Chapter 3 - The Ghost on the Ridge
The Halfway MarkThe world had gone from white to a deep, terrible twilight grey by the time Tyler reached the four-mile mark. He didn't know it was four miles. He didn't know what time it was. His brain had stopped processing complex thoughts three hours ago, narrowing its focus down to a single, repetitive command: Left foot. Right foot. Drag. Don't fall.
His hands were no longer cold. That was the most terrifying part. He remembered reading somewhere, in an old magazine in one of his seven foster homes, that when your skin stopped feeling the cold, it meant the blood was leaving your extremities to protect your core. It meant the end was near.
His right hand, the one wrapped in the seat belt cord, was completely white, the skin stiff and waxy. He couldn't feel the plastic-slick material of the belt anymore; it felt like his arm simply ended in a heavy, painful weight.
Behind him, the rubber mat made a soft, slithering sound through the snow. Sssssk. Sssssk.
"Tyler?"
This time it was Luke. The twin on the sled. His voice was lower than his brother’s, choked with frost and tears.
Tyler stopped. The simple act of halting his forward momentum caused his knees to buckle. He dropped to his joints, his face plunging into a drift before he could catch himself. The snow felt warm against his skin, like a thick, down blanket. Just a minute, his brain whispered. Just lie here for a minute. Dale can't find you in the snow.
"Tyler! Please!" Luke cried, his small hand reaching out from under the heavy corduroy jacket to tug at Tyler’s boot. "Seth’s not talking anymore! He’s asleep!"
The words broke through the thick, grey fog in Tyler’s mind like a lightning bolt. He forced his arms down into the snow, hoisting his body back up with an agonizing groan that tore the muscles in his lower back. He reached behind his neck, his numb fingers fumbling against Seth’s face.
The little boy’s skin was cold as marble. His eyes were closed, his lips pale grey. He was breathing, but it was a tiny, fluttering thing, like a trapped bird behind a screen door.
"Seth," Tyler rasped, his voice breaking into a dry, bloody cough. He reached into his pocket with his left hand, pulling out the last granola bar. His teeth were shaking so hard he couldn't open the wrapper, so he smashed it against a rock until the foil split. He took a piece of the oats, crumbled it into powder between his dirty fingers, and forced it into Seth’s mouth, rubbing the boy’s throat until he swallowed.
"Luke," Tyler said, turning his head back toward the sled, his vision blurring until he saw three copies of the little boy. "Can you get up? Can you walk a little bit?"
"I’m cold, Tyler," Luke sobbed, his small body curled into a tight ball on the rubber mat. "I want my daddy."
"Your daddy is coming," Tyler said, his voice dropping into a desperate register that was more prayer than statement. "But we have to meet him halfway. Get on your feet, Luke. Hold my pocket. Just hold my pocket."
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With an effort that seemed to take every ounce of life left in his five-year-old body, Luke crawled off the mat. His small fingers, protected only by the oversized sleeve of Tyler’s corduroy coat, hooked into the torn lining of Tyler’s jeans.
Tyler didn't look back again. He took the rope of the sled in his right hand, Luke’s weight on his left pocket, and Seth’s freezing body on his spine, and he stepped back into the screaming teeth of the mountain.
