Survive (5 page)

Chapter 13

I
inhale the frozen air and let it fill my lungs. My mind fires up and I turn from the ledge and look back across the frozen land. The wind dies down and I can see the thin strip on which the captain crashed the plane. It is a plateau a couple hundred yards wide and perhaps twice as long. It is dotted with thick evergreen trees and shrouded on all sides by mountain peaks
. It was pure dumb random luck,
I think.
We hit a tiny runway tucked on the side of a mountain. A hundred yards more in any direction and we’re dead.

Whatever footprints I made on my way to the ledge have been swept away by the wind. An impenetrable wall of snow and ice moves sideways through the air. I can see neither tail nor wreckage. I close my eyes and imagine my trek to this ledge and then my way back. I open them and step forward with an odd air of confidence.

This isn’t a want. You
need
to save Paul. You have no choice, Jane. Just go forward.

I take my first step and then a second. Slowly, I trudge through the deep drifts of snow. Each step requires an enormous exertion of energy. I steel myself against the wind and ice, and I let my legs take over. One foot in front of the other until, after ten minutes, in the near distance, I glimpse a speck of red in a sea of white. Lettering, a number, I do not know what it is yet, but through the squall I lock my eyes onto that one spot.
It must be the body of the plane.

With a shot of hope to charge me up, my right leg flies out of the drift and then my left. Step over step, again and again, I move through the deep snow without thinking, just staring at that bit of red.

The red gets brighter and deeper, but it isn’t a number or a letter. I’m about five feet away, a couple of strides perhaps, when I see a red boot sticking straight up out of the snow. There’s a leg attached. And then about two or three feet from the leg, I see the captain’s head, turned on its side, detached from its body, staring at me.

I open my mouth to scream, but nothing comes out until my guts clench and I dry heave specks of dark green bile onto the snow.

There’s no air in my lungs and my stomach turns again and the sound that comes out of my body is deep and soul-scraping, like a wounded animal torn in half by a trap. I look around and see luggage, clothing, debris, and what appears to be a woman with her arm draped over the snow at the near entrance of the main cabin. Her hand is still adorned with a giant ring.

“Margaret,” I whisper.

It is weird and unexpected, but a lump grows in my throat.
This is so fucking random. I’m alive and Margaret’s dead. Why do I deserve to live? I don’t. I don’t.

I imagine Eddie, and Margaret’s sisters and brothers, her mother and father, all of who are hoping right now that she’ll be the lucky one. I can hear Eddie’s voice as clearly as if I were still standing in line behind him: “If anyone survives, it’ll be Margaret. She’s a survivor.” Well, I guess we all are until we’re not.

And then my mother’s face pops into my mind. That sad, broken face she wore for years after my father died. For a moment I try hard to remember what her face was like on that Christmas Eve before he died. We made cookies. I wonder if she remembers? I wonder if across the continent, our brains could be connecting right now. If she believes I’m a survivor.

Chapter 14

T
he entrance to the shell of the plane is a few yards beyond Margaret’s hand. Against the hard-falling snow, it sits like a gigantic metal sculpture, unveiled only for my eyes. I move slowly and assuredly through the snow until my hands find the cold metal. I work my way around to a jagged hole once occupied by the plane’s tail, entering what was formally the entire middle section of the plane. There’s another gaping void on the other side where the door to the pilot’s cabin used to be.

The plane must have broken into three parts: the tail, with the bathroom and me; the body, which I’m now standing in; and the pilot’s cabin, wherever that may be. I walk the aisle and stop at a man who is still strapped into his seat. He is ice cold, eyes frozen open with the dull glow of death. I look and check the others quickly. The few who remain strapped into their seats are dead. The others are outside, dismembered. No movement, no life.

Then I turn to look at my row and both seats are gone, just ripped out. They were probably thrown because they appear to have been situated right where the end of the plane tore from the middle section. That’s how Paul survived.

A big gust pushes through the shell and I realize how cold I am and how little shelter the cabin offers me since it’s wide open on either end. I look around. Bags are everywhere. Books, toiletries, clothes. The cargo bay has been ripped open, and luggage is strewn across the snow.

Then I see the first piece of good news I’ve had since finding Paul. It’s the green duffle bag the climbers jammed under the seats in front of us.
I’d bet my life it is full of hiking stuff.

I try to grab its handle, but my hands are cold and getting a firm grip is difficult. Instead, I try looping my elbow around and pulling back like a mule. It won’t budge and the zipper is wedged tight against the seats. I move myself to the front of the next row and sit on the floor. With my back braced against the seats, I push against the bag with my feet. It nudges forward.

I get up and go back to the other side of the seats. I look at the seat and then pull off the seat cushion, remove the life jacket, and underneath I can see the zipper of the bag. I stand on top of the bag and stamp it down as much as I can. I walk around to the back and I spend a minute blowing on my right hand and fingers until they feel warmer. I grasp the handle at the end of the bag with my right hand and wrap my left around for support. I yank, and it moves, but only an inch. I try again by leveraging my feet against the seats in front of me and push with my legs while pulling with my arms. Nothing.

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.