Good Lord, what a beautiful place it was.
He could smell the fir trees and pines and the rocks themselves and the cool crisp of the morning, could feel the breeze on his face, already warmer than the pocket of air he’d found himself in, promising another hot humid day, and he thought he could smell the glacier. Something colder than anything the modern age knew of, something that had weathered man for generations upon generations, but then man discovered fire and now the glacier surely could not weather many more, would melt until all that was left was rock and rumors of what covered it once. He was dying in a land carved by oceans he’d never seen and reborn by fires.
He shut his eyes again but the sun was higher and hotter and he gave up on a peaceful dark exit. That wasn’t how it came for everyone, and he deserved no better than anyone else. Let the sun rise, then, let the smoke drift his way, let it clear those clean cool smells and tastes from him. He opened his eyes. He’d still die in his mountains, and that was fine.
Except for Allison, that was just fine.
He wished that he hadn’t thought of her, squeezed his eyes shut and tried to will her away. He didn’t need her with him now, not at the end, because he knew what he was leaving her to and it brought on a guilt and sorrow more powerful than he could bear. She’d survived. She’d made it through, and now here he was, ready to die and not displeased by the idea at all, at least not until she’d entered his mind.
He opened his eyes and for the first time looked at himself instead of the peaks and the rising sun. It was important to see, because this was how the searchers would find him. This was what they would tell her they’d seen; this was all she would have to take with her into the rest of her days.
He was upside down with his head against a downed pine and his feet pointing up the slope and at the sky and he was bleeding from his left side and one of his wrists was broken and maybe a shoulder. That was what they would tell her. Because she would ask. Allison would certainly ask.
It bothered him. He blinked again and wet his lips and shifted against the tree and felt the pain from a hundred different places. It was enough to bring him to a stop. He took a few deep breaths and then said the hell with it. She’d know the full story in time, she’d know the way they found him, Luke Bowden or someone would tell her. Wait-Luke was dead. Good Lord, Luke was dead. Ethan had found the body; how had he forgotten that? Now others would find his, and then they would go tell the story. Hats off and heads bowed, they would explain the way he’d come to lie on the mountain, and Allison, woman that she was, strongest woman he’d ever known, she would ask questions. Even through tears, even through agony, she would ask some questions.
Was he dead when he hit the bottom?
No.
How long did it take him to die?
A good bit of time.
Did he suffer? Was he conscious?
Odds were, they’d tell her the truth. Ethan always had. And Allison, who had set herself on fire to survive these same men, would know exactly what sort of man Ethan had been.
The dying kind.
No; worse.
The quitting kind.
Survivors, Ethan had told this last group of boys while his wife listened from the stable, do not quit. Ever. They STOP. They sit, think, observe, and plan. That, boys, is a stop. Anything else is quitting, and quitting is dying. Are you the surviving kind, or the dying kind? We’ll find out.
Damn all.
Screw her, then. Screw her for staying alive through it all, for being better than he was, for being stronger, and for taking from him the only thing he wanted now, which was merely to die in peace and without shame.
But she deserved something. Pointless as it was, he wanted to give her something, so that when Luke Bowden and the others-no, not Luke, why couldn’t he remember that, why couldn’t he believe it?-came to her bedside, they could tell her that Ethan had died trying. Because unless he left some evidence behind, how would anyone know he’d done a damn thing other than fall off a mountain?
He had a QuikClot in the pocket of his hiking pants. Always carried one, because the thing he feared most out here with the boys was arterial bleeding. One fall, one slip of the knife, one surprised bear, all of those things led to the same place-blood loss-and so he walked prepared for it.
Give Allison that much, then. Give her the blood-clotting dressing, and then they could say, Well, Allison, he died trying. Didn’t give up even when it was over.
It took him some time to find the right pocket, but he got it unzipped and fumbled out the plastic package that contained the bandage. He had two of them, he’d forgotten that, but he figured one was enough. Hell, just opening the package would say that he hadn’t quit.
He used his right hand to bring the package to his mouth and then he tore it open with his teeth and fumbled out the bandage. It was a mesh packet filled with a coagulant; blood already had coagulants, but not enough to stop a traumatic bleed quickly. Ethan had used it a time or two, but never on himself. He rotated, wincing and hissing at the pain, got two buttons of his shirt undone, and then put the mesh packet down on the bullet wound at his side and pressed hard.
His eyes closed again, although this time it was involuntary. Still, he held the dressing tight, and after a while the world stabilized and he could look at the wound. A bad one, but that steady pulse of blood was already slowing.
Maybe one more, he thought, not because it will make a difference, but because it will show her how hard I tried.
He got the second package out and tore it open with his teeth and pressed it to the still-exposed part of the wound and then it occurred to him that he had a belt and he loosened that and freed it with an effort and then, moving slowly, because his left wrist and right shoulder would not cooperate, managed to get the belt wrapped around the bandages and cinched tight.
The pulse of blood had stopped.
For a moment, he was pleased as hell with himself. When they found him, they’d be able to tell her that he had not only survived the fall but been able to stop his own bleeding where he lay.
One problem remained, though: the idea of people finding him where he lay. His wife had moved when the end came for her, and kept moving, and moving had saved her. Ethan had no place to hide from death, but maybe he could try to move. Try to get upright.
At least stand up for her, he thought, and then he leaned against the tree and used the heels of his hands to push himself up.
And fell right back onto his ass.
Okay. Once more, and slower now, and use the legs, because the legs seemed more solid than the arms. The arms were not so good.
He made it up on the fourth try, and the sensation was remarkable. The simple act of getting to his feet was like something almost forgotten, an ancient skill.
He stood there and he breathed and then he looked at his side and saw that the QuikClot hadn’t given up yet. The dressings were keeping the blood at bay. He looked at the pool of drying blood in the dust beside the fallen pine where he might have been found, and he was immensely pleased to have parted ways with it.
He took the first step, and then the second, and the motion was not a bad thing. It hurt, but the hurt was a sweet ache that reminded him his body still moved and that pain afflicted only the living.
He wasn’t moving fast, but he was moving, and again he was aware of the land around him. Republic Peak loomed above and there was an eagle circling between him and the summit, and below it the mountains spread to forest and all around him the world lightened with pink hues. It was a beautiful day for a walk, he thought, even if it was your last walk. Maybe even better if it was the last walk. The smoke was in the air and that was a shame, but he knew that from the ravages, the land would be reborn and that these mountains had seen more fires than he had seen days on the earth and that they could bear them again.