Snow Day - part 6
Apr. 25th, 2009 03:38 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
rabidsamfanGonzo felt his feet going out from under him again and tried to let go of Stanley's coat in time to avoid pulling the other man down on top of him. He hadn't the last time, and the collision had knocked the breath out of both of them. He had limited success. As he hit the snow with knee and hip and elbow, he heard Stanley landing too, but at least this time they weren't one on top of the other. "Sorry," Gonzo said.
"‘S all right," Stanley sounded winded. "‘S a chance to sit down."
Content not to have to move right away, Gonzo hitched himself around until he was in a comfortable sitting position on the slanted snow bank. The road had been covered in more than one place by slides, and negotiating them was taking more energy than he had to spare. He held onto his knees to keep his hands away from his face and tried to reckon their odds. Less than ten miles, but in knee-deep snow, very little water, no food. He felt himself frown, thoughtfully. "Hey, Stan?"
"Hmm?"
"I don't suppose you actually brought any gorp with you?"
"Raisins and peanuts? No. I thought about it." Stanley was recovering his breath gradually, but he still spoke in short sentences. "I have chocolate bars."
"You have chocolate?" Gonzo said, amazed. "Why didn't you say so?"
"I forgot." Gonzo heard the slithery sound of Stan's parka and the snap of a pocket flap before he heard the happy crinkle of candy wrapper. "Hold out your hand," Stanley said.
Gonzo tugged off a mitten to receive the squares of candy. "Bless you," he said, "My blood sugar had just about hit the basement." The chocolate tasted perfect, so sweet and cold his fillings tingled, but warming gratefully against his tongue. Gonzo let it melt down his throat, so that it would feel like he was getting more of it. He accepted a second chunk from Stanley, and finished it, too. "Thanks."
"I've got two more bars," Stanley said. "But I'm not sure if we should eat them now or later."
"Later," Gonzo said reluctantly. "Unless you've got something else edible stashed away."
"I'm sorry."
"Hey," Gonzo said, detecting a note of discouragement in Stanley's voice. "Don't kick yourself. You brought more food than I did."
"Well," Stanley said, a little more cheerfully, "you brought the beer."
Gonzo laughed. "Now all we need is a TV and a football game."
"Oh, no," Stanley sounded like he was getting to his feet. "I remember what you looked like after that football team ran over you. Let's watch hockey." Gonzo felt Stanley's hand, and let himself be pulled upright.
"Naah," Gonzo took hold of the parka again, and let Stanley start the slow process of finding a way across the snow. "That's too cold. How about soccer?"
---
"Is that Dr. McIntyre?"
"Yes." Trapper tucked the phone against his shoulder and looked for a place to put down his coffee.
"I'm Lt. Bristow, of the Sacramento P.D. Have you found your missing men, yet?"
"Not yet," Trapper said. "Have you got any news for me?"
"Nothing good I'm afraid." The voice on the other end of the line sounded reluctant, and a little uncertain. "We've got a John Doe at County General who might -- and I have to emphasize this, might -- be George Gates."
"Might?" Trapper reached for a pencil. "What do you mean, might?"
"Well, the guy was found in a dumpster. Looks like he hid himself there after someone tried to kick him to death. No wallet, no coat; hell, no shoes. I can tell you that he has curly black hair, and is about the right height, but his own mother wouldn't be able to I.D. him from three feet away. I was able to get a print from his left pinky, but the rest of his hands are in such bad shape that I couldn't even touch them."
Trapper winced. A surgeon's hands were his livelihood.
"What's the prognosis?"
"Bad." Bristow didn't bother to cushion it. "The doctors here say he's got less than a thirty percent chance of surviving."
"Do you want me to come down?"
"That's up to you, Doctor. But what I'd really like is for you to tell me if there's any chance that Gates' fingerprints might be on file somewhere. If we get a positive I.D. it'll help us figure out what the hell happened."
Trapper knew that he should know the answer that Bristow was looking for, but he couldn't get his brain to stop painting a picture of Gonzo lying in ICU with massive injuries. Fatal injuries. He had seen the victims of beatings before, and he knew all too well what was involved. "Umm. Not at the hospital. They have thumbprints, but not the rest of the hand. And I don't think he's ever been arrested."
"Military?" Lt. Bristow asked.
"Yes. He was in the Army, the Medical Corps -- Vietnam. His middle name is Alonzo."
"I'll get on to the DOD," the cop sounded impatient to get off the line.
