“The leg’s broken, Cap,” Davies said. “The skin’s not pierced thankfully but it’s a bad one nonetheless. We need to get him off this hill and somewhere warm fast.”
Hynd and Davies set to getting a makeshift splint on the leg; Wilkins was awake, pale-faced and haggard with pain but he gave Banks a thumbs-up when asked how he was doing.
“Wiggo,” Banks said. “You’re with me. We need to make a litter for the lad; we can’t carry him all the way back to the shore from here.”
They used the remnants of their shelter, using long strips of bark to patch together two long straight branches and a thick bed of foliage. While working, they covered each other, the lights on their rifles trying vainly to pierce the snow, straining to hear anything beyond their own shouts in the wind.
“What the fuck was that?” Wiggins shouted. “They don’t have fucking huge bears here, do they?”
“That wasn’t a bear,” Banks replied but said no more, concentrating on the work at hand.
By the time they’d got the litter built, Davies had finished strapping up Wilkins’ leg as best as could be managed and every man was showing signs of being affected by the cold, the skin on their cheeks taking on a bluish tinge. Banks knew how they felt; he couldn’t feel his fingers and ice crackled at his lips and nostrils with every breath.
“No faffing around,” he said. “We need a stiff walk to warm us up. Kit up, we’re getting out of here. Sarge, you and Davies break the ground; Wiggo and I will take first shift on the pulling. If that fucker comes back, put it down hard and fast. Let’s get this lad to safety.”
It took them no more than a minute to retrieve the camp stove and the rest of their kit then they were ready to move. Despite the wind and snow, Sergeant Hynd had a cigarette stuck firmly between his teeth as Banks gave out the orders.
“You all remember the way. We go down the side of the tree line here for a few miles so we shouldn’t get lost on this stretch. Yon plateau is going to be another thing entirely but we’ll worry about that when we get there. Lead us out, Sarge.”
He was thankful that nobody had any questions; he wasn’t sure he had any answers.
The hastily built litter worked about as well as could be expected; the two long branches dug grooves into the snow as they pulled and poor Wilkins, facing the rear, was getting a face full of snow with every step. But at least Banks and Wiggins had the wind at their backs while pulling, because otherwise the task might have been beyond them.
Banks walked, head down, following the steps in the snow made by Davies some six feet ahead. The snow was almost up to their knees but luckily it was powdery and dry at this altitude. It still proved to be heavy going and his back and shoulders were already complaining both from the weight of his rucksack and the effort of pulling the litter along. At some points, the slope helped them out and made things easier; at other points, the slope made things worse as they had to work hard to stop the litter careering downhill of its own volition.
Despite his gloves and heavy-duty boots, Banks couldn’t feel either hands or feet. Ice crystals formed on the inside of his snow goggles, obscuring his sight further. He fell into a rhythm, concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other, one step at a time, down what felt like an endless trail lost in a whiteout of wind and snow. The tree line was merely a darker looming shadow up an incline to their left and he knew, although he couldn’t see it, that the small river ran down a slope somewhere to his right. He focussed on staying inside that track.
He lost all sense of time. He knew he needed to stay alert; whatever had attacked them was still out there somewhere in the storm. But pulling the litter needed all of his effort and soon he was so weary all he could do was keep his head down and trudge.
He only stopped when he walked into Davies who had come to a halt ahead of him.
They had reached the foot of the valley and were faced with a long, exposed walk across a featureless plateau. There was no sign of their trail ahead of them; the snow had rendered everything into a flat whiteness.
- 9 -
They stopped only long enough to check on Wilkins — they got another thumbs-up although the lad looked gray in the face, his eyes sunken deep in their sockets. They switched pulling duty. Davies and Hynd took over the litter. Banks took the opportunity to light up a cigarette; the smoke felt warm in his throat and chest and he was welcome of it. If there had been any sign of shelter, he might have stopped and got Wiggins to break out the camp stove for coffee. But there was only the plateau, with not even a large enough bush to huddle behind.
And besides, that fucker might be right behind us for all we know.
He looked out into the snow, hoping for the sight of a landmark, a reminder of the paths they’d taken to get here, but visibility, although improving, was still little more than ten yards in any direction. He knew the wind was coming mainly from the north and that they needed to head west so he made a turn slightly right of where he was facing. The snow whipped into the side of his head now, spattering against the outer fabric of his hood. Hynd and Davies were going to be pulling the litter into a crosswind coming straight at them across the flat terrain.
But it can’t be helped. The situation is what it is and the sooner we get across this, the sooner we’ll get back to some warmth.
He led the squad out onto the plateau.
Walking was easier now that he wasn’t pulling Wilkins along behind him but the earlier effort had taken its toll and he felt weary down to his bones. He tried to pick a point twenty yards ahead of him, keeping the wind coming from his right and hoping that they were going in as straight a line as possible. At one point, he retrieved the sat phone from his pocket, hoping to check the GPS… and that’s when he found that it hadn’t survived his rough treatment in the earlier attack. Something had got jumbled in its works; the power refused to come on, giving him only a dark, blank screen. He had no time to stop and fiddle with it; that would have to wait until they got back to sea level and shelter. If he couldn’t get it working, they were going to be reliant on the supply vessel skipper getting concerned and sending somebody looking for them; Banks knew that wasn’t a given.
But worrying about it now isn’t going to get me anywhere.
They trudged on through the storm.
He judged they must be almost halfway across the plateau when they came across tracks running from his right and across the front of their chosen route. They’d only recently been made, just beginning to fill with snow; large, eighteen-inch-long footprints, spatulate with no visible toes and pressed deeply down as if they’d been made with great weight.
The fucker’s got in front of us.
Banks had them up their speed to almost a trot and now he wasn’t looking straight ahead but tracking his gaze from side to side. The range of his vision still wasn’t much more than ten yards and he knew if an attack came, they’d get little warning.
When it came, it came, not from in front but from behind, and their first indication was a startled yell from young Wilkins and the rat-a-tat of three shots as the private fired at something to the rear. Hynd and Davies reacted immediately, dropping their hold on the litter and Banks and Wiggins joined them in wheeling, weapons already raised, as a huge lumbering figure came out of the snow.
They got their first clear look at it even as they pumped a rapid volley, three shots each, into it, shots that sent it turning away with a roar that was soon lost along with it in the snow. Banks was left with the impression of something nearly ten feet tall, almost gorilla-like — barrel-chested and heavy-bellied, with short legs and wide, muscled shoulders. But instead of black or silver hair, the thing was gray and grainy, almost rock-like, what passed for skin riven with lighter-colored fissures.