Page 39 of Run Wild Omega

Left. Up. Left.

She’s here. She’s close.

We hit the rock band Miles identified. It’s brutal climbing. Sharp limestone that tears at gloves, slippery with rime ice. We have to use our hands, hauling ourselves up vertical chutes.

“Dylan, watch the rope!” I shout.

“I got you!”

We move as a single organism. Miles reads the path; Dylan takes the rear guard, watching for sloughing above us. I take the point, breaking the trail through the deep snow in the chutes.

I check my beacon again.

Distance: 200 meters.

She’s right there.

“Tess!” I roar into the storm. “Tess, can you hear me?”

Nothing. Just the wind mocking me.

We crest a lip of rock and enter the zone where she should be.

The visibility is near zero now. My headlamp cuts a cone that only shows swirling white crystals. We are walking blind.

“Slow down,” Miles warns from behind me. “The slope angles here are thirty-five degrees. If the wind shifted the slab, we’re standing on the trigger.”

I ignore him. I see a shape in the snow ahead.

A depression. A break in the slope.

I run toward it, stumbling, reckless.

“Tess!”

I slide down the last few feet of scree, falling to my knees beside the hole.

It’s a crevice, narrow and deep. I shine my light down.

She’s at the bottom, crumpled against the rock wall.

She’s motionless.

“Tess!”

The world tilts. The blood roars in my ears so loud I can’t hear the wind anymore. I don’t check the slope stability. I don’t check the snowpack. I just jump.

I slide down into the crevice, landing in the snow beside her.

“Tess, look at me.”

Her skin is pale as ice. Her lips are blue. Her leg…

Fuck. Her leg.

The angle is wrong. Bone is threatening to push through. She’s shivering violently, tremors racking her entire frame, but even the shivering is slowing down.

That’s the worst sign. That means the hypothermia is winning.