"Let me know what you find out," Trapper insisted.
"Are you going to be at this number?"
"Yes," Trapper said, making the decision. There were too many people who were supposed to call him back here, and Mike was still asleep. "What are you doing about Stanley?"
"The other missing man?" Bristow made a frustrated noise. "I don't know what to tell you. I'll pump up the APB, make it priority across the state. You don't think he'd do something like..."
"Not on the worst day of his life," Trapper interrupted. "Stanley's not that kind of person."
"Don't get me wrong, I'm just looking at possibilities." Bristow said brusquely. "From what I've got here, your friends weren't even supposed to be in Sacramento, much less in the district where we found our man. It's still possible that he isn't Gates."
"But if he is, then something must have happened to Stan, too," Trapper pointed out. "His father's rich. You might be looking at a kidnapping."
Bristow said something very rude. "All right, all right. I'll call the feds as soon as I get off the line with the Army. You'd better stay by the phone, ‘cause they're sure to want more details."
"Right. And I'll call Stanley's house and let them know to call you if they hear anything." Trapper got off the line with Bristow and dialed without hanging up the receiver. The maid who answered the phone claimed not to know anything about either Stanley Riverside's location, and Trapper left Bristow's number with misgivings. He pushed down on the button and scowled at the phone, and then dialed again.
"San Francisco Memorial -- Emergency,"
"Gloria, it's Trapper. How busy is it down there?"
"Not too bad. We're drowning in residents, thanks to Dr. Baker. Have you heard from Gonzo or Dr. Riverside?"
"No," Trapper answered; grateful that she had asked it that way and he could be honest. "Can you get Ernie on the line for me?"
"Sure."
He waited for a minute before he heard the click of the line, "All right, I've got it," Ernie's voice said, somewhere away from the receiver and there was another click as the main desk phone was hung up. "Yes, John?"
"Are you back in the office?"
"Yes. Gloria thought you sounded like you had something important to talk about."
Trapper shook his head; so much for not worrying everyone. "I do. Any chance you can drive over to Sacramento County General to identify a John Doe?"
"Oh, John. Which one? How badly hurt?" Ernie's rich voice trembled a little.
"Gonzo. And critical." Trapper knew he sounded bleak, knew Ernie would pick up on it. "I'd rather you went than anyone else. Arnold hasn't got the stomach for it, and Jackpot's just a kid. And I've got to stay here by the phone in case the FBI calls."
"The FBI?"
"It could be a kidnapping. Stanley wasn't with him, Ernie, and I can't think of any other reason for him to disappear like this. Not if Gonzo... It just doesn't make sense."
"Are they sure it's Gonzo?" Ernie asked, grabbing for straw.
"No. But the general description matches. I need to know, Ernie."
"I understand," Ernie said. "Who did you talk to?"
"Lt. Bristow, Sacramento police." He gave her the number.
"I've got it. I'll call you as soon as I know," she promised. "Try not to worry."
"Thanks, Ern," he said. "And Ernie?"
"Yes, John?"
"Drive carefully. Please."
---
"...Green bottles, hanging on the wall. Seven green bottles, hanging on the wall, and if one green bottle, come on, Stanley, sing with me, if one green bottle, should accidentally fall..."
"There would be six green bottles, hanging on the wall." Stanley chorused dutifully. It was hard to sing and walk, but he had seen the logic of it, when Gonzo had said that they would do better to keep their pace slow enough for conversation. It was a runner's trick, a way of pacing a long run, the only problem being that they had run out of safe conversational topics pretty quickly. Surprisingly, though, they knew a lot of the same songs. Mitch Miller songs, and television themes made sense, but it surprised Stanley to find out that camp counselors taught the same songs all over the country. If only his head didn't hurt and he could feel his feet, he could almost enjoy this.
Behind him, Gonzo faltered and stopped. "Darn it. Stan?"
Stan made himself stop moving. He turned around carefully, trying not to change the plane his head was in. That was the easiest way to keep the pounding from getting worse. "What is it? Are you tired?"
"Something's not right with my left boot." Gonzo picked it up, and tried to stand stork fashion while he felt for the problem, but ended up sitting in the snow anyway.
"The lace is broken." Stanley observed.
Gonzo shrugged. "The knot must've come undone. And I am tired. Can we stop for a while?"
"I guess so." Stanley looked around for a dryer place to sit, didn't see one. "Maybe we should sit on the plastic this time."
