Edge of Flight (5 page)

I twist in my harness to look behind me. Then I see Jeb running headlong through the woods, zigzagging through the trees, as if he's on the football field. He's trying to evade something. But what?

Another shot rings out. Jeb stumbles and crumples to the ground.

chapter ten

As soon as I touch the ground, Rusty snaps the belay device off his harness and runs toward Jeb. I untie the rope from my harness, hands fumbling with the figure-eight knot. Somehow, I have the wit to tear the orange hunting cap off my head and grab Rusty's backpack from the ground. By this time, Rusty's got Jeb to his feet, and they're both running toward me. Jeb's leaning on Rusty hard, an arm draped over his shoulder.

“The Chimney!” Rusty's voice is urgent. I snatch the hunting cap off his head and fling it to the ground. Another gunshot splits the air. Behind us, men shout. Branches break. Heavy footfalls crash through the woods.

We reach the Chimney and drop to the ground. Rusty pushes Jeb ahead of him. I crawl through the entrance last, dragging Rusty's backpack behind me. There are drops of blood on the ground. We squeeze deeper into the Chimney.

I am about to start climbing it, but Rusty hisses, “No. Through here.” He motions to the stone tunnel that leads to the secret cave. Jeb is rasping and heaving like a wounded animal. Somehow, Rusty pushes him through the stone tunnel. He makes it into the cave, where he collapses onto his stomach on the ground.

Jeb is groaning, but Rusty clamps a hand over his mouth to muffle the sound. Outside, the men are cursing, swearing. Their voices reach us faintly through the layers of rock.

“Where'd they go…?”

“…hiding somewheres…”

“…must've went up the cliff…”

“…go up there and check it out…”

The voices and footsteps move away until I can hear nothing from the outside. Inside the cave, it is miraculously still and silent. The air is cool and damp. We have reached sanctuary.

Jeb breathes in ragged, heavy pants. The air shaft at the end of the cave lets in just enough light to see by. I dig into Rusty's backpack, pull out his headlamp and first-aid kit. Rusty puts on the headlamp and rips Jeb's shirt off his back. A mess of blood covers Jeb's torso.

“Put some pressure on the wound, Vanisha,” says Rusty.

I pull off my T-shirt, exposing my Lycra tank top underneath, and press it against the bloody smear on Jeb's back. I target my pressure on the hole where the bullet entered his flesh to stop the bleeding. Jeb moans in pain.

Rusty measures and cuts gauze bandages from his first-aid kit. He pours water from his Nalgene bottle on the wound, then cleans it with alcohol while Jeb winces.

“Dude, stay still,” Rusty whispers, angry. “You went back there, didn't you?”

“Back where?”

“You know where,” Rusty says.

“Aw, I just wanted to look around.”

“That was stupid,” Rusty says.

“Yeah,” Jeb admits. “Stupid.”

I help Rusty wrap bandages around Jeb's body. Somehow, we manage to get the bleeding under control. As we work, the cave begins to grow darker. The light from the air shaft dims. The cone of light from Rusty's headlamp becomes more and more distinct. In another hour or two, it will be all we have left to see by.

Rusty finishes taping up the dressing. Jeb's back is slick with sweat. His breath comes in shallow gasps.

“Lay still, dude,” Rusty tells him. “Don't move. Don't talk. We're gonna get you out of this.”

I squeeze Jeb's hand before Rusty and I move off to a corner of the cave. We need to talk where Jeb can't hear us.

“How bad is it?” I whisper.

Rusty shakes his head but doesn't answer.

“Worst-case scenario?” I say.

“Worst-case scenario, the bullet hit a major artery. But then, he'd already be dead.”

“Okay. Second-worst-case scenario.”

“I don't know, Vanisha. The bleeding's stopping, so that's good. But where did the bullet get him? It could've nicked the intestines. In which case…”

“In which case?”

“In which case, stuff starts oozing out. Infection sets in. If the infection gets into the bloodstream…”

“What?”

“It's bad.”

“How bad?”

“He could die, Vanisha. He could die within twenty-four hours.”

I look over at Jeb lying motionless on the ground. I'm worried about him, but I also feel like smacking him on the head. How could he have been so reckless?

