The Ascent Page 8

  “So we’re stranded in the middle of fucking nowhere and my face is goin’ all spongy and Alex starts slamming his hands against the steering wheel. Everyone’s looking for signs to I-70, but there’snothing but forest and run-down cabins. Then someone starts shouting out the window at some dude passing by. Figured it was one of the ATV bucketheads we’d seen cruising along Mosquito Pass earlier in the day. But this fucker turns out to be a goddamn Indian from some tribe in the Ute Mountains, scrounging for recyclable cans and bottles or whatever down here. He comes over to the truck and pops the hatchback and stares at me like I’m an alien species of wildflower he’s thinking about smoking. He’s not even wigged out by the blood, and there was a lot by now.

  “Bastard climbs into the back with me and peels the bloody towel from my face. He was a big son of a bitch, and his skin looked like dried tobacco leaves. I remember thinking he was Mexican because he wore one of those wide-brimmed hats with the little cholo balls dangling from the rim. He placed his hands on either side of my face. He smelled like piss and whiskey, and for one freaky second, I thought he was simply gonna pop my head between his palms like a fucking overripe tomato.

  “‘Can you see me?’ he asks. I must have responded because he then says, ‘I want you to look directly into my eyes. I want you to tell me what color are my eyes.’ So I’m looking real hard at his eyes, but I can’t for the life of me tell what color his eyes are. For a moment, one of his hands slips off my cheek, and I think I feel my head expand, ready to come apart. ‘What color are my eyes?’ he says again, and he follows this up by stuffing a foul-tasting thumb into my mouth. I’m too out of it to buck him off, so the thumb goes rooting around my mouth, and when it finally retracts, I think I can make out the color of the old Indian’s eyes. But then something weird fucking happens, and he’s no longer got two eyes but just one single eye, right smack in the center of his face. Like what do you call those fucking things …?”

  “Cyclops,” Petras offered.

  “Yeah, right. Cyclops. And I’m focusing on this single eye, and I can clearly see the ridge of brow above the eye, the hollow pocket it’ssitting in, the whole nine, man. I mean, the bastard morphed into some Cyclops right in front of me, and looking into that one eye was like looking at a hypnotist’s pendulum, ‘cause I’m suddenly feeling nothing but cool, calm, and relaxed. By the time Alex finds the highway and gets me to a hospital, I’m as content as an old dog after a big meal.” Finished, Chad slapped a palm on the tabletop. The plates and glasses jumped. “Now how do you boys explain something like that?”

  Hollinger said, “You’d lost a lot of blood, mate. You were hallucinating.”

  “Wasn’t no hallucination.”

  “Peyote,” suggested Petras. “That’s why he put his thumb in your mouth.”

  “Brother,” Chad said, “I’ve juggled my share of psychedelics. His eyes changed.“

  “Nonetheless, it was unfortunate they couldn’t fix your face,” Hollinger said.

  We all laughed, none louder than Chad, who saw it fit to bray laughter.

  I crept to the bar to order another glass of the oily, black liquid we’d been imbibing all evening. It tasted like sweat wrung from gym socks, but it was all they had. And, anyway, I needed to keep pouring it down my gullet to keep my mind off the shakes.

  “Speaking of psychotropic drugs,” Chad went on, “where the fuck is Trumbauer?”

  “You’d think he’d show up, seeing how he put this whole thing together,” Curtis said as he leaned back in his chair, two chair legs off the floor. He’d hardly spoken all night. The sound of his voice was like the tolling of a great and distant bell.

  “Oh,” howled Chad, “this is fucked up. We’ve been summoned from around the fucking world, right? Check us out. He calls and we all come running.”

  “How do you know Andrew?” Petras asked Chad.

  Chad’s eyes narrowed. “Any of you guys cops?”

  “Go to hell,” growled Curtis.

  Chad shrugged. “We met in Colorado one winter, working the slopes. I helped him move some cocaine across the country in fish.”

  Michael Hollinger sat forward, smirking. “Fish?”

  “Salmon.” Chad smirked back. “Cut ‘em open and pack ‘em in ice and ship ‘em all over the country. He knew a guy who knew a guy who wanted to move some powder. We packed the fish full of coke and sent them on their way. And that’s how I met Andrew Trumbauer.”