"Yeah. I'm getting snow in my pants." Gonzo fought himself back up, and dug around in the duffel bag for the plastic sheet. He managed to lay it out pretty straight. "There."
Stanley, who had been standing still with his eyes closed, made a noise of acknowledgement and opened one eye long enough to ease himself down onto the plastic. "That's better," he said.
"You all right?" Gonzo asked.
"I'm tired." Stanley conceded. "And the sun's real bright on the snow." That was true enough, and it wouldn't get Gonzo too worried.
Gonzo stopped fiddling with his bootlace and said something rude. "Sorry, Stan, I forgot all about that. Does it make your head hurt? Are your eyes watering?"
"Now what have I done wrong?" So much for not worrying Gonzo. Stanley's unhappiness made a knot in his throat. He had been trying so hard.
"It's not your fault, Stan." Gonzo tried to pat Stan on the shoulder and missed. "Look, have you got sunglasses on you?"
"No." Stan got out past the knot.
"Me neither. We'll rig something up. It's easy. And you can take some of the acetaminophen for the headache."
"What do I need sunglasses for?" Stanley asked. It came out whiny, even to his own ears, and he flushed with embarrassment.
Gonzo found his shoulder this time. "To prevent snow blindness, Stan. It's going to be really miserable if neither one of us can see."
"Oh." Stan absorbed that. "Well, my head hurts, but my eyes aren't watering. The hood keeps most of the light out. I don't think it's that bad yet."
"Well, I wish I could check your eyes." Gonzo felt of the bandages on his own eyes, fretfully.
"I can do that," Stanley said, feeling in his pockets.
"You've got a mirror?"
"A signal mirror. Only there hasn't been anyone to signal." He found it and pulled it out of the package. "What am I looking for?"
"Redness of the rims or sclera, build up of tear residue, puffiness of the lids, anything like that."
"Well, they're a little bloodshot, but not any worse than they were on Thursday morning," Stan reported. They looked worried, too, but he figured Gonzo didn't need to know that.
Gonzo relaxed. "Good." He settled back down. "I'm sorry I didn't think of it earlier."
"That's all right." Stanley put the mirror away and pulled out the first aid kit. He took a couple of the pills and a swig of water from the bottle, and then looked over to Gonzo, who had taken off his mittens to tie new knots in his bootlaces. "How's your face?"
"It hurts." Gonzo said shortly. "Part of me just wants to pull the ski mask off and lie face down in the snow."
"That sounds cold."
"But after a while it would be numb, and numb sounds really good right now." Gonzo sighed. "Oh, well. Things could be worse."
"I just wish John would hurry up and look for us here," Stanley said. "Or that I hadn't lost those snow shoes. I'm tired of wading through snow."
"I wish I had put those pretzels into my duffel bag," Gonzo said. "Or that snow was edible."
"I wish I had gotten those electric socks."
"I wish we had skis. Or even a toboggan."
Stanley frowned, thinking. "We have the plastic. Wouldn't it slide on the snow?"
Gonzo shrugged. "I guess so. If we had a place where we could slide. It would have to be pretty steep."
"Well, there're still two more switchbacks, and there's all that snow in between. If we could slide down on the avalanche path, we could probably save half a mile of walking, or more." Stanley was beginning to feel like he had had a good idea. He was terribly tired of walking, and he could remember sledding one time when he was a small boy on a school outing. It had been fun.
"The avalanche path? Stan, I'm not sure that's a good idea."
"You said it last night," Stanley reminded Gonzo. "Once the avalanche has let loose, all the snow's on the bottom. It's not like it's going to slide again."
Gonzo cocked his head to one side, calculating something he didn't share with Stan. "Well, it depends on if there're a lot of rocks," he conceded finally. "And we should have sticks, so that if we start going too fast we can use them for brakes."
"I can get sticks," Stanley said. "And there aren't many rocks. I was looking down it the last time we crossed, and I remember thinking how smooth the snow looked."
Gonzo nodded, reluctantly. "Are you sure there're two switchbacks left? How far have we come?"
Stanley started to tilt his head back to look up the mountain, and stopped when it made the ache start up again. "About three-quarters of a mile," he estimated. "But we should make better time once we get down to where the road doesn't have avalanche fallout all over it every so often."
Gonzo finished knotting his lace and pulled his mittens from his pocket. "It doesn't sound like a great plan, but at least it's a plan. Let's try it."