“I'll get the truck and go for help,” I say.

Rusty digs the keys and an extra headlamp out of his backpack. “My cell's in the glove box,” he says. “As soon as you get a signal, call nine-one-one.”

We hug without speaking, drawing strength from each other. Then I put on the headlamp and crawl out of the cave.

Inside the tunnel, the headlamp flickers. It's an old-model Petzl, the kind with the lightbulb instead of an
LED
. The contacts are wonky, so I have to twist it on just right. I reach up and tap it a couple of times, and the light steadies. It's not very bright, but the batteries are probably old. How long has Rusty owned this thing, I wonder. I should be thankful he even had a spare light.

I reach the bottom of the Chimney and stand. I'm still wearing my climbing shoes—my sneakers are lying at the base of Edge of Flight. The rubber soles grip the rock, giving me extra confidence in the dim light. As I get closer to the top, I hear men's voices. They sound rough and rude—laughing and joking, but not in a friendly way. I turn off the headlamp. No use wasting the battery when there is still enough evening light to see by. No use signaling my presence either. I climb to the top and roll onto the ground. Keeping low. Keeping hidden.

Our campsite lies only a few dozen steps away. It's separated from me by a screen of bushes and slender trees. Flames roar in the fire pit. This is no cozy campfire. It's the kind of fire that signals destruction. Two men sit beside it, drinking beer and talking loudly. I can't make sense of what they're saying except that every second word is a curse. One of them stands up and swaggers toward Jeb's truck.

He's holding something in his hand. It looks like a short, heavy stick. He raises it and smashes it against the windshield. The glass shatters. The other guy laughs.

The first man raises his arm again. It's not a piece of wood he's holding, but a tire iron. He smashes it down on the hood of the truck. The dull, brutal
thunk
of metal crushing metal. He raises his arm again and again. Wrecking the truck. Destroying it. The flames leap. The man by the fire laughs. The air smells of smoke and cinders.

At last, I notice the patch on the back of the vandal's jacket. It's a picture of the Grim Reaper.

My heart clenches. Without making a noise, I slink down the Chimney to tell Rusty the bikers have taken over our campsite.

chapter eleven

“Forget the truck,” says Rusty. “Take the hiking trail back to town.”

We're huddled in a dark corner of the cave. Safe, but not really safe. Jeb's rasping breath warns us we can't stay here long. We have to get out.

I know the hiking trail Rusty's talking about. It runs along the top of the cliff, then veers into the woods and winds its way down to Mount Judea, coming out at the river just before the bridge into town. We walked it a couple of months ago. We were camping, and Jeb's truck battery died after he blasted the radio all night long. At the time, a dead truck battery seemed like a major disaster.

It will take an hour and a half, maybe two hours, to walk into town. But there's a problem. “That trail goes right through our campsite,” I say.

“I know,” says Rusty. “You'll have to pick up the trail farther down the bluff line.”

“But the Chimney…”

“Forget about the Chimney, Vanisha. There's other ways up the cliff.”

Suddenly, I know what he is thinking. Edge of Flight.

It makes sense. The route is a couple of hundred feet away. We could walk to it along the base of the cliff. Then I'd climb it and come out on top of the cliff at a spot way past our campsite. I could pick up the hiking trail and hike into town. The bikers wouldn't have a clue I had snuck past them.

Plus, the rope is still hanging there, unless the biker guys have trashed it. The pro is already laid for two-thirds of the route. It'll be an easy top-rope climb to the crux and—once I'm past the crux—a few simple moves over the chunky holds to the top.

But the crux.

“I don't know if I can pull it, Rusty.”

“You have to, Vanisha.”

“You could go…” I say.

But of course Rusty can't leave Jeb. Rusty's the one who knows first aid. He has to stay here to do whatever it takes to keep Jeb alive until help comes. I have to go.

“Okay,” I say. “I'll do it.”

It only takes Rusty a couple of minutes to check on Jeb and grab some gear from his backpack. We walk silently along the base of the cliff, anxiously watching the sun set and trying to reckon how many more minutes of daylight we have left to climb.

When we reach Edge of Flight, the rope is hanging exactly where we left it. My sneakers are lying in the dirt. I pick them up and clip them to my harness for the long walk into town. Then I rope myself in while Rusty sets the belay.