  “Motherfuck,” said Shotsky. “That ain’t true.”

  “Sure as shit,” Chad promised.

  “How about you, Shotsky?” Hollinger said. “How do you know Andrew?”

  “He saved my life,” Donald Shotsky said matter-of-factly. “Five weeks in the Bering Sea, a ship called the Kula Plate, we’re hoisting the little clawed monsters on board one pot after the next. I could see the dollar signs in my eyes, like a fucking cartoon character. I’m there and Andrew’s there and maybe eight other guys on deck, plus the engineers and the captain.

  “Third week, just as a storm’s coming through, we’re bustin’ our asses to get everything pulled before we have to close up and pull everything below deck. Like an asshole, I get one of the ropes twisted around my ankle as we’re tossing one of the crab pots back overboard. And these are big fucking pots, the size of Volkswagens, heavier than shit. It goes over the side, and the line goes taut. I feel something bite into my ankle, and the next thing I know I’m on my belly, dragged across the deck and slammed into the railing. Lucky for me Andrew was close by. He cut the line before I went over. Otherwise there’d be some other fat slob sitting at this table talkin’ right now.”

  “Jesus, that’s some story.” Hollinger turned to Curtis Booker. “And you?”

  Booker said, “You jump out of enough planes, climb enoughmountains, you eventually hear about Andrew Trumbauer. Three years ago, I put together a climb in Alaska. Andrew was one of the guys who signed up for it. Never met him in person, but I knew who he was. I agreed to take him on—there were about fifteen of us—and thought everything was set. But he never showed up.”

  “Sounds like Andrew,” remarked Chad. “Good old reliable Andrew …”

  Curtis grinned. “I thought about doing the same to him on this trip, actually.”

  “Why didn’t you?” I said. For some reason, the notion of screwing over Andrew appealed to me.

  “Because I’m too goddamn excited to cross the Canyon of Souls. Anyway, old Andy probably made a wise decision skipping out on my little exhibition.” Curtis lowered his voice and said, “I lost two men in the death zone on that climb.”

  “The death zone?” Shotsky said, his voice suddenly shaky.

  “Fuck, man,” Chad interrupted. “You’ve signed up to cross the Canyon of fucking Souls, and you’ve never heard of the death zone.”

  Chad was an asshole, but he was right: Donald Shotsky hadn’t done his homework. Beside me, I could almost feel Petras cringe.

  “The death zone,” Curtis explained, “is the place high on a mountain where you don’t get enough oxygen. We had oxygen tanks for the summit climb, but at twenty-six thousand feet, the human body goes bad real fast.”

  “Are you kidding me?” Shotsky said. Both his thick, red hands were plastered to the tabletop, and I noticed a fine glimmer of sweat breaking out along his brow. “There’s a motherfucking death zone?”

  “Both guys died of edema,” said Curtis. “Was the worst climb I ever made.”

  “Will we be climbing into the death zone?” Shotsky wanted to know. “I mean, how high are we going?”

  “It’s in the middle of Godesh Mountain,” Petras said. “It’s adifficult climb, but the Canyon of Souls isn’t as high as twenty-six thousand.” He shot me a glance, and I waited for him to wink. “I don’t think so, anyway,” he added. The wink never came.

  “You afraid your heart’s gonna give out up there, Shotsky?” Chad said, running a hand through his bleached hair.

  Shotsky waved a hand at him. “Fuck o
ff, snow bunny.”

  “Because I ain’t gonna drag your rigor mortis ass back down the hill; that’s for damn sure,” Chad went on. Had they been friends, Shotsky would have most likely continued to wave Chad off. But they weren’t friends—they’d just met this evening, in fact—and it was evident Chad’s words were irritating Shotsky. “Or maybe I’ll just ride you down like a sled,” Chad added, oblivious to Shotsky’s growing agitation.

  Shotsky’s face creased. His hands balled into fists on the table. “How ‘bout I ride you like a sled, fuckface?”

  “Cool it,” Petras said.

  “Whoa.” Chad balked, throwing his hands up in surrender. “I didn’t mean nothing by it, bro. I’m cool. Just making light of the whole thing.” His gaze swung in my direction. “Right, Shakes?”

