Snowman (20 page)

Cut off from both camps, with most of their provisions gone, there was no way for them but the northern slopes; yet arctic winds from that direction would tangle their ropes. They could not climb. Even standing was an effort. The cold had captured them. They would die its prisoners.

He roused Pemba, and the two of them struggled to a crested eave of ice, which shielded them from the corruscating sunlight. They built a small fire and huddled against the ice wall. Beneath them the scarred belly of the mountain still emitted noises of protest.

Under the frozen slush of the glacier which had shattered at the terminus, a piercing light flashed intermittently. Digging deep in the jungle expanse of underground ice, the Snowman writhed in agony. His claws raked over the rock covered with feldspar crystals. He battered down dense wails of ice and worked the throbbing mass of nerve ends against the fallen ice to relieve the horrible burning sensation.

Some preconscious memory of survival informed the effort. He whined shrilly in these opaque caverns under the surface. The sounds oscillated, carrying through the twisted angles of the glacier and fragmented weak sections which burst through the ground, altering its course. Pumice showered from black obsidian domes and was flung into the air, and the effect from the helicopter circling the mountain was of some cataclysmic malevolent force of nature that had erupted from the bowels of the earth.

Ashby searched the mountain with binoculars from the helicopter, then handed them to Cathy. The deep pockets under his eyes and the nervous tic below his heart revealed the unbearable strain of the three-day search for Bradford and his men. There was no sign of them. Camp One had vanished. The second camp had been ravaged. They had been swallowed up by the mountain, and Ashby knew that he was to blame. If he had acted responsibly, confided in Garson and brought in the National Guard at the beginning, the slaughter which had occurred on the mountain need never have happened. Two more people had died that morning. His ambition had seemed to him innocent, but had made a mass murderer of him.

What had possessed him to hide the truth? Had the years of frustration, the routine of bringing out a weekly paper for a small community that seemed indifferent, forged him into the instrument of tragedy? There were no answers, and what made matters worse was that legally he could not be convicted of any crime. He would have to live in Sierra under the cold scrutiny of his former friends. Word would got around about his part, and the locals would pull their advertising, cancel their subscriptions. If only he could be out on the mountain under the ice with Bradford. He envied Bradford his hero's death.

Cathy, beside him, put down the glasses. She moved away from the window, determined not to cry. It would be useless.

Chuck reported to the three Army helicopters that he was going to make a final sortie around the summit, then come in. Sheriff Garson glared at Monte and Ashby.

"Well, you got your way up to now. But I've made a few hard decisions, and I don't give two shits how I look. When we get down, I'm calling a press conference, and I plan to spill my guts. Sure, I'll seem a dummy to a lot of people, but at least I'll be able to live with myself."

His words bounced off Cathy's ears. Bradford was lost. The sky was a pellucid blue; if there was any sign of them they would have been spotted by now.

The chopper jumped wildly in air pockets, shaking them. The pilot turned apologetically and said, "Last look."

"Cover the northern slopes before you call it a day," Monte said.

Garson looked away from the window.

"It's unbelievable—the mountain's exploding." He pointed out the window. "Do you see that light down there, Cathy?"

She held up the glasses and studied the ground for a moment.

"It's the sun reflecting," she said, unwilling to give herself false hope.

"Nope. It's moving."

The pilot peered out and said he would follow it.

"Could they be trapped underground?" Monte asked.

"I doubt it," Garson replied. "My guess is they were killed in the avalanche."

The light changed colors, forming a rainbow in the ice matrix. What puzzled them was the way the area of light was concentrated, and its sudden, unpredictable motion. It changed direction inexplicably, bending across gulleys before resuming an upward, easterly path. The sun had already moved to the west. The source of light was coming from something else.

The chopper climbed over a large cascade of peaks some distance below the summit. The rainbow traveled relentlessly. Cathy felt herself shiver. She did not want to begin to hope again.

He's gone, she repeated to herself, and I've got to stop believing that there might be a chance that he's still alive. She gripped her seat belt hard, until her fingers were numb.

At the summit, Bradford gnawed at soda crackers like a starving rat. Pemba had gained control of himself, was exploring the summit, refusing now to accept their predicament. They still had their ice axes, rope, and enough pitons so that they could climb the difficult ice pitches belayed to the rope.

"Dan, there's something out there!" he shouted, standing at the ledge of precipice. Bradford pretended he did not hear and curled farther into the wall, hugging it. "Dan!"

Bradford finally roused himself and staggered to his feet. He was very tired. The cold had lacerated his face raw, and the wounds were deep and scaly. He would wait until dark, then share the sleeping pills with Pemba.

He would die like a philosopher, proudly and without regrets. He would yield, and that would be his ultimate victory. A holistic welding together of body and spirit.

The enormous frozen void of the mountain embraced him, and he welcomed it like a lover.

"Do you see that?" Pemba pointed to the rainbow lighting the glazed torn ice of the slopes.

"It's light refraction," he said, surveying the great barren expanse, the connoisseur of death. And yet he wasn't satisfied with the facile explanation. Light did not move in this manner. "A storm's building. Put on your goggles or you'll go snowblind," he added, as though such considerations were still relevant. The image of himself foundering on the mountain, crying for help, offended him. Sheets of snow flew dervishly on the summit now.

"It's coming closer," he said as the definition of the rainbow sharpened. He could not ignore the tumultuous violent rumble of ice shifting and being crushed underneath the rib of rock running down from the main ridge. The spur was as slender as a woman's ankle, and it shook from pressure coming from within it.

It broke like glass. Slivers of it tumbled down onto a bergschrund which was also beginning to fracture. The summit itself was becoming unstable; ice boulders collapsed, forming a narrow shelf.