It didn't take a lot of preparation. They walked back to the slide area and Stanley went to the side of the road to cut sticks from the bushes. Then they lay the plastic down and sat on it, Stanley in front, Gonzo behind, holding him around the waist. Stanley tucked the end of the plastic up over his legs and said, "Ready?"
"As I'm ever going to be," Gonzo said.
Stanley looked down the slope, fighting misgivings. It was a lot farther to the bottom than any sled run, but that was the whole point. He wouldn't have to climb back up, and if this worked, they wouldn't have to walk nearly so far. "Okay." He started scooting forward, with Gonzo working to keep up. Gradually, the slope took over, and the plastic began to slide. "Hang on!"
It was exhilarating, at first. The wind on his face was cold, and the snow was lumpier under his seat than he had expected, but they were moving so fast that the smaller lumps hardly mattered. Stanley found himself yelling, and heard the echo of Gonzo's shout muffled against his back. Faster and faster they went, with snow spraying up around them, and the road and trees looming below. Stanley tried to lean and steer toward the road instead of the trees, and for a moment it seemed to work, but then he realized that they weren't quite on the right line. "Brake!" he shouted.
Gonzo had to let go of Stanley's waist to use his stick brake, and they hit a bump that cracked their heads together and then knocked them bodily apart. Stanley found himself spinning, and flattened himself out desperately, trying to regain control. The plastic trapped his legs, preventing him from using his heels, and the stick flew out of his grasp, so he grabbed at the snow with his hands, rolling onto his stomach to get a better grip. He caught a glimpse of Gonzo's foot, and tried to grab for it, but missed. Another bump set him rolling wildly, He could see snow and sky change places, once, twice, again, and then suddenly the spindly arms of a willow bush reached out and snagged him to a halt. There was a long and terrible silence as Stanley struggled to regain his sense of up and down, and then Gonzo's voice came to him, tremulous with disbelief.
"I'm alive."
Stanley felt his own disbelief bloom into a wild gratitude at the reprieve. "So am I."
"Good." Gonzo said. "That's good." And then he began to laugh.
Stanley couldn't help but laugh too, although he made himself sit up and start working free of the bush. He could see Gonzo now, sprawled on the apron of snow, shaking with what was either hysteria or relief. Stanley's own internal systems were bucking for hysteria, but he couldn't afford it until he was sure that Gonzo was all right.
His parka had torn, but only on the outermost layer, and the bump on his head still hurt, and Stanley knew that he had acquired an entirely new set of scratches and bruises. His legs were so cold it was hard to tell if any of the bruises were serious, and he decided not to look. He got the laces of his gaiters untangled from the thin branches and stood up to go over to Gonzo.
It didn't work.
When the wave of dark dizziness passed, he found himself on hands and knees, clutching the snow as if that would help. His stomach roiled, and he concentrated on not being sick, remembering all too well how much it had hurt earlier. Even the hair on his head was complaining, and he admitted to himself that even if he hadn't been concussed earlier, he probably was now. The sound of Gonzo's laughter had eased into weak giggles so abruptly Stanley knew that he had probably blacked out for a few seconds. He bit his lip and tried standing again, very carefully. It took a minute - literally a minute, but he made it. Cautiously, he made his way over to Gonzo, who was sitting up now, with his arms tucked against his belly and his ski mask askew. Stanley eased himself down to a sitting position next to the surgeon and reached out to touch the shaking shoulders.
"Are you all right?"
Gonzo made a visible effort to stop laughing. "You've got a hard head, Stan. I hit my face on the back of it and it hurts. And my gut hurts from laughing. And I think I just gave up roller coasters. But mostly I'm okay. How about you?"
"A little dizzy from rolling," Stanley answered. "And I ran into a bush. But nothing's broken." He began helping Gonzo get off the ski mask to check on the damage. It didn't look good. The bandages over Gonzo's eyes were wet from broken blisters, and he had a nasty bruise forming on one cheekbone. Stanley's own bruises throbbed with sympathy. "This is going to hurt a little," he warned, and pulled off his makeshift mittens to make it easier to work off the bandages.
It hurt a lot, to judge from Gonzo's expression, and Stanley's hands were so clumsy from the cold he couldn't ease the process very much. The blisters, most of them anyway, had burst, and the raw flesh looked tender and painful. Stanley hunted through the first aid kit for the antibiotic salve. By the time he finished applying it, Gonzo was shaking like the leaves on the nearby aspen. "You're getting shocky," Stanley said, as he found the last of the gauze pads and put them into place. "We're going to have to get you warmer, " Stanley looked around at the unfriendly wilderness. "Somehow."