  Something snapped inside me. I sprung across the table and grabbed a fistful of Chad’s sweater. With my free hand, I struck him on the left cheek, which caused his head to jerk to the right. I refused to release the hold on his sweater even after his chair tipped and spilled him to the floor.

  “Hey, hey, hey,” Petras muttered into my ear. His big hands were on my shoulders, prying me off Chad. “Ease off, Tim. Ease off.”

  Finally I released my grip and allowed Petras and the others to drag me across the table.

  Hollinger bent over Chad and asked if he was all right.

  Chad laughed and scooted against the wall, his eyes locked on mine. I found myself praying for his nose to start gushing blood—somehow I thought that would make the scene all the more dramatic—but that

  never happened.

  “Nice,” he called to me, grinning. “Got a hell of a swing there. Guess this is amateur hour, huh?”

  “Asshole,” was all I could muster. Petras was still holding me back.

  Andrew appeared in the doorway, smiling down on us like the Creator Himself. “Very nice display,” he said, applauding. “Glad to see you boys playing nice together. I’m sure there exists a more than suitable quote about men growing up into boys or something like that, but I don’t know any.”

  “He started it,” Chad barked. A second later, he must have realized how childish it had sounded, because he chuckled.

  “I can’t let you ladies out of my sight for one second, can I?” Andrew said, folding his arms and leaning against the wall. “How’s the food?”

  “Ain’t the food that’s the trouble,” Shotsky growled.

  “Tastes like the padding of my sneakers,” Hollinger commented, perhaps in hopes of diluting the tension, “but at least it’s hot.”

  “The food’s purifying,” Andrew said. “I want all of us to be cleansed and ready for the climb. No smoking joints, no alcohol, no greasy cheeseburgers.”

  “God, I could use a joint,” Shotsky said.

  The guys laughed. Even Chad seemed to loosen up.

  “It’s the air up here. The altitude is different. Makes us act crazy, like a bunch of psychopaths. But we’ll be okay, won’t we?” When no one answered, Andrew repeated, “Won’t we?”

  “Sure,” said Petras, and all heads turned to look at him. He was by far the most imposing figure among us.

  “Here’s the deal. I’ve already been in your rooms. I’ve left some equipment for each of you. Everyone is responsible for their own equipment.” Andrew surveyed the group, as if in anticipation of revolt. “There’ll be a bus outside the lodge this Saturday at six in the morning to take us into town. We’ll pick up whatever else we need before heading out to the Valley of Walls. From there, we’ll have ateam of Sherpas take us through the pass to the base of the Godesh range. It’ll be a full day’s hike. We’ll climb to the first plateau and establish base camp. We’ll spend one more night there before leaving the following morning to climb. It’s a steep climb, and we’ll be going alone, just the seven of us, for several days.”

  “Lucky seven,” Curtis muttered.

  “You all need to be rested and prepared for strenuous conditions. If you get sick or feel you can’t make it once we’ve begun, it’ll be up to you to either establish sanctuary and wait for us to return or make it back to base camp on your own. If you wish to enlist the help of anyone else to carry your ass down to camp, just keep in mind that no one here signed up for this journey with the hope of sitting in a canvas tent for two weeks, sipping hot chocolate and listening to their iPods, while the rest of us climb. You’re all here because I have faith in each and every one of you.” A disconcerting smile crept across Andrew’s features. “We’re going to be the first team to cross the Canyon of Souls.”

  This sparked an eruption of cheers and applause from the group. I couldn’t help but smile, either … while deep in the recesses of my brain I recalled the fire behind Andrew’s eyes that night in San Juan when, stark naked and pale in the moonlight, he leapt off the cliff and into the black night air.

  Abruptly Andrew turned and walked out of the lounge.

  “He’s leaving already?” I whispered to Petras.

  “He’s a strange dude, all right,” Petras said, rolling his massive shoulders.

  I hustled out of the lounge and up the winding iron stairs to the main lobby of the lodge. Andrew was zipping up his jacket and heading toward the doors.

  “Hey,” I called.

  He paused and swung his head in my direction.

  “Got a minute?”

