She had no crampons, but if she could find sharp pointed things, screws or something like that, she could push them through the soles of her boots and then climb. And for a rope? Some sort of cloth perhaps amp;She looked around the interior. Maybe she could tear the fabric off the seats? Or cut it off in strips? That might work.
In this way, she kept her spirits up. She kept herself moving forward. Even if her chance of success was small, there was still a chance. A chance.
She focused on that.
Where was Kenner? What would he do when he heard the radio message? He probably had, already. Would he come back to Weddell? Almost certainly. And he would look for that guy, the one they thought of as Bolden. But Sarah was pretty sure that guy had disappeared.
And with his disappearance, her hopes for rescue.
The crystal of her watch was smashed. She didn't know how long she had been down there, but she noticed that it was darker than before. The gap above her was not as bright. Either the weather on the surface was changing, or the sun was low on the horizon. That would mean she had been down there for two or three hours already.
She was aware of a stiffening in her bodynot just from the fall, but also, she realized, because she was cold. The cab had lost its heat.
It occurred to her that perhaps she could start the motor, and get heat going. It was worth a try. She flicked on the headlights, and one of them worked, glaring off the ice wall. So there was still electricity from the battery.
She turned the key. The generator made a grinding sound. The engine did not kick on.
And she heard a voice yell, "Hey!"
Sarah looked up, toward the surface. She saw nothing but the gap and the strip of gray sky beyond.
"Hey!"
She squinted. Was somebody really up there? She yelled back: "Hey! I'm down here!"
"I know where you are," the voice said.
And then she realized the voice was coming from below her.
She looked down, into the depths of the crevasse.
"Peter?" she said.
"I'm fucking freezing," he said. His voice floated up from the darkness.
"Are you hurt?"
"No, I don't think so. I don't know. I can't move. I'm wedged in some kind of cleft or something."
"How far down are you?"
"I don't know. I can't turn my head to look up. I'm stuck, Sarah." His voice trembled. He sounded frightened.
"Can you move at all?" she said.
"Just one arm."
"Can you see anything?"
"Ice. I see a blue wall. It's about two feet away."
Sarah was straddling the open door, peering down into the crevasse, straining to see. It was very dark down there. But it seemed as if the crevasse narrowed quickly, farther down. If so, he might not be that far beneath her.
"Peter. Move your arm. Can you move your arm?"
"Yes."
"Wave it."
"I am."
She didn't see anything. Just darkness.
"Okay," she said. "Stop."
"Did you see me?"
"No."
"Shit." He coughed. "It's really cold, Sarah."
"I know. Hang on."
She had to find a way to see down into the cleft. She looked under the dashboard, near where the fire extinguisher was clipped to the car wall. If there was a fire extinguisher, there was probably a flashlight there, too. They would be sure to have a flashlight amp;someplace.
Not under the dashboard.
Maybe the glove compartment. She opened it, shoved her hand in, feeling in the darkness. Crunching paper. Her fingers closed around a thick cylinder. She brought it out.
It was a flashlight.
She flicked it on. It worked. She shone it down into the depths of the crevasse.
"I see that," Peter said. "I see the light."
"Good," she said. "Now swing your arm again."
"I am."
"Now?"
"I'm doing it now."
She stared. "Peter, I don't seewait a minute." She did see himjust the tips of his fingers in their red gloves, protruding briefly beyond the tractor treads, and the ice below.
"Peter."
"What."
"You're very near me," she said. "Just five or six feet below me."
"Great. Can you get me out?"
"I could, if I had a rope."
"There's no rope?" he said.
"No. I opened the supply chest. There's nothing at all."
"But it's not in the supply chest," he said. "It's under the seat."
"What?"
"Yeah, I saw it. The ropes and stuff are under the passenger seat."
