October Skies (9 page)

They ate in silence for a while, both hungry after the afternoon’s hike out of the woods to the park’s camp site. Julian worked through his burger with his eyes on the TV over the bar, absent-mindedly regarding the suited, carefully groomed candidates slinging uninspired soundbites at each other.

‘So okay then, Rosie,’ said Julian, wiping his mouth with a napkin. ‘Down to business. We need to plan out what we’re going to do.’

‘You’re the boss,’ she said dryly.

He put down his burger, wiped his hands and frowned - deep in thought for a moment. ‘I think we could make something more out of this, much better than the usual docu-channel fodder. I think we could make a feature-length documentary, and we could try for something that’s good enough for a theatrical release. There’s no reason why we shouldn’t, frankly. What do you think?’

Her eyes widened as she chugged a mouthful of beer from her bottle.

‘There’s beautiful scenery up here,’ he continued. ‘It’s made for a larger screen. Those woods and peaks, swirling morning mist . . . the right background score?’

‘God, yes,’ she replied, grinning.

‘Something you and I could be proud of,’ he said, picking up his bottle and clinking it on hers. He finished it and wiped the suds from his lips. ‘Nice drop of lager, that.’

‘Jules, love. They call it beer here.’

He waved his hand. ‘Beer, shmeer. You want another?’

‘Go on then.’

He caught the waitress’s eye and ordered two more.

‘The thing is,’ he continued, ‘I need to head back to the UK. This was meant to be a quickie project, cheap and cheerful. Now it’s something altogether different, we’ll need a bigger budget and some investment partners. I want to pitch it to some more substantial players, not just the BBC.’

‘Oh, God. This could really make us!’

Julian felt a little light-headed. He wasn’t sure if it was the adrenaline rush or the Budweiser.

‘What about me?’ asked Rose. ‘I need to get back to our studio to put everything we’ve got together.’

He looked at her. Her cheeks were pink with excitement.

‘Maybe you should stay here, Rose. I’ll be home for no more than a week, I guess, and then be right back to help. I just think someone needs to stick around and keep an eye on our turf, if you know what I mean.’

She nodded. ‘Yeah, maybe you’re right.’

‘What’s the broadband like at our motel? You tried it?’

‘I think it’s pretty good. Both our rooms have got a connection. ’

The waitress brought the beers over. ‘Get you guys anything else?’

Julian checked his watch. It was late and he knew he needed to be up early to make his way to Reno-Tahoe International airport to catch a flight to Denver and back to Heathrow. Once they had a few interested partners and some budget money to play around with, then he and Rose could celebrate properly.

‘Just the bill, please,’ he replied.

When the waitress had gone he turned back to Rose. ‘Whilst I’m in London, could you knock up a short, tasty showreel and send it over?’

‘Sure,’ she said, pushing her fringe back out of her face, ‘no problem.’

She realised he was looking at her for longer than was comfortable for either of them. Rose looked away awkwardly and started peeling the label off her beer bottle. Julian chugged another mouthful.

‘Reno’s about two or three hours’ drive. I’ll take our hire car there, if you can get another one arranged locally.’

She nodded as she finished the last of her beer, a careless trickle running down her chin as she set the bottle down on the table.

Julian leaned forward and wiped it away with his thumb. ‘Lush.’

Rose felt it. She wondered if Julian had.

A little frisson. A momentary fizz of excitement.

He looked awkward, slightly embarrassed and withdrew his hand.

‘We need to go to my room and check the bandwidth.’

Rose felt her cheeks colour. I can’t believe I just said that.

‘Sorry?’

‘Of the broadband connection?’ she quickly added.

The waitress came with the bill. He settled it and left a tip.

‘Maybe we should test it,’ said Rose quietly. ‘Before you go and it’s too late to know if it’s good enough to upload a showreel. ’

Julian smiled hesitantly and pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. He sensed something in the invitation, something that stepped outside of their tight professional partnership. They were both high on the excitement of the story, and several beers each was helping to leverage the mood . . . but he knew where this had the potential to go and that in the morning they’d both regret it.

‘Errr . . . I . . .’ he stammered.

Rose quickly looked down at her bottle and carried on peeling the label.

‘Or maybe not,’ she replied uncomfortably.

‘Maybe it’s just fine. Yeah, I’m sure it probably—’

‘Yeah, sure . . . it uhh . . . maybe . . . we should check it in the morning.’

‘Sure.’

They both smiled and fidgeted for a moment, before reaching for their coats.

 

Ben shivered, despite being wrapped up in his thick woollen poncho. The snow was coming down lightly; a fine dusting right now, but it had been coming down like that all day. Enough of it had settled on the ground that the wheels were slipping perilously on the sloping track.

He watched as a knot of men, a mixture from both Preston’s and Keats’s parties, struggled together with the jury-rigged windlass at the top of the rugged incline. Stout rope was wound around the inner hub of the rear wheel of a large conestoga, secured firmly at the top, and several lengths ran down the short, steep track to a wagon that was midway up and double-teamed with straining oxen. The men pulled on the ropes in unison, working in concert with the oxen to ease the cumbersome vehicle up the slope.