---
"‘S all right," Stanley sounded winded. "‘S a chance to sit down."
Content not to have to move right away, Gonzo hitched himself around until he was in a comfortable sitting position on the slanted snow bank. The road had been covered in more than one place by slides, and negotiating them was taking more energy than he had to spare. He held onto his knees to keep his hands away from his face and tried to reckon their odds. Less than ten miles, but in knee-deep snow, very little water, no food. He felt himself frown, thoughtfully. "Hey, Stan?"
"Hmm?"
"I don't suppose you actually brought any gorp with you?"
"Raisins and peanuts? No. I thought about it." Stanley was recovering his breath gradually, but he still spoke in short sentences. "I have chocolate bars."
"You have chocolate?" Gonzo said, amazed. "Why didn't you say so?"
"I forgot." Gonzo heard the slithery sound of Stan's parka and the snap of a pocket flap before he heard the happy crinkle of candy wrapper. "Hold out your hand," Stanley said.
Gonzo tugged off a mitten to receive the squares of candy. "Bless you," he said, "My blood sugar had just about hit the basement." The chocolate tasted perfect, so sweet and cold his fillings tingled, but warming gratefully against his tongue. Gonzo let it melt down his throat, so that it would feel like he was getting more of it. He accepted a second chunk from Stanley, and finished it, too. "Thanks."
"I've got two more bars," Stanley said. "But I'm not sure if we should eat them now or later."
"Later," Gonzo said reluctantly. "Unless you've got something else edible stashed away."
"I'm sorry."
"Hey," Gonzo said, detecting a note of discouragement in Stanley's voice. "Don't kick yourself. You brought more food than I did."
"Well," Stanley said, a little more cheerfully, "you brought the beer."
Gonzo laughed. "Now all we need is a TV and a football game."
"Oh, no," Stanley sounded like he was getting to his feet. "I remember what you looked like after that football team ran over you. Let's watch hockey." Gonzo felt Stanley's hand, and let himself be pulled upright.
"Naah," Gonzo took hold of the parka again, and let Stanley start the slow process of finding a way across the snow. "That's too cold. How about soccer?"
---
"Is that Dr. McIntyre?"
"Yes." Trapper tucked the phone against his shoulder and looked for a place to put down his coffee.
"I'm Lt. Bristow, of the Sacramento P.D. Have you found your missing men, yet?"
"Not yet," Trapper said. "Have you got any news for me?"
"Nothing good I'm afraid." The voice on the other end of the line sounded reluctant, and a little uncertain. "We've got a John Doe at County General who might -- and I have to emphasize this, might -- be George Gates."
"Might?" Trapper reached for a pencil. "What do you mean, might?"
"Well, the guy was found in a dumpster. Looks like he hid himself there after someone tried to kick him to death. No wallet, no coat; hell, no shoes. I can tell you that he has curly black hair, and is about the right height, but his own mother wouldn't be able to I.D. him from three feet away. I was able to get a print from his left pinky, but the rest of his hands are in such bad shape that I couldn't even touch them."
Trapper winced. A surgeon's hands were his livelihood.
"What's the prognosis?"
"Bad." Bristow didn't bother to cushion it. "The doctors here say he's got less than a thirty percent chance of surviving."
"Do you want me to come down?"
"That's up to you, Doctor. But what I'd really like is for you to tell me if there's any chance that Gates' fingerprints might be on file somewhere. If we get a positive I.D. it'll help us figure out what the hell happened."
Trapper knew that he should know the answer that Bristow was looking for, but he couldn't get his brain to stop painting a picture of Gonzo lying in ICU with massive injuries. Fatal injuries. He had seen the victims of beatings before, and he knew all too well what was involved. "Umm. Not at the hospital. They have thumbprints, but not the rest of the hand. And I don't think he's ever been arrested."
"Military?" Lt. Bristow asked.
"Yes. He was in the Army, the Medical Corps -- Vietnam. His middle name is Alonzo."
"I'll get on to the DOD," the cop sounded impatient to get off the line.
"Let me know what you find out," Trapper insisted.
"Are you going to be at this number?"
"Yes," Trapper said, making the decision. There were too many people who were supposed to call him back here, and Mike was still asleep. "What are you doing about Stanley?"
