I stand, another loud boom echoes from above. I look up and realize this one didn’t come from the sky but the mountain, heralding the beginning of an avalanche. The sky is nothing but snow, ice and rock—and falling straight for us.
chapter eleven
“Without an end, you cannot have a new beginning.”
—Myriad
Life is all about the numbers.
Today those numbers are the seconds we have to reach safety. The tons about to crash down upon us. The feet/yards/miles we’re about to fall, unable to stop ourselves.
“Come on.” I grab the end of Sloan’s rope and run as fast as I can. She isn’t prepared, and I have to drag her behind me. When I reach Clay, I grab his rope and drag him, too. We aren’t yet connected, but I try to remedy that as I run; I’m shaking too badly. “Archer! Killian! Come on!”
Numbers never lie, and the center of a mass like this is always heaviest, so that’s where the avalanche will move the fastest and hit the hardest. If we can get far enough to the side, we can maybe, hopefully, avoid being buried.
I glance up. Zero! We’re not going to get far enough to the side.
There are no trees nearby to act as an anchor for our ropes. Not that we’d have time to tie ourselves to the trunks. What should we do next? Brace?
The rumble of snow grows louder until I’d swear a freight train is hidden beneath the flakes. Yes. Brace. I recall a book I read and shout, “If you’re swept away, start swimming uphill as soon as you can.” The longer we’re buried, the harder movement will be. “Don’t stop until—”
Impact!
I’m thrown down, down, down by what seems to be ten thousand pounds of snow. I grip the ropes with all my strength as I tumble around like clothes in a dryer. Common sense tells me to keep a hand in front of my face—I might need to dig a tunnel to breathe—while keeping the other lifted above my head to help with disorientation. But I have a choice, always a choice. Help myself or help my friends by maintaining my grip on their ropes.
I maintain my grip.
When finally I stop, snow and debris are piled on top of me. I try to catch my breath but there’s not enough oxygen. Desperate, trying not to panic, I thrash with my legs, propelling up...up...
Am I going the right way?
Does it matter? If I’m buried under a foot or more, I won’t make it to the top on my own. That’s just fact.
What seems an eternity later—yes!—I break the surface and suck back as much air as my lungs can handle. I’m frantic as I scan the sea of white, seeing no sign of the others. “Clay! Sloan!” No response. “Archer! Killian!” Again, no response.
I tug one rope, then the other, and realize the two are on top of the snow, both facing the same direction. I use the lengths to fight my way through the rest of the deluge...
“Ten!” Clay calls, beyond frantic. “Help me. You have to help me.”
I lumber to my feet and follow the sound of his voice...skidding to a halt when I reach the edge of a cliff. Hanks of snow and rock fall over...and just keep falling.
“Ten!” He’s clinging to a tree that’s been knocked over the edge, the roots the only thing keeping it in place.
“I’ve got you.” I dig in my heels and try to pull him up with the rope. “Don’t worry.”
“Ten... Ten...”
A whimper at my right. I turn my head and see Sloan, and I almost lose my breakfast. She’s hanging over the same cliff, and like Clay, she’s white-knuckling a tree branch with every bit of strength she possesses.
“Pleeease. Help me.”
My panic returns with a vengeance. I won’t be able to pull them up at the same time. They’re simply too heavy. I have to pick one and pray the other holds on just a little longer.
Another hated choice. A sob lodges in my throat, constricting my airway.
I love Clay. We’ve laughed together, and we’ve cried together. He’s kind, honest and, as he just proved today, willing to help when needed. I can picture him at my seaside home, surfing alongside me.
Sloan, on the other hand, has been a thorn in my side for a little over a year. She’s a pain in every sense of the word. She’s irritating and combative, and I can’t imagine ever trusting her at my back.