Page 64 of Double Exposure

I can’t.

“Give me your phone,” she says. And then again. “Carter, your phone.”

I dig it out of my pocket and hand it to her.

Sparks flash in my vision. I can’t pass out. The fall alone might just snap the leg. “I need to sit down.”

“What’s Brock’s number? Carter!”

I try to make my voice as even as possible. “Press one. We’re all on speed dial.”

She’s silent for a moment, just a few feet from me, when I get a head rush and stagger back on my good leg. The pressure on my leg from the jaws is excruciating. Pain wicks up my leg and beats in time with my heart.

“Hang on,” I hear her say. “GPS. Yes.”

Next her hands are on me, trying to ease me to the ground. “You need to sit,” she says.

The angle of the ground, my leg, and the trap make this hard.

“I can’t sit.” My speech sounds garbled. Not good. Motherfuckers. Whoever made this and laid it should be shot.

“How about you sit against a tree? It’s three feet.”

I nod.

“Let’s get the pack off first,” she says. Then she does what I did for her. She cuts the straps. As soon as the weight is off my shoulders, I felt lightheaded again.

“Come on,” she says, her voice like a balm. “Just lean on me.”

Slowly, carefully, with one arm under me, we start moving. Every micro step is excruciating.

I struggle to say something.

“Just focus,” she says and her arm moves around my middle. She's so small. I can't understand how she's supporting me at all. She’s breathing hard. I trip slightly over a root and jarring pain makes me hiss. I nearly black out.

Finally, we’re there. I stand with the tree to my back, forgetting why I’m here.

“We need to sit,” she says. “Please, sit down Carter.” She takes my jaw in her hands and makes me look at her. Her eyes find mine. “Sit.”

Leaning against the trunk, I take a deep breath. I have to keep breathing. If I stop, I'll pass out. In and out. In and out. Slowly, my back slides down the back of the pine tree. Bark breaks off. It rolls under my jacket. Finally, I’m down, my good leg bent, the crushed one extended, and she squats next to me with a water bottle.

I’m covered in sweat. The tension on the trap increased when we moved and the pain is cruel. Vomit fills the back of my throat and I swallow. She unscrews the lid and tries to get me to drink but all I can taste is bile.

I shake my head. “Look for a chain.Holding it to the ground,” I say. “This is too tight.” I have to close my eyes. I feel faint and don't want to scare her if I pass out. She squats and brushes snow away with her hands and starts prying a thick metal chain out of semi-frozen ground with her fingers.

Sweat pours down my face.

“Here we go,” she whispers.

I open my eyes. All we need is a few inches. She pulls the chain up from the ground to give some slack and instantly the pain goes down a notch.

Now I look at my leg. The jaws have ripped through the denim like tissue paper and both sides are embedded in my leg, on either side of my calf. The teeth are soldered metal, about four inches long and only a half inch apart. They look like narrow fangs. These things were outlawed in 1998, but it didn’t stop idiots from making even worse ones like this. Bears are still suffering.

I notice, numbly, that the blood seeping through my pants glistens and widens with every beat of my heart.

An artery’s been nicked. More flashes flicker in my vision. I tilt my head back and close my eyes.

“You need to get a tourniquet on this,” I say slowly.