"The other missing man?" Bristow made a frustrated noise. "I don't know what to tell you. I'll pump up the APB, make it priority across the state. You don't think he'd do something like..."
"Not on the worst day of his life," Trapper interrupted. "Stanley's not that kind of person."
"Don't get me wrong, I'm just looking at possibilities." Bristow said brusquely. "From what I've got here, your friends weren't even supposed to be in Sacramento, much less in the district where we found our man. It's still possible that he isn't Gates."
"But if he is, then something must have happened to Stan, too," Trapper pointed out. "His father's rich. You might be looking at a kidnapping."
Bristow said something very rude. "All right, all right. I'll call the feds as soon as I get off the line with the Army. You'd better stay by the phone, ‘cause they're sure to want more details."
"Right. And I'll call Stanley's house and let them know to call you if they hear anything." Trapper got off the line with Bristow and dialed without hanging up the receiver. The maid who answered the phone claimed not to know anything about either Stanley Riverside's location, and Trapper left Bristow's number with misgivings. He pushed down on the button and scowled at the phone, and then dialed again.
"San Francisco Memorial -- Emergency,"
"Gloria, it's Trapper. How busy is it down there?"
"Not too bad. We're drowning in residents, thanks to Dr. Baker. Have you heard from Gonzo or Dr. Riverside?"
"No," Trapper answered; grateful that she had asked it that way and he could be honest. "Can you get Ernie on the line for me?"
"Sure."
He waited for a minute before he heard the click of the line, "All right, I've got it," Ernie's voice said, somewhere away from the receiver and there was another click as the main desk phone was hung up. "Yes, John?"
"Are you back in the office?"
"Yes. Gloria thought you sounded like you had something important to talk about."
Trapper shook his head; so much for not worrying everyone. "I do. Any chance you can drive over to Sacramento County General to identify a John Doe?"
"Oh, John. Which one? How badly hurt?" Ernie's rich voice trembled a little.
"Gonzo. And critical." Trapper knew he sounded bleak, knew Ernie would pick up on it. "I'd rather you went than anyone else. Arnold hasn't got the stomach for it, and Jackpot's just a kid. And I've got to stay here by the phone in case the FBI calls."
"The FBI?"
"It could be a kidnapping. Stanley wasn't with him, Ernie, and I can't think of any other reason for him to disappear like this. Not if Gonzo... It just doesn't make sense."
"Are they sure it's Gonzo?" Ernie asked, grabbing for straw.
"No. But the general description matches. I need to know, Ernie."
"I understand," Ernie said. "Who did you talk to?"
"Lt. Bristow, Sacramento police." He gave her the number.
"I've got it. I'll call you as soon as I know," she promised. "Try not to worry."
"Thanks, Ern," he said. "And Ernie?"
"Yes, John?"
"Drive carefully. Please."
---
"...Green bottles, hanging on the wall. Seven green bottles, hanging on the wall, and if one green bottle, come on, Stanley, sing with me, if one green bottle, should accidentally fall..."
"There would be six green bottles, hanging on the wall." Stanley chorused dutifully. It was hard to sing and walk, but he had seen the logic of it, when Gonzo had said that they would do better to keep their pace slow enough for conversation. It was a runner's trick, a way of pacing a long run, the only problem being that they had run out of safe conversational topics pretty quickly. Surprisingly, though, they knew a lot of the same songs. Mitch Miller songs, and television themes made sense, but it surprised Stanley to find out that camp counselors taught the same songs all over the country. If only his head didn't hurt and he could feel his feet, he could almost enjoy this.
Behind him, Gonzo faltered and stopped. "Darn it. Stan?"
Stan made himself stop moving. He turned around carefully, trying not to change the plane his head was in. That was the easiest way to keep the pounding from getting worse. "What is it? Are you tired?"
"Something's not right with my left boot." Gonzo picked it up, and tried to stand stork fashion while he felt for the problem, but ended up sitting in the snow anyway.
"The lace is broken." Stanley observed.
Gonzo shrugged. "The knot must've come undone. And I am tired. Can we stop for a while?"
"I guess so." Stanley looked around for a dryer place to sit, didn't see one. "Maybe we should sit on the plastic this time."
"Yeah. I'm getting snow in my pants." Gonzo fought himself back up, and dug around in the duffel bag for the plastic sheet. He managed to lay it out pretty straight. "There."
