Page 11 of No Hope of Rescue

“He went over into the gorge.” Then, “Yeah, the river. He’s gone.”

The pain in my chest is crushing, and my left side burns like hell. I lean my head back, feeling leaden, exhausted. I can hear my own breathing in the shallow cave in short, gasping increments. It smells like damp earth and rock.

Codie.

I black out.

΅

I have no idea how long I’ve been out, but it’s nearly dark now and snowing lightly, enough to cover our tracks from this morning.

Shit.

I’m really stiff, so it takes a few attempts before I can roll away from the opening. Then I press to all fours and try to straighten into a standing position. It’s nearly impossible. Dried blood is caked all along my side and leg. Leaning heavily against the side of the cliff, I start to make my way to a trail about forty feet away that will take me up. Snow drives into my face and chest—moving against wind will do that.

I have to stop the bleeding. The cold has probably helped. It may have stopped already.

Each step brings me closer to Codie.

I look behind me as I grip the rock. There’s a trail of fresh blood in the snow—so still bleeding.

The incline begins, and I have to stop every ten feet or so to catch my breath. Vertigo leaves me nauseated. Closing my eyes helps.

When I’m just a few feet from the top of the escarpment, I crouch down to see them. I have no plan. I just know I must get Codie back.

The fuselage is nearly covered in snow. I can only see two round inky-black windows blinking through the trees.

My vision warps, and my legs nearly give out. Bracing against the side of the escarpment, I wait a second for the wave of light-headedness to pass. Then I dig binoculars out of my breast pocket. Stupid to climb with them, but I’m glad to have them now.

It takes a moment to steady my hand, but it doesn’t matter. After a careful scan, it’s clear: there’s no fire, no activity.

They’ve left.

Snow is coming down quickly, and I’ve got to get to cover before I get too wet. The plane wreckage, the fuselage, is the goal.

The next sixty feet are excruciating. Not because of the hole in my side—at this point I’m nearly too cold to notice. It’s because, at any point, I’m afraid I’ll stumble across Codie’s body.

A log, personified with mounded snow and looking just like a body, nearly makes me vomit.

What I do see is a deep, two-foot-wide furrow in the snow leading from the crash site into the woods.

It’s clear they were dragging something. Her?

Again, bile burns the back of my throat.

I need to get inside. But what if I find her there?

Her body?

I don’t think I’ve ever felt this vulnerable. Not in Afghanistan, not with the accident, not with Dad dying. Having Codie missing, having her be the victim of violence, is like falling into some deep abyss, and I can’t breathe.

The sandwich from earlier comes up.

Focus.

I can’t afford the luxury of despair. I wipe my mouth and stick my head inside the fallen plane.

The door to the fuselage is blown off, wrenched on the hinges from impact. The opening yawns like a dark chasm.