She looked. The seat was on a steel base anchored firmly to the floor of the snowtrack. There were no doors or compartments in the base. It was difficult to maneuver around the seat to see, but she was sure: no doors. On a sudden impulse, she lifted up the seat cushion, and saw a compartment beneath it. The light of her flashlight revealed ropes, hooks, snow axes, crampons amp; "Got it," she said. "You were right. It's all here."
"Whew," he said.
She brought the equipment out carefully, making sure none of it fell through the open door. Already her fingers were growing numb, and she felt clumsy as she held a fifty-foot length of nylon rope with a three-pronged ice hook at one end.
"Peter," she said. "If I lower a rope, can you grab it?"
"Maybe. I think so."
"Can you hold the rope tight, so I can pull you out?"
"I don't know. I just have the one arm free. The other one's pinned under me."
"Are you strong enough to hold the rope with one arm?"
"I don't know. I don't think so. I mean, if I got my body partway out, and lost my grip amp;" His voice broke off. He sounded on the verge of tears.
"Okay," she said. "Don't worry."
"I'm trapped, Sarah!"
"No, you're not."
"I am, I'm trapped, I'm fucking trapped!" Now there was panic. "I'm going to die here!"
"Peter. Stop." She was coiling the rope around her waist as she spoke. "It's going to be all right. I have a plan."
"What plan?"
"I'm going to lower an ice hook on the rope," she said. "Can you hook it onto something? Like your belt?"
"Not my belt amp;No. I'm wedged in here, Sarah. I can't move. I can't reach my belt."
She was trying to visualize his situation. He must be wedged in some sort of cleft in the ice. It was frightening just to imagine it. No wonder he was scared. "Peter," she said, "can you hook it onto anything?"
"I'll try."
"Okay, here it comes," she said, lowering the rope. The hook disappeared into the darkness. "Do you see it?"
"I see it."
"Can you reach it?"
"No."
"Okay, I'll swing it toward you." She turned her wrist gently, starting the rope in a lateral swing. The hook vanished out of sight, then swung back, then out of sight again.
"I can't amp;keep doing it, Sarah."
"I am."
"I can't get it, Sarah."
"Keep trying."
"It has to be lower."
"Okay. How much lower?"
"About a foot."
"Okay." She lowered it a foot. "How's that?"
"Good, now swing it."
She did. She heard him grunting, but each time the hook swung back into view.
"I can't do it, Sarah."
"Yes you can. Keep trying."
"I can't. My fingers are too cold."
"Keep trying," she said. "Here it is again."
"I can't, Sarah, I can't amp;Hey!"
"What?"
"I almost got it."
Looking down, she saw the hook spinning when it came back into view. He'd touched it.
"Once more," she said. "You'll do it, Peter."
"I'm trying, it's just I have so littleI got it, Sarah. I got it!"
She gave a long sigh of relief.
He was coughing in the darkness. She waited.
"Okay," he said. "I got it hooked on my jacket."
"Where?"
"Right on the front. Just on my chest."
She was visualizing that if the hook ripped free, it would tear right into his chin. "No, Peter. Hook it on the armpit."
"I can't, unless you pull me out a couple of feet."
"Okay. Say when."
He coughed. "Listen, Sarah. Are you strong enough to pull me out?"
She had avoided thinking about that. She just assumed that somehow she could. Of course she didn't know how hard he was wedged in, but amp;"Yes," she said. "I can do it."
"Are you sure? I weigh a hundred and sixty." He coughed again. "Maybe a little more. Maybe ten more."
"I've got you tied off on the steering wheel."
"Okay, but amp;don't drop me."
"I won't drop you, Peter."
There was a pause. "How much do you weigh?"
"Peter, you never ask a lady that question. Especially in LA."
"We're not in LA."
"I don't know how much I weigh," she said. Of course she knew exactly. She weighed a hundred and thirty-seven pounds. He weighed over thirty pounds more than that. "But I know I can pull you up," she said. "Are you ready?"
"Shit."
"Peter, are you ready or not?"
