HOLYJESUSFUCKINCHRIST!
The ice water shattered his blood into red pins and needles. But it was ice water ten yards from shore because Broker felt the reassuring slip-slide of mossy stone under his boots. He pushed up and shot the surface. With his heart and lungs booming too big for his ribs, he bit off chunks of glassy air. Then he hugged his life jacket, checked the snaps to make sure they were tight, and blinked up into streaming snowflakes. Couldn’t see where the snow stopped and where the stinging water started.
So he thrashed toward the shore, swung his head around, and located Sommer’s straw-colored hair bobbing on a crest closer in, among the rocks. He punched through one wave, two, reached out, and got a grip on the swamped canoe that heaved up, buoyant with built-in floatation. Gotta think. Survival bag.
He grabbed the red waterproof duffel bag bouncing from the thwart in front of the stern seat, popped the pressure clasp, and yanked it free, as the canoe wallowed deeper. Using the bag for a float, he kicked over to Sommer who rolled up in the water, coughing.
“Hurts,” Sommer cried out.
“Quit whining.” Broker tried for levity through chattering teeth and a voice that rattled like a snare drum. “Not the end of the world. You’re on top the water. You got air.”
“Hurts,” Sommer said again.
Clutching Sommer’s life jacket, hugging the bag, pumping his feet, he surged through the thrashing surf until he felt his boots scuff solid stone. Having terra firma under his feet backed off the freezing panic, and he forced a deep, shuddering breath and fixed on the problem of survival.
Hypothermia made simple demands on humans who’d evolved in tropical savannahs. They needed fire to get warm and dry, and shelter from the wind. They had to stabilize the body’s core temperature.
Or they would die.
Coughing, puking lake water, he manhandled Sommer’s loose body up on the slick granite. He had to get Sommer’s brain and vital organs out of the water. Seconds were precious now.
Sommer was injured and in shock. Broker went the other way and was on fire with adrenalin. For now, he did not feel the cold or even Sommer’s weight. The wind blazed on his sopping clothing and the snow zinged like white-hot sparks. But it wouldn’t last long. So he quickly checked Sommer for broken limbs and bleeding and found nothing. Which meant it was something internal, something far worse.
He dragged Sommer across the granite slabs up to a loose cobble beach, dropped him, and staggered up the shale. He needed a protected nook in the granite bluff, out of the wind. And found one among a jumble of tall boulders. Better, the broken rocky base of the ridge had trapped tangled piles of almost dry driftwood.
He tossed his duffel into a slant of boulders that formed a broad cranny ten feet deep which stopped the wind on three sides and provided some overhang against the snow. He ran back, seized Sommer’s life vest, dragged him to cover, peeled off the life vest, opened the duffel, dug out a space blanket, and quickly tucked it around Sommer. The reflective wrap would hold some warmth until. .
Broker shook his head, getting disoriented.
He should gather wood, start a fire. But he had to look for the other guys. He started shaking. Which meant he was losing his fiery edge to a vast, cheerful fatigue that so loved the shelter. So he forced himself out and ran from the bluff, scanning the wind and snow. Milt wore a red parka, Allen’s was blue.
He clambered up the rocks to gain a vantage to overlook the point. If they’d missed the end of the promontory and swamped, they’d be blown back across the open lake.
But he saw Milt almost immediately, a red blur in the surf two hundred yards away on the edge of the point. Knee-deep in the foam, Milt was trying to land the canoe. Allen’s blue jacket moved to shore and back, carrying packs. The canoe was hard to haul because it was full of water. Broker ran toward them. They needed that canoe.
A surge of waves pounded the two men out of sight, and when they appeared again the canoe was tipped, draining. Milt staggered, fell, stood up, and Broker realized he had wrenched the canoe on its side and shook it out through sheer force. Broker scrambled to them and saw three paddles stacked safely ashore against a pack. Good.
“Sommer?” Allen gasped, dragging another pack.
“Bad shape. Don’t know. He’s up the beach, a kind of cave. Need a fire,” Broker yelled.
“Fuck!” Allen scowled. “My medical kit with some decent pain killers. Lost it on the way in.”
“Your canoe?” Milt grimaced to Broker. His right arm hung at an odd angle.
“Swamped. At the other end of the lake by now. What’s wrong with your arm?” Broker asked, getting them moving.
“Can’t move it,” Milt said, wincing.
Allen started to check the arm.
“Not now.” Shivering uncontrollably, out of fire, Broker was naked before the maw of shock. He felt over the packs. They had lost the tents, one of the food packs, and some personal stuff, but they had the sleeping bags and half the food. They’d be all right if they could warm up.
“Get out of the wind. Move.” Shouldering the food pack, giving Allen the sleeping bags, he herded them over the slick rocks. In minutes they were in the dry granite pocket, a magical zone of calm compared to full exposure.
Allen bent and stripped off Sommer’s parka, yanked up his shirt, and pulled down his trousers. He kneaded the bulge in Sommer’s groin.
Sommer screamed.
Broker looked away, spooked. Milt moved close beside him.
“You all right?” Milt asked.
“My arms seized up out there; he busted his gut on account. .”
Milt cut him off. “You swam him in. Let it go.”
Broker nodded, pawed through his survival pack, cast aside a folding saw, grabbed a small axe, and found what he wanted: the fifteen-minute red highway flare that would save their lives.
Broker and Milt tore into the tangle of driftwood rammed into a rock fissure ten feet away and dragged out pieces. Really shaking now, Broker kicked off branches, grabbed his hatchet, hacked slivers, coring down to dry wood, and tossed it into a small pile. Then he peeled back the flare’s cover, ripped off the friction cap, and struck it along the tip of the fuse like a match. A spout of incandescent flame erupted in a sulphurous cloud. The wood crackled.
“Aw right,” Milt coughed and cheered, seeing the instant blaze. Ignoring his injured arm, he dragged branches, propped them against the rocks, and stomped them into smaller kindling.
The fire was irresistible and Allen joined them. He had the first-aid kit from Broker’s bag in one shaking hand, a plastic vial in the other. “This is all we have. Fucking Tylenol,” he muttered. He pulled himself away, returned to Sommer, and carefully finished removing his wet clothing.
Sommer was snake-bellied, with zero body fat. The baseball-sized bulge in the left side of his groin was unmistakable.
“What is it?” Broker called out.
“Not good,” Allen said as he coaxed Tylenol down Sommer’s throat. “He wouldn’t listen. Won the lottery and just had to go hunting with a hernia.”
Sommer’s grimace was bathed in firelight. “How bad?”
Allen composed himself. “You ruptured yourself, Hank. My index of suspicion is a strangulated intestine.”
Sommer sought out Broker’s eyes with a perverse, painful grimace. “Sit tight,” Broker blurted, “I’m going to get you out of here.”
“Not going anywhere,” Sommer said weakly as his head dropped back down. The three shivering men locked eyes and moved closer to the fire.
“The cell phone,” Allen said in a dull voice.
“Don’t go there,” Milt said.
Broker looked from Milt to Allen. They had gotten their wish. They were on their own.