Page 18 of No Hope of Rescue

I tear off my hood and pull down the balaclava. “It’s me—Riley. Okay?”

He nods. I find the extra wool knit cap and try to steady his head and pull it on. His head lolls in my hands.

“I’ve got a pair of heat pants here,” I say, my own hands growing numb. I hold the pants for a moment to warm them up.

“Come on, soldier. Let’s do this.”

I unbuckle his belt and unzip his jeans before I realize I can just cut away the wet part at the knee. I take out a knife, working hard to swallow bile when I see how much blood has dripped down, staining the denim.

Trying to get those massive, muscle-bound legs into the pant sleeves would have been funny if the circumstances weren’t so dire. I work up a sweat. But by the time they’re up near his waist, he’s able to help me, lifting his hips sightly.

“Riley,” he mumbles as I close the Velcro flap. “Codie is—”

“We’ll find her,” I say. “Let’s get you warmed up.”

My hands and feet are numb. I hit the warming pads in my pockets again. But that’s all I’ll use tonight. I don’t what to use up the other jacket and pants, in case I need the batteries.

I check the radio again. No signal.

Shit.

But I have to stay warm too.

“Brock, scoot forward a little,” I say and squeeze in behind him. Wadding up his old jacket under my head, I settle with my back on the crates and then have him lean into me. Placing my hands around his stomach and chest, I’m careful not to put any pressure on his left side.

He sighs, sagging into my arms and leaning his head against my right shoulder. I breath into his ear and whisper trivial things to him. Nonsense. I don’t know what I’m saying.

It takes a good five minutes before I can feel the heat from the jacket. My butt is numb from the cold, but my chest is warm. Trying hard not to jostle him, I grab the oilskin and throw it over us as best I can—it’s stiff and unyielding.

Savi climbs underneath as well. She thrusts her back against us, trying to curl up as close as possible

Outside, the gale continues.

We need all the body heat we can get. I settle back into position, suddenly exhausted, my adrenaline rush leaving behind questions I don’t have the strength to answer.

΅

I don’t know how long it’s been, but the wind has shifted direction, changing how it sounds skimming over the cabin.

But there’s something else drawing me from sleep.

It’s Brock.

He’s breathing hard, gasping, his whole body shaking. I fumble with the zipper on the heat jacket and pull it down, trying to hold on to him at the same time.

I place a hand on his bare chest and feel his heart beating erratically. Light and fast, then hard and slow—then a shudder deep in his chest. His skin is on fire.

Shit.

I brought his temp up too fast.

He convulses once, his chest contracting then expanding under my hand, and he thrashes, his head smashing into my lip.

“Okay, okay, okay,” I say. This is arrhythmia. Shit. What have I done?

Siding out from behind him, I reach to the hem of the jacket and turn the thing off. Same with the pants, though I didn’t have them as dialed up. You have to heat the core first, then the extremities, or you can trigger a heart attack by having cold blood sent back to the heart. It’s why heat packs are set so low.

Core first, idiot.