Ben eagerly wanted to be back in amongst the scrum of men working the wheel, if only to build up a sweat again and get warm. But there were only so many men that could fit a helping hand on the spokes without getting in each other’s way. They pulled together with a synchronised grunt. With each twist of the wheel the wagon lurched upwards and the straining oxen staggered forward.

All but a few of the wagons had been manoeuvred to the top of this steep section of Keats’s trail - the shortcut. This was the route, the old man assured them all, that would get them through these wooded peaks to the pass faster than any other trail. It was a far quicker route but, he had cautioned, a much tougher one.

The process of winching the wagons up the side of the gulch had taken most of the day, slowed down by the increasing lack of purchase the wheels were having on the ground as the snow had begun to settle during the overcast and gloomy afternoon.

Mr Hussein stood beside him shivering too; his breath hung before him as he spoke. ‘Is being . . . uh . . . much coldness today, Mr Lambert. Yes?’

Ben nodded. ‘Very bloody cold. I can’t believe only two days ago I was walking on salt flats with my shirt-sleeves rolled up.’

Hussein’s face knotted with concentration for a moment as he translated and then he nodded and smiled. ‘Yes. Very sudden . . . is very coldness.’

The men heaved again and the wagon suddenly lurched forward, slewing alarmingly to one side of the trail.

‘Shit!’ Ben hissed quietly, as the wagon continued its uncontrolled sideways drift.

Mr Hussein held his breath as they watched.

The trail up which they were attempting to winch the wagon was narrow, flanked on one side by a steep bank strewn with boulders and small bushes and trees clutching tightly to the ground. On the other side, the trail dropped away, descending steeply to a rocky gulch through which a stream gurgled noisily below.

My God, it’s going to go over.

The oxen were losing their footing, sliding in the churned-up slick of mud and powdered snow turning to slush. Ben recognised the woman aboard the wagon as the wife of one of Preston’s council of Elders, Mrs Zimmerman. She was perched anxiously on the edge of the jockey board, coaxing the oxen forward. She let out a shrill cry of alarm as the wagon continued its slide towards the edge. The wagon finally came to a rest, the left rear wheel slotting into a worn groove on the track, carved by the previous wagons. Mr Hussein’s breath gushed out, a plume of languid vapour that hung before him in the still air.

As it creaked ominously uphill, Ben realised it was the crippled wagon.

‘Oh no, it’s the jury-rigged one.’

‘Beg pardon?’ Hussein asked.

Ben’s eyes darted to the improvised wheel, the round oak table-top, just as it was beginning to buckle and splinter under the lateral weight of the wagon. The wagon suddenly lurched at an angle, and the wheel cracked loudly.

Ben, along with several other bystanders, called out to her to jump off.

Mrs Zimmerman, perched on the jockey board, stared down at the gulch beside the wagon, and then glanced behind her through the pursed canvas opening of the cover behind her, drawn tight with a puckering string.

What’s she doing? Jump, woman. Jump!

The wagon slowly slid in the mush, further over the edge, the fractured wheel creaking alarmingly. The oxen on the left-hand side of the doubled team, seeing the drop right next to them, began to panic, scrambling to the right, causing a spreading confusion amongst the others. The wagon canted still further and Ben could see there was an irretrievable momentum building up that was going to carry it over.

‘For God’s sake jump!’ he shouted at her.

Mrs Zimmerman suddenly turned and clawed at the tightened canvas flap. She screamed something, a warning . . . as she tried to get inside. He remembered then that the woman had a young daughter, and that she must be inside the wagon. The woman managed to loosen the ties of the canvas flap and was half inside, desperately scrambling to reach for her little girl, when the improvised wheel suddenly shattered with a loud crack.

The top-heavy wagon lost its grip, toppling over the edge, throwing the woman out on to the ground. She landed heavily at the top of the slope only to watch the wagon roll over as it tumbled down the slope, crushing the hickory canvas bows and, undoubtedly, the poor girl inside. The oxen, dragged over the edge with it, followed in its wake, a squirming tangled mass of muscle and hide and flailing legs.

The wagon’s tumbling descent, as one whole, came to a shuddering halt as it slammed into a tree trunk. The wooden vehicle shattered with an explosive force, leaving an avalanche of debris - torn and jagged planks of wood, barrels and boxes and tattered cloth and shattered pottery - to continue its rolling descent to the bottom of the gulch. The oxen followed the same path down, most of their limbs and necks already broken and flopping like lengths of ribbon.

Skittering down the slope a moment later came a length of rope and, attached to it, the axle ripped from the conestoga being used as a winch at the top of the hill.

Ben looked up the trail to see that the wagon had been pulled partway down and turned on its side, leaving a trail of damaged and battered possessions strewn behind it.

Mr Hussein whispered a curse in Arabic.

It was Preston who reacted before anyone else, throwing his broad-brimmed hat to the ground and beginning to scramble down the perilously steep slope, with little apparent care for his own safety.

From the top of the hill, where the men had been working together to winch up the wagon, Ben heard Mr Zimmerman bellowing with grief.

 

Julian stared out of the window at the fluttering port wing of UA176 and the two very heavy-looking engines that wobbled precariously beneath it.

He hated turbulence - really hated it. The ‘seat belts on’ sign pinged.