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Everyone but me.
The online group that’d posted the boulder I’d been hunting was called Climber’s Anon. They’d brought me here. If only to destroy this man’s final sanity and to hold his hand as he died.
Anon.
That will do.
Cradling his cheek, I bent over him. “Can you open your eyes...Anon? Just give me some sign you can hear me.”
I waited.
I shivered.
Nothing.
“Come on. Just open your eyes, and I’ll do whatever you need. I don’t know how to help you if you don’t tell me.”
Silence.
Stillness.
A forest empty of his existence.
“Anon, please...”
Nothing.
An hour passed while I kneeled beside him and hoped.
I spoke to him often. I checked his pulse and assessed his bruised body. I thanked the thunderstorm the night before for softening the ground and turning hard dirt into squishy mud.
I racked my brain on what I could do to make him wake, going over my basic first-aid training and coming up blank. I had a simple kit of needles, surgical twine, an EpiPen (not that I was allergic), antiseptics, a ten-day course of antibiotics, gauzes, bandages, and painkillers.
None of those things would help with a head injury.
You can’t stay here all night, Gem.
I looked up, noticing for the first time how dark the world had become.
The sun had quietly gone to bed, letting darkness creep shadowy fingers out of the trees toward us.
Twilight made everything seem so much worse.
If he hadn’t died by now, perhaps...
Hope flared.
Fear crushed it.
I was paralyzed.
I didn’t know what to do.
I couldn’t carry him back up the cliff to civilization.
I had no way of going for help that wouldn’t take days.
He needed treatment immediately, but I didn’t know how.
All I could offer was comfort.
Take him home.
How?
Brushing aside my tears, I let my mind cling to the task. I’d always been a doer instead of a worrier. If I could somehow figure out how to get Anon inside his home, then I could problem solve other things along the way.
Glancing down at him, I ran my hands over his cooling skin. More bruises had appeared, mottling his old scars. His breathing seemed to be stronger, even if he hadn’t opened his eyes.
The fact remained he was still too big and heavy for me to carry him.
I’ll have to—
My head whipped up and darted toward the trees.
An idea sprang to mind. A trick I’d watched some bush-bashing hikers post on YouTube.
Pushing off my knees, I opened my bag’s side flap and reached for my emergency tools. A Swiss Army knife, hunting blade, and a hacksaw.
I selected the hacksaw and stood.
With dusk came exhaustion, but I ignored my stumble and marched toward the gangly saplings that’d sprouted from seeds above. Keeping my eyes off the man lying like the dead, I dragged my blade forward and back, forward and back, sawing into a flexible tree until it cracked and fell.
I repeated the task, selecting an equally malleable sapling, turning it from vertical to horizontal. Their trunks only measured seven inches in diameter or so, but they’d be strong. They’d work and not be too heavy.
Hacking the off-shoots and ensuring they were smooth, I carried them back to him.
Still asleep.
Still trying to die.
Placing the two trunks side by side, I measured out his size, then used my climbing rope to create a stretcher. Tying the two trees together, I formed a small hammock between them.
Full darkness had descended by the time I’d finished, stepping back to assess my work, squinting in the gloom and using my flashlight to check the finer details.
Thirst forced me to drink; hunger made me eat.
I wolfed down two muesli bars because I needed to be strong for this next part.
Ducking by his head, I tried to tip some water into his mouth. I prayed he wouldn’t choke or inhale it, but nothing happened. The water just spilled from his lips, cascading down his cheeks to leave dirty streaks over his throat.
Fine.
I would ensure he’d eat and drink once we were back inside.
Once he wakes up.
If he wakes up.
For now...it’s time to go.
Bending over him, I dug my toes into the soft, muddy earth and grabbed him by the shoulder and hip. With a grunt, I pulled him forward, rolling him onto his stomach.
I grimaced at the mess of his back.
Old scars and fresh scratches. Bruises had turned black on his shoulder blades. I hoped it was just from the fall and nothing sinister killing him inside.
With another heave, I rolled him onto the stretcher, laying him in the middle of the rope hammock, resting him on his back.
His head lolled to the side. His arms floppy and legs crossed.
Ignoring my tiredness and fear, I rearranged him so nothing would cramp or stitch, then reached for my backpack. Grabbing the smaller backpack he’d carried, I secured it to my larger one.
For a second, I paused.
I gathered energy.
I prepared.
This journey would zap me of everything I had left, but I would do it without complaint. I would protect him because I doubted he’d ever had anyone who cared enough in his past.
Hoisting the two bags onto my shoulders, I placed myself between the two saplings, grabbed the ends, bent my knees, and hauled upward.
Argh!
My hands clawed at the trunks, struggling to get a good hold.
God, he’s heavy.
Even with his weight distributed by the stretcher, it still cost me. Jerking him higher, I did my best to get a strong position, then lurched forward and dragged him behind me.
I dragged, and I dragged.
At one point, he groaned.
A guttural groan full of pain.
I almost dropped him. A sick recipe of hope and anxiety commanded I check on him.
But he fell silent as quickly as he’d made a noise, and I kept going.
Kept dragging him through the darkness, resting, stumbling, struggling...all the way back to his ivy-covered, secret-shrouded mansion.