"Yeah. Go."
She drew the rope tight, then crouched down, planting her feet firmly on either side of the open door. She felt like a sumo wrestler at the start of a match. But she knew her legs were much stronger than her arms. This was the only way she could do it. She took a deep breath.
"Ready?" she said.
"I guess."
Sarah began to stand upright, her legs burning with effort. The rope stretched taut, then moved upwardslowly at first, just a few inches. But it was moving.
It was moving.
"Okay, stop. Stop!"
"What?"
"Stop!"
"Okay." She was in mid-crouch. "But I can't hold this for long."
"Don't hold it at all. Let it out. Slowly. About three feet."
She realized that she must have already pulled him part of the way out of the cleft. His voice sounded better, much less frightened, though he was coughing almost continuously.
"Peter?"
"Minute. I'm hooking it on my belt."
"Okay amp;"
"I can see up now," he said. "I can see the tread. The tread is about six feet above my head."
"Okay."
"But when you pull me up, the rope's going to rub on the edge of the tread."
"It'll be okay," she said.
"And I'll be hanging right over the, uh amp;"
"I won't let you go, Peter."
He coughed for a while. She waited. He said, "Tell me when you're ready."
"I'm ready."
"Then let's get this over with," he said, "before I get scared."
There was only one bad moment. She had pulled him up about four feet, and he came free of the cleft, and she suddenly took the full weight of his body. It shocked her; the rope slid three feet down. He howled.
"Sar-ah!"
She gripped the rope, stopped it. "Sorry."
"Fuck!"
"Sorry." She adjusted to the added weight, started pulling again. She was groaning with the effort but it was not long before she saw his hand appear above the tread, and he gripped it, and began to haul himself over. Then two hands, and his head appeared.
That shocked her, too. His face was covered in thick blood, his hair matted red. But he was smiling.
"Keep pulling, sister."
"I am, Peter. I am."
Only after he finally had scrambled into the cab did Sarah sink to the floor. Her legs began to shake violently. Her body trembled all over. Evans, lying on his side, coughing and wheezing beside her, hardly noticed. Eventually the trembling passed. She found the first-aid kit and began to clean his face up.
"It's only a superficial cut," she said, "but you'll need stitches."
"If we ever get out of here amp;"
"We'll get out, all right."
"I'm glad you're confident." He looked out the window at the ice above. "You done much ice climbing?"
She shook her head. "But I've done plenty of rock climbing. How different can it be?"
"More slippery? And what happens when we get up there?" he said.
"I don't know."
"We have no idea where to go."
"We'll follow the guy's snowtracks."
"If they're still there. If they haven't blown away. And you know it's at least seven or eight miles to Weddell."
"Peter," she said.
"If a storm comes up, maybe we're better off down here."
"I'm not staying here," she said. "If I'm going to die, I'll die in daylight."
The actual climb up the crevasse wall was not so bad, once Sarah got used to the way she had to kick her boots with the crampons, and how hard she had to swing the axe to make it bite into the ice. It took her only seven or eight minutes to cover the distance, and clamber onto the surface.
The surface looked exactly the same as before. The same dim sunlight, the same gray horizon that blended with the ground. The same gray, featureless world.
She helped Evans up. His cut was bleeding again, and his mask was red, frozen stiff against his face.
"Shit it's cold," he said. "Which way, do you think?"
Sarah was looking at the sun. It was low on the horizon, but was it sinking, or rising? And which direction did the sun indicate, anyway, when you were at the South Pole? She frowned: She couldn't work it out, and she didn't dare make a mistake.
"We'll follow the tracks," she said at last. She took off her crampons and started walking.
She had to admit, Peter was right about one thing: It was much colder here on the surface. After half an hour, the wind came up, blowing strongly; they had to lean into it as they trudged forward. Worse, the snow began to blow across the ground beneath their feet. Which meant "We're losing the tracks," Evans said.