  “What’s up, Overleigh?”

  “You’re not gonna stay and chill out awhile?”

  “What are we, in college or something?” Again, that curious grin of his appeared, and his eyes narrowed. “Did that sound abrupt? Goddamn, I can never tell how I’m going to sound until the words spill out.”

  “Listen,” I said. “Do you know a guy named Shomas? Big guy? Local?”

  “Never heard of him.”

  “He stopped me outside my cabin to warn me about climbing Godesh. Said it was a canyon not meant to be crossed. He seemed pretty adamant about it.”

  “Come on. It’s local superstition. He’s probably some guide who’s pissed he didn’t get the job.”

  “Well, yeah, he said he was a guide …”

  “Then there you go.”

  “I think he broke into my room, too.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “When I went back to my room, someone had gone through all my stuff. I thought maybe someone had robbed me, but nothing was taken.”

  “Then what’s the problem?”

  The problem is nothing was taken, I wanted to say. The problem is that big behemoth had been in my room rifling through my luggage… and didn’t take a single thing…

  “What was he looking for?” I said. “If he didn’t take my money and my valuables, what the hell was he looking for?”

  “Jesus, what’s wrong with you? You’re shaking like a tuning fork.”

  “Forget it. I’m fine.”

  “You’re sweating, too.”

  “Never mind.”

  “Look,” he said, placing a hand on my shoulder. Inwardly I cringed. “If you’ve got something missing, report it to the lodge. They get thousands of travelers here every year; they won’t stand fortheft scaring away the tourists. But if nothing was taken, then consider yourself fortunate that you scared the guy off before he could rip you off. Simple as that. What more do you want?”

  It was a fair enough question. I had no idea what more I wanted. I wanted Hannah, and I suddenly wanted to be back in my tiny Annapolis apartment, but I couldn’t say those things to Andrew. Not at all.

  “Forget it,” I said finally. “I guess I’m just exhausted.”

  “Get some rest. You need to be in pristine fucking condition by Saturday.”

  “Yeah.”

  “And quit fighting. This ain’t boxing camp.” “Right.”

  “Now get to sleep.” He squeezed my shoulder, then marched out of the lodge, turning up the collar of his jacket as he went.

  Chapter 7

  1

  SATURDAY MORNING I GOT UP A FEW HOURS


  before the sun had time to rise. Knowing I would not see another shower for several weeks, I languished beneath the lukewarm spray of my shower until the water grew cold. Then I climbed out and toweled myself off while staring at my blotchy reflection in the full-length mirror behind the bathroom door. I was in good physical condition, yet my eyes quickly found the one haunting flaw on my body: the ragged, brutal, puckered scar running along my left leg from just above the ankle to just below the knee.

  Momentarily I was overcome by claustrophobia, thinking back to how I’d almost died in that cavern beneath the earth, my shinbone jutting through a serpentine tear in my flesh. And with the claustrophobia came vertigo; I scrambled for the toilet, where I closed the lid and dropped on top of it, catching my breath.

  But it wasn’t all about the claustrophobia. It wasn’t all about the memory of the caves. It was the drinking too. The withdrawal. And in a way it was Hannah …

  She hadn’t returned to me since my arrival in Nepal, which comforted me to some extent, making me think I was probably doingsomething right. And now, so many thousands of miles away from home, her haunting my apartment seemed nothing more than a dream, something my overactive and whiskey-pickled mind had conjured up. On the morning of the first day of our climb, Hannah was nothing more than a sad memory.

  Back in the room, I dressed quickly in fresh clothes and a lightweight anorak. My bags were piled by the door, along with the gear Andrew had delivered to my room—a walkie-talkie; a miner’s helmet with the flashlight affixed to the front; a pickax; several blue vinyl flags, the kind one might see hanging above a used car lot; and a steel canteen with my name engraved on it.

  I dragged my stuff out to the cabin porch just as a low rumbling could be heard over the horizon. Moments later, twin headlamps pierced the darkness. The bus shuddered into the clearing between the cabins, coughing gouts of black smoke from its exhaust pipe. I entertained serious doubts that it would be able to transport us a mile down the road let alone into the city, what with its rust-peeling shell and four tires that were practically running on the rims.