But there wasn’t anything to do but start hiking.
* * * *
Hollywood still had his map out yet didn’t say anything more, which Cam appreciated, and somehow he’d gotten Price and the rest to hurry up. No one was too far back when Cam and Erin quit following the ridge westward.
Scoured by the wind, the crest of the ski run was soft barren dirt and gravel. They walked through parallel tracks of deep, sliding prints left by Sawyer, Manny, and Bacchetti.
Hollywood had come a different route, powering straight up to their peak, and probably would have done so even if he’d known the area. That was just his nature. But they had learned that it was equally fast — and safer — to hike out to the resort and use the wide-open runs and the jeep trails that in winter served as Sno-Cat tracks. When there was enough snow they’d skied down, of course, on telemark equipment since the boots were soft enough to walk in, the skis light enough to carry back up.
Delicate flowers clung to the hillside, vibrant red pride-ofthe-mountain, white phlox. Cam went out of his way to avoid stepping on them and felt encouraged.
He could see the mid-mountain lodge now, a pine shake shoe box far below. Much closer, Bacchetti had caught up with Sawyer and Manny as they cut a steady diagonal across the slope. Then the rain finally hit, reducing the three figures ahead to phantoms of green, blue, and blue. Were they waiting? No, he saw Manny leap over a dry jag that would soon fill with water. Against Cam’s hood, the patter of drops sounded like words.
He shouldn’t have been surprised to stumble over Tabitha Doyle. A bulge in the hill tended to funnel hikers into the easiest route, and he’d passed directly through this low spot twenty times or more.
Sawyer must have kicked Tabs because she’d moved, the familiar fetal position uncurled into a spread-eagle pose, her distended jaw gaping now through the stained orange hood of her ski patrol jacket. Cam’s eyes were drawn as always to the clawing hands. Dissolved in a way that bacteria and the elements alone could never have done, Tabitha’s finger bones seemed to have melted in several places.
* * * *
Of the sixty-eight people who hiked up from the lodge into darkness, sixty-five escaped the machine plague even though it rose with them as the storm cleared. They experienced burn out, reinfection and burn out again as the air pressure fluctuated.
One man just sat down. Another blundered off despite their yelling, the rocking beam of his flashlight visible below them for an eternity. Barbara Price lost a paint can of blood when the whimpering beagle chewed open her face and hands.
Halfway up, a sliver of moon cut through the clouds. They were carrying the children by then and Barbara Price had collapsed four times, and the Koreans were singing a repetitive curse that Cam began to think he could understand.
Huddling out of the wind with two nameless shadows at the base of Chair 11’s ninth pole, slumping against the frosted metal, he had not immediately recognized the angry, high-pitched buzzing that reverberated up the hill. Snowmobiles. Headlights appeared in the east, nearly level with him, a swarm of false stars occulted by trees and bursts of snow. The missing locals. They had abandoned the luxury cabins and made their way around the valley’s ridges, wallowing in the powder, defeated by the mountain’s steepness until they reached the flat, open trails of the Sno-Cat tracks within the ski area.
He was too full of hurt and cold to feel anything more when an avalanche snuffed out the roaring convoy.
* * * *
Tabby’s bent skeleton was like a gatekeeper. She’d survived the collapse of a snow cornice known as High Wall and died alone here, two hundred yards above the other locals, almost certainly the last person to fall short of elevation. So close. In the safety of his hut, warm with Erin, Cam often regretted never burying Tabs — but below the barrier it would be idiotic to waste the time.
He helped Erin over the creek bed and glanced back for the others. One shape had fallen to his knees. McCraney. Cam recognized the striped jacket. He watched to make sure he stood up, and Erin touched his hip.
Her eyes seemed colorless behind the bronze visor of her goggles, yet her anxiety was obvious. Not even Sawyer pretended to be unaffected by this part of the mountain.
They held hands again as they descended.
The thirty-one snowmobiles hadn’t rusted or lost their sheen at all, except where unearthed trees had caused dents or the machines had bashed against each other inside the rumbling fist of snow. The glossy metal shapes looked like the parts of a shattered merry-go-round, red and purple and blue, thrown among the cracked trunks and groping root fingers of dead pines.
Cam and Pete Czujko had rifled through the frozen corpses long before spring thaw, digging into pockets and backpacks and saddlebags. Later they’d returned to drain the oil/gas mix that these two-stroke engines used for fuel. The bodies were still intact then, although Cam had seen a snapped elbow, a badly dislocated neck, and assumed the rest had breaks beneath their clothing as well. He’d guessed right. Fragments of bone and unmatched limbs now lay scattered everywhere.
What disturbed him most was the final frenzy of the nanos. Until a host body lost some minimum of temperature, the damned things continued to multiply.
Tabby’s melted hands were not the worst, nor was the fused rib cage of another skeleton. One little skull, likely a child’s, had a lopsided jack-o’-lantern stare. Its teeth were impossible, leaning out like barbed fangs, and the left eye socket had been eaten away to nearly twice normal size.
* * * *
The sixty-five people who reached safe altitude were joined in the icy dawn by two survivors from the snowmobile convoy — Manfred Wright, budding star on the regional junior ski team, and a sheriff’s deputy bleeding from her lungs.
But sixty-seven was quickly reduced to fifty-two as those with the worst internal injuries died, including all except one of the children. The nanos had destroyed their smaller bodies. Barbara Price would likely have survived her bite wounds, barring infection, but nano infestations in her cheek had spread to her sinuses. She could scream no louder than a moan, and lasted six days. Her husband Jim was dangerously silent for weeks.
At first they tried living at the top of Chair 12, cramming into the patrol shack, but waves of nanos repeatedly forced them to climb again no matter the time of day or the weather.
Exposure shrank their number to forty-seven, many weakened by altitude sickness and despair. Dehydration was a threat to them all and wasted a diabetic woman.
Cam and Pete found themselves in leadership roles by default. They were wearing uniforms. A man named Albert Sawyer also pointed out that they must be more familiar with the area and its resources than anyone else. Sawyer was a real pragmatic. It was his idea to wait for the next storm to raid the lodge, no matter that they were mad with hunger. It was his idea to use the nanos’ only flaw to their advantage.
Chair 12 made every difference in their fight to live. They patched the fuel system, then dared to ski down to the main lodge and fired up Chair 4, relaying cans of diesel across the mountain — and food and gear and lumber.
By spring they were fairly well established. Accidents, pneumonia, and a suicide had compacted their population to forty, which made things easier. With rare exceptions, the survivors were young and determined. They understood this world now. Cam even had a girlfriend. Erin Coombs might never have attached herself to him if she hadn’t mistaken his name and the hue of his skin as Italian, but she must have felt committed to her decision. By then, the camp was already dividing.