The Snowman's clawed hand broke through the ice crust below, and he began to climb on the surface to the summit. His mutilated torso stained the snow a greenish-black color.

Pemba brought out his two arrows. Bradford took one from him, and they retreated to the ice wall.

The head of the Snowman with its protruding horns was visible, and the light from the eyes blinded them. The great jaws snapped open, and the rows of teeth ground together furiously, throwing off white-hot sparks. How could he still be alive? Bradford was dazed by the shock of it.

The Snowman moaned aberrantly, wounded and crazed with fury. Slithering to the shelf, he pawed the ground with his single arm.

Bradford stripped off his gloves and bit into his fingers like a wild animal himself, to keep the circulation going. He loaded the crossbow. The heavy, frozen telescopic sight was weighting it, and he broke it off.

"Shoot for the chest!" he shouted to Pemba, who was behind him.

"Sogpa! Sogpa!" Pemba screeched angrily.

The Snowman's hand probed the ground, dislodging a rim of ice on the shelf of the summit. Gusts of snow obscured him from time to time. Bradford played him like a giant marlin who had taken the bait. He drew the Snowman closer to him. The Snowman's movements were slow. Bradford knew that his only chance was to gamble on a head shot. The Snowman slithered on the shelf, then forced himself to his feet. All around him the snow was filled with black mucus dripping from his wounds.

Erect, he towered over the summit, an otherworldly colossus that had survived for millions of years and traveled halfway around the world to encounter its final destiny. He was majestic in his primitive ferocity, roaring like some ancient god for its sacrifices. The grotesque arm swung out like a lance in a desperate effort to locate its tormentors.

"The cable's frozen!" Pemba cried as he pressed the trigger device.

The Snowman closed in, and the ground rumbled as he strode forward, his feet battering the loose snow and flinging it up, creating a whiteout, so that he was visible for only an instant. Bradford stood motionless, his torn, bleeding finger gripping the automatic trigger. The light from the eyes was diffuse, spinning, flashing motes. The monster was perhaps ten yards away. The Snowman's breath came in heavy waves, and the air became fetid. The heat from the enormous mouth was intense.

Bradford caught sight of the large saucer-shaped eyes. He released the trigger of the crossbow, then lurched back, falling on a sharply grained mound of ice.

The arrow struck the head, and it exploded, throwing up particles of ice and tissue which blackened the air. The stench was nauseating. Bradford choked with dry heaves. He crawled on all fours to the precipice.

The Snowman was still falling. Below him Bradford could see in the new configuration of the mountain a crevasse so broad and deep that it was impossible to judge where it bottomed out. It was a tortuous maze which extended across the breadth of the icefall.

He dropped his crossbow and walked to the ice wall. Pemba was on his knees, chanting the hypnotic prayer of the lamas.

"
Om Mane Padme Om . . .
"

Bradford was losing all sensation in his fingers and toes. His outer gloves were frozen rock-hard. He stooped to pick them up and carried them in his teeth to the dying fire.

Pemba came toward him, moving fluidly. He manipulated the fingers of Bradford's gloves until they softened and he was able to place them on Bradford's hands.

The guy ropes were tangled. They spent almost an hour straightening them. There was no way of climbing down until the ropes could be doubled to enable them to rappel themselves to the lower slopes.

The weather stayed clear. In the frozen wasteland the mountain looked like a diamond tiara. It was gorgeous, rugged, and Bradford accepted the fact that it would be their tomb.

They climbed sluggishly, Pemba taking the lead as they negotiated a pythonlike chimney which shrilly whined with trapped wind. They swayed back and forth, jostling like marionettes on a string. In the due-north wind, ice caked on the ropes. It was just a matter of time before one of them lost his grip. As they girdled a stark cornice, Bradford felt his body give out on him. He did not respond to Pemba's furious tugs on the rope.

"More slack!" Pemba shouted up to him. Bradford shook his head and raised his hand, but he was too tired even to wave. The drop into a couloir guarding the north face was perhaps three thousand feet. He would black out the moment he became weightless, plunging in a free fall. He would extend his arms like a diver and float downward in an exquisite swan dive.

"Don't, Dan, Dan," Pemba implored him. "You'll take me with you."

Pemba was right. He would be killing his friend, for no man could survive on the mountain alone. He held on to the rope and lowered himself to the pitch where Pemba waited. The tears in his eyes had frozen; elliptical icicles hung from his cheeks.

"I can't make it. We'll take the pills and it'll be over in less than an hour," Bradford said, pleading his case.

"You don't have the right to take my life from me. Only God can do that."

He did not have the energy to protest. When he slumped down, he felt Pemba's boot dig into his hip. "Get up!"

He fought with his body, but his reflexes were going. The numbness spread over him. It was an odd sensation, dying in the clear bright sunlight. He had always imagined that it would be dark. Somehow the absence of light would make the last moments acceptable.

The sky was separating into two warlike camps. To the east patches of slate cloud carried a storm, and to the west there were ghostly intimations of a summer's day. In the distance they heard a sound and looked up. The sound was moving closer, insistent and defiant. A helicopter's rotors carried in the wind like the whine of a mosquito on a warm night. The helicopter climbed over the icefall.

Pemba began to wave his arms frantically and shout at the top of his voice. The rotors churned, and the sound moved perceptibly closer. It circled, then closed above them. Bradford slammed his ax into the wall of ice, anchoring it. He lifted himself to his feet and feebly turned his head as the chopper flashed a Morse signal to them.

He urged his body to respond, lifted his arm, and waved. He had survived and vindicated himself. The lamas who had saved him before would eventually learn that the Snowman was dead and be released from their bondage. As he looked down the side of the mountain, there was a huge black shadow outlined in the ice.