloves and a hat and hand them to him.
“Here.”
He nods and pulls back his hoodie to put the hat on, and then the gloves, but doesn’t say thanks for those either. Really?
I point at my footprints, which are fading quickly but still visible.
“It’s that way. Follow my tracks.”
“Right?” He looks at me for confirmation. “Come on.”
He turns and marches toward the cabin. The wind whips with a new ferocity, and the air is so cold it makes it hard to breathe. Paul walks in front, shielding me a bit from the wind with his large frame, but my teeth chatter. My throat is raw and parched and my head aches, and I realize for the first time how incredibly thirsty I am. I need water. I drop down to my knees and grab a handful of snow and start eating it. Paul turns around to see why I’ve stopped and reaches out to swat the snow out of my hand.
“Don’t eat the snow!” he shouts.
“Why?”
“Just don’t do it,” he says harshly. “It can kill you.”
I look directly at him for the first time. His blue eyes are bloodshot, watery, and distant. I realize I don’t know who Paul is. He could be a killer or a rapist or bonkers. I laugh a little at that last one. Maybe he’s crazier than me. I look down, trying not to get emotional or show any weakness. Never show any sign of weakness with a psycho; they get off on it.
“Sorry,” I say.
“Stay close behind me,” he commands.
He turns and trudges into the wind with his forearm covering his face. The snow has eased up a little, but the temperature has dropped and the wind is still fierce.
My nose hairs and snot freeze, and it is hard to keep my eyes open, even with a mask on. I don’t know how he does it, but Paul soldiers on at a strong clip as if he were walking through a puddle on a spring day. No matter the force of the wind, he keeps a steady pace, face forward.
As we approach the plane, he stops and stares at the captain’s head.
“It’s the captain,” I whisper, thinking he is in shock like I was when I first saw it, but then he turns to me with a weird grin on his face.
“Fuck,” he says, with a nervous laugh. “That’s some bad karma. Maybe if the dude had his head in the game, we wouldn’t have crashed.”
What a dick, I think.
I turn away and kneel down for a second, pretending to look for something while I try to catch my breath. When I look up, Paul’s already moved on toward the captain’s leg, which is sticking out of the snow. I want to run up and grab his shoulders, turn him around, and slap him across the face. Remind him that these are human beings, that life is sacred even if it’s mostly just a pile of shit.
But I know it’s a waste. He’ll laugh in my face. This is why great comedians end up on drugs or killing themselves, according to BS. If everything in life’s a joke, then nothing has any meaning. If there’s no meaning, why live? You get the logic.
I watch Paul from a safe distance. He’s digging the snow around the leg and the body. After a few minutes, he unearths the headless body. He opens the captain’s jacket and sticks his hands in the inside pocket, pulling out a pack of cigarettes, which he stuffs in his own jacket, and then he pulls out the captain’s aviator sunglasses and holds them up like he’s found buried treasure. He puts them on and turns to me, pointing to his new shades with a “what do ya think?” look on his face.
I’m disgusted, but I hold my tongue. I have to be with Paul until we get ourselves out of here. I need him. I can’t afford to piss him off.
“No lighter. We need a damn lighter.”
He pushes on toward the carcass of the plane and we enter from the far side. I stand and watch Paul as he grabs his yellow backpack. I was right: this is his bag. He opens the bag and digs into it, pulling out a l
ittle black notebook. He pauses and stares at it for a moment and then tucks it into the lining of his jacket and slings the backpack onto his back.
“I forgot about this,” he says, pointing to his backpack. “I’ve got wet matches in here. We’ll be good.”
He looks around and takes in what lies before him. The open-ended cabin, the swirling wind. There’s no protection here. He looks up to the sky.
“It’s getting dark—is this it?” he says. “We’ll fucking freeze to death here.”
“No,” I say. “The tail, it has the bathroom. There’s a door.”
“Which way?”
I point toward the direction of the tail. He walks past me without so much as thanks or an excuse me or good work. Despise doesn’t quite describe the deep, roiling hatred that I am developing for Paul Hart.
On his way out of the cabin, he spots Margaret and he holds up her hand, pointing to the ring. “That’s a whopper!”
A rage explodes inside of me and I’m unable to hold back.
“Shut up,” I shout. “They’re dead. She’s dead. People are waiting for her.”
Paul stops for a moment.
“What?”
“They’re human beings,” I shout. “Her name is Margaret!”
Paul stands there frozen in the snow, just staring at me and apparently bewildered by my rage.
“They’re not garbage to be picked over and laughed at.” I sound defensive, which is ridiculous.
Paul stands motionless for a moment and then looks down at Margaret and then, lifting his sunglasses, at me again. His gaze is blank.
“Dead is dead. She’s not here anymore.” I try again.
He looks up, like he’s acknowledging heaven, though I can’t imagine for a second that he gives any currency to that belief system. I just stare at him as tears well up in my eyes. I feel a sadness I can’t place. I can’t move or speak, and my bones feel like they are crumbling. I start to shake uncontrollably and my mouth opens but nothing comes. Warm tears flow and freeze on my face. I’m having trouble breathing and then my head starts to spin. The world turns upside down, and for a split second I feel like I’m falling.
