Page 19 of No Hope of Rescue

Was I thinking clearly myself?

“Brock, I’m sorry,” I say, cupping his head in my hands. “Brock?”

He mumbles something I can’t quite make out and slowly starts to breathe easier. His head is heavy in my hands. I lay a hand on his chest again and feel his heart beat hard but rhythmically. His skin is still warm to the touch. He moans softly and swallows, raises his head again.

“Riley?” he says clearly.

“Right here,” I answer, gently pushing his head back down. “And so is Savi.”

As if on cue, the big dog leans against him.

He struggles against both of us. “Riley, they might be coming back,” he says and tries to throw off the oilskin.

I scramble to my feet. “Brock, sit down.”

He bends over slightly, staggering in the dark, swinging arms out to figure out the contours of blackness.

“Brock, listen to me—” If he falls, he could get hurt.

“You need to come back here, soldier. Now.” My voice is as hard as I can make it.

He fumbles for moment, looking around, trying to peer out windows then back at me, clearly confused about what he should do next.

“No one is coming here. It’s a blizzard outside. Don’t make me go after you. I just found you.”

Steadying himself with one arm, he sighs and then dips his head. His knees start to buckle, and I try to catch him, sort of, guiding him back to our oilskin nest.

I sit down, holding him up as much as I can, trying to get him between my legs again. He’s a good foot and a half taller than me, so it’s not an easy maneuver. Squatting, he moans and then leans back into me. This time, he helps extend the blanket over both of us.

I breathe into the back of his neck as his head rests against my right shoulder this time. Just to be safe, I slip both hands under the jacket to feel his heart beating.

The oilskin smells rancid, and in the dark, I catch the sounds of him shifting, breathing, and the storm beating against what’s left of the plane.

None of this matters right now.

Brock is alive.

΅

The air is rank with mildew and the metallic ring of iron. Of blood. Swallowing, he moves under my hands. There’s no way to tell if it’s morning. Wind still beats against the fuselage, and the blur of snow flying sideways means the mountain is still in the grip of the blizzard. He stirs again, weakly, his arms reaching up to remove my hands, and I start to drop them from his chest, embarrassed. I place them on his back and try to press him into action, at least to lean forward so I can move.

When his weight leaves my chest, I scoot out as he throws off the oilskin, rolling stiffly to one side and staring at me.

His voice is deep, soft, and he sounds confused. “Riley? What . . .?”

Dark hair spills from the black knit hat.

“Hey,” I say.

“Hey,” he says and coughs, clearing his throat.

I stand up and pull the oilskin over his shoulders. “You stay here. I’m going to go make a fire.”

He grabs my wrist so suddenly I yelp, and he drops it, face drawn. Clearly, he didn’t mean to grip so hard.

Savi looks over sharply at the two of us.

But all he says is, “No fire.”