Without speaking, Rusty clips a couple of slings onto my harness. I'll need them to secure the rope in the handholds above the crux. I'm traveling light. No nuts, no hexes, no cams. The sound of metal gear clinking together could give us away to the bikers. I'm not wearing my headlamp either. But it's clipped to my harness in case of an emergency. Our best hope lies in silence and shadow.

I nod to Rusty, and he nods back. Then I step onto Edge of Flight.

I reach for the first holds more by memory than by sight. The fading sunlight washes away the texture of the rock. Sharp edges disappear. The surface of the sandstone is as blurry as an old black-and-white photograph. Deep breath.
Trust your instincts, Vanisha
.

The next handholds are the two vertical cracks. I run my hands along the surface of the rock, find the cracks and dig my fingers inside. Solid. Now for the footholds. That thing on the cliff below my right knee looks like a rocky jag—but my shoe scrapes and slides against the bare cliff face when I try to stand on it. Try again. Find the real foothold. Inch my way farther up.

It's not pretty, this part of the climb. But at least it's impossible to fall. The rope is secured from above, and Rusty is holding tight on belay.

But then comes the last piece of pro—the last point where the rope loops through a 'biner, holding me safe.

I pass beyond it. I am lead-climbing again.

And just above me lies the crux.

My hand grasps the nub of rock that forms the only foothold in the crux. It is smooth and solid, trustworthy. I rub it, hold it, memorize its position in case my eyes fail to find it again. Then it is time to let go, to reach for the next set of handholds and step up. Up to the nub of rock. Into the crux.

Balanced on one leg, I press my cheek against the cliff face and look up. The pistol-hold grip juts out from the rock above, clearly visible even in the fading light. This is where I fell, only hours ago, jolted by the shotgun blast. But now, strangely, I feel no fear. My mind is calm and focused. There is no room for doubt. No room for hesitation. There is only one choice—to save Jeb's life.

My choice is already made.

I lock my left elbow, feel my forearm straining to hold on. I let go with my right hand and circle it upward in a smooth arc. I rise on my toes…balancing, balancing. I am at the tipping point. A shift of weight one inch the wrong way could cause me to swing out from the cliff, like a barn door swinging in a high wind. But I can't go back. I'm committed, committed to the move. The pistol-hold grip juts out of the rock above me. My fingertips brush against the sandstone. I can't quite grasp it. One more push with my trembling thigh muscles, a little higher on the tip of my toes. Yes. My hand reaches the pistol-hold grip. My fingers wrap around it. Now my lefthand joins the right. A solid hold. I pull upward with all my might.

Slipping and scraping, my feet find no traction on the smooth rock face. Then I remember Jeb on Chuck's Crack, with his feet planted flat against the cliff. I lean back, straighten my arms, bend my knees and spring-load my thighs. I focus on the next big hold and push upward with all my might. Then I let go with my left hand and swing it upward. Yes! My fingers wrap around a rock handle. Solid. My right hand finds a jug. Bombproof.

My forearms are burning. But now I can raise a foot—raise it almost to shoulder height—and set it on the pistol-hold grip. My leg is bent almost double, my calf pressed against my hamstrings. I pull with my arm, push with my leg. My thigh shakes, but my leg slowly straightens until I am standing with one foot, and then two, on that solid pistol-hold grip. I hug the rock with my body, trembling with exhaustion and with relief.

There is no time to rest. I throw a sling over a jug of rock, clip in the rope with a 'biner and set a second sling for extra protection. To fall now, after achieving the crux, would be heartbreaking, unthinkable.

It's only a few feet to the top. I need to finish the climb before my energy runs out. Hand over hand, I bash my way from one huge hold to the next. Adrenaline courses through my body, charging me with courage.

Finally, the lip of the cliff. I grab two gnarly tree roots and haul myself over, squirming on my belly. On top of the cliff at last, I lie with my cheek pressed against the ground, gasping, panting, feeling my heart pound. A chorus of crickets fills the woods—the thrum of thousands of tiny voices. I flip onto my back and look at the sky. The first stars are coming out. The blue of night is beginning to replace the orange glow of sunset.