Stanley, who had been standing still with his eyes closed, made a noise of acknowledgement and opened one eye long enough to ease himself down onto the plastic. "That's better," he said.
"You all right?" Gonzo asked.
"I'm tired." Stanley conceded. "And the sun's real bright on the snow." That was true enough, and it wouldn't get Gonzo too worried.
Gonzo stopped fiddling with his bootlace and said something rude. "Sorry, Stan, I forgot all about that. Does it make your head hurt? Are your eyes watering?"
"Now what have I done wrong?" So much for not worrying Gonzo. Stanley's unhappiness made a knot in his throat. He had been trying so hard.
"It's not your fault, Stan." Gonzo tried to pat Stan on the shoulder and missed. "Look, have you got sunglasses on you?"
"No." Stan got out past the knot.
"Me neither. We'll rig something up. It's easy. And you can take some of the acetaminophen for the headache."
"What do I need sunglasses for?" Stanley asked. It came out whiny, even to his own ears, and he flushed with embarrassment.
Gonzo found his shoulder this time. "To prevent snow blindness, Stan. It's going to be really miserable if neither one of us can see."
"Oh." Stan absorbed that. "Well, my head hurts, but my eyes aren't watering. The hood keeps most of the light out. I don't think it's that bad yet."
"Well, I wish I could check your eyes." Gonzo felt of the bandages on his own eyes, fretfully.
"I can do that," Stanley said, feeling in his pockets.
"You've got a mirror?"
"A signal mirror. Only there hasn't been anyone to signal." He found it and pulled it out of the package. "What am I looking for?"
"Redness of the rims or sclera, build up of tear residue, puffiness of the lids, anything like that."
"Well, they're a little bloodshot, but not any worse than they were on Thursday morning," Stan reported. They looked worried, too, but he figured Gonzo didn't need to know that.
Gonzo relaxed. "Good." He settled back down. "I'm sorry I didn't think of it earlier."
"That's all right." Stanley put the mirror away and pulled out the first aid kit. He took a couple of the pills and a swig of water from the bottle, and then looked over to Gonzo, who had taken off his mittens to tie new knots in his bootlaces. "How's your face?"
"It hurts." Gonzo said shortly. "Part of me just wants to pull the ski mask off and lie face down in the snow."
"That sounds cold."
"But after a while it would be numb, and numb sounds really good right now." Gonzo sighed. "Oh, well. Things could be worse."
"I just wish John would hurry up and look for us here," Stanley said. "Or that I hadn't lost those snow shoes. I'm tired of wading through snow."
"I wish I had put those pretzels into my duffel bag," Gonzo said. "Or that snow was edible."
"I wish I had gotten those electric socks."
"I wish we had skis. Or even a toboggan."
Stanley frowned, thinking. "We have the plastic. Wouldn't it slide on the snow?"
Gonzo shrugged. "I guess so. If we had a place where we could slide. It would have to be pretty steep."
"Well, there're still two more switchbacks, and there's all that snow in between. If we could slide down on the avalanche path, we could probably save half a mile of walking, or more." Stanley was beginning to feel like he had had a good idea. He was terribly tired of walking, and he could remember sledding one time when he was a small boy on a school outing. It had been fun.
"The avalanche path? Stan, I'm not sure that's a good idea."
"You said it last night," Stanley reminded Gonzo. "Once the avalanche has let loose, all the snow's on the bottom. It's not like it's going to slide again."
Gonzo cocked his head to one side, calculating something he didn't share with Stan. "Well, it depends on if there're a lot of rocks," he conceded finally. "And we should have sticks, so that if we start going too fast we can use them for brakes."
"I can get sticks," Stanley said. "And there aren't many rocks. I was looking down it the last time we crossed, and I remember thinking how smooth the snow looked."
Gonzo nodded, reluctantly. "Are you sure there're two switchbacks left? How far have we come?"
Stanley started to tilt his head back to look up the mountain, and stopped when it made the ache start up again. "About three-quarters of a mile," he estimated. "But we should make better time once we get down to where the road doesn't have avalanche fallout all over it every so often."
Gonzo finished knotting his lace and pulled his mittens from his pocket. "It doesn't sound like a great plan, but at least it's a plan. Let's try it."
It didn't take a lot of preparation. They walked back to the slide area and Stanley went to the side of the road to cut sticks from the bushes. Then they lay the plastic down and sat on it, Stanley in front, Gonzo behind, holding him around the waist. Stanley tucked the end of the plastic up over his legs and said, "Ready?"
"As I'm ever going to be," Gonzo said.
Stanley looked down the slope, fighting misgivings. It was a lot farther to the bottom than any sled run, but that was the whole point. He wouldn't have to climb back up, and if this worked, they wouldn't have to walk nearly so far. "Okay." He started scooting forward, with Gonzo working to keep up. Gradually, the slope took over, and the plastic began to slide. "Hang on!"
It was exhilarating, at first. The wind on his face was cold, and the snow was lumpier under his seat than he had expected, but they were moving so fast that the smaller lumps hardly mattered. Stanley found himself yelling, and heard the echo of Gonzo's shout muffled against his back. Faster and faster they went, with snow spraying up around them, and the road and trees looming below. Stanley tried to lean and steer toward the road instead of the trees, and for a moment it seemed to work, but then he realized that they weren't quite on the right line. "Brake!" he shouted.
Gonzo had to let go of Stanley's waist to use his stick brake, and they hit a bump that cracked their heads together and then knocked them bodily apart. Stanley found himself spinning, and flattened himself out desperately, trying to regain control. The plastic trapped his legs, preventing him from using his heels, and the stick flew out of his grasp, so he grabbed at the snow with his hands, rolling onto his stomach to get a better grip. He caught a glimpse of Gonzo's foot, and tried to grab for it, but missed. Another bump set him rolling wildly, He could see snow and sky change places, once, twice, again, and then suddenly the spindly arms of a willow bush reached out and snagged him to a halt. There was a long and terrible silence as Stanley struggled to regain his sense of up and down, and then Gonzo's voice came to him, tremulous with disbelief.
"I'm alive."
Stanley felt his own disbelief bloom into a wild gratitude at the reprieve. "So am I."
"Good." Gonzo said. "That's good." And then he began to laugh.
Stanley couldn't help but laugh too, although he made himself sit up and start working free of the bush. He could see Gonzo now, sprawled on the apron of snow, shaking with what was either hysteria or relief. Stanley's own internal systems were bucking for hysteria, but he couldn't afford it until he was sure that Gonzo was all right.
His parka had torn, but only on the outermost layer, and the bump on his head still hurt, and Stanley knew that he had acquired an entirely new set of scratches and bruises. His legs were so cold it was hard to tell if any of the bruises were serious, and he decided not to look. He got the laces of his gaiters untangled from the thin branches and stood up to go over to Gonzo.
It didn't work.
When the wave of dark dizziness passed, he found himself on hands and knees, clutching the snow as if that would help. His stomach roiled, and he concentrated on not being sick, remembering all too well how much it had hurt earlier. Even the hair on his head was complaining, and he admitted to himself that even if he hadn't been concussed earlier, he probably was now. The sound of Gonzo's laughter had eased into weak giggles so abruptly Stanley knew that he had probably blacked out for a few seconds. He bit his lip and tried standing again, very carefully. It took a minute - literally a minute, but he made it. Cautiously, he made his way over to Gonzo, who was sitting up now, with his arms tucked against his belly and his ski mask askew. Stanley eased himself down to a sitting position next to the surgeon and reached out to touch the shaking shoulders.
"Are you all right?"
Gonzo made a visible effort to stop laughing. "You've got a hard head, Stan. I hit my face on the back of it and it hurts. And my gut hurts from laughing. And I think I just gave up roller coasters. But mostly I'm okay. How about you?"
"A little dizzy from rolling," Stanley answered. "And I ran into a bush. But nothing's broken." He began helping Gonzo get off the ski mask to check on the damage. It didn't look good. The bandages over Gonzo's eyes were wet from broken blisters, and he had a nasty bruise forming on one cheekbone. Stanley's own bruises throbbed with sympathy. "This is going to hurt a little," he warned, and pulled off his makeshift mittens to make it easier to work off the bandages.
It hurt a lot, to judge from Gonzo's expression, and Stanley's hands were so clumsy from the cold he couldn't ease the process very much. The blisters, most of them anyway, had burst, and the raw flesh looked tender and painful. Stanley hunted through the first aid kit for the antibiotic salve. By the time he finished applying it, Gonzo was shaking like the leaves on the nearby aspen. "You're getting shocky," Stanley said, as he found the last of the gauze pads and put them into place. "We're going to have to get you warmer, " Stanley looked around at the unfriendly wilderness. "Somehow."
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