Читать книгу Departure - A. Riddle G., A. G. Riddle - Страница 17

I BARELY SLEPT LAST NIGHT. I COULDN’T GET the picture Mike took out of my mind: an octagonal structure, all glass and shining metal, glistening in the middle of a field. There’s no road or path leading to it, no vehicles, no indication of what could be inside. It’s a mystery, a mirage rising out of an expanse of tall green grass.

Mike snapped the picture from a ridge miles away, and then he and his team rushed back as quickly as they could. We don’t have any other clues about what might be inside. For the sake of the freezing, starving survivors of Flight 305, I hope the glass structure’s filled with food. A satellite phone to get us out of this fix would also be nice. Things are getting desperate.

We’ll serve the last of the food this morning, and we have no viable way to get more, at least not enough to feed 104 mouths. I’ve asked Jillian to organize nut-and-berry-gathering expeditions today, and to assign groups to tend the fire, but that’s mostly to keep folks busy and away from each other’s throats—to be honest, there’s really no one here who knows enough about plants to confirm if anything we find is edible, and Sabrina has warned me that we could be adding to our problems by experimenting.

Again, though: it’s something for them to do. I don’t remember where I heard it, but lack of purpose often kills more people in situations like this than lack of food.

We have plenty of water thanks to the lake, but that’s the extent of the good news. We can last a few days without food, a little longer with some consequences, but this place will start to get ugly after that.

At sunrise the four scouting teams will take the final scraps of food, enough to hike for two days and camp for a night if we need to. That will double our range.

Mike was smart, taking his phone. Today, I’ll make sure each team member carries two cell phones—their own, provided it still has battery life, plus another from the other passengers. With four teams of three, that’s twenty-four phones total. Phones from a diverse group of manufacturers and on different networks will maximize possible reception. Every hour they’ll stop, turn the phones on, and check for a signal. They’ll also be taking pictures of anything noteworthy, any potential landmark. The landscape the teams described yesterday—rolling, forested hills and a few meadows—could have been anywhere in Northern Europe, Scandinavia, or the British Isles. But maybe something in a photo will ring a bell with one of the passengers. That might give us an idea of which way to go, or how far we are from help.

Across the lake, the first rays of sunlight break over the tree line. I sit for a moment, watching my breath turn white in the crisp morning air, listening to the crackle and pop of the fire to my right. Finally, I climb to my feet and head back into the forest.

Bob Ward is waiting for me at the makeshift staircase that leads to the nose section. “I’m going with you,” he announces.

“You’re not, Bob.” I pick up my pace, try to step past him, but he shuffles over, blocking my way.

“I’ve seen the picture Mike took. Could be anything in there. You’ll need me, Nick.”

Time for tough love. I hate to do it, but 104 souls are on the line, and we’re running out of time to help them. “There’s plenty to do around here, Bob. We’re looking at a grueling hike. We can’t stop for anybody who can’t keep up.”

“I can keep up.”

Unfortunately, I doubt it. Bob has to be sixty, and I’m not even sure if I can keep up with Mike, who must be ten years younger than I am and in considerably better shape.

I exhale and try for the logical approach. “Look, if you fall behind after noon, you won’t be able to make it back to camp before nightfall. You’ll be out in the cold for the night. With no food—”

“I understand, Nick. If I can’t keep up, I’ll make you leave me. I know what’s at stake. When do we leave?”

The truth is, I can’t stop Bob, and we need to get going. I shake my head, finally relenting. “Now. Grab Mike, and we’ll head out.”

Inside the plane, I kneel beside Harper’s pod. She’s asleep, or unconscious. I shake her, but she doesn’t come to. Her hair’s drenched. So’s her shirt. I wipe the sweat off her forehead, brushing her damp hair back. Feeling how hot her skin is scares me. She’s dangerously sick.

In that moment, I feel the same way I did that morning by the lake, when Sabrina led me to Harper’s limp body lying helpless by the fire. The rest of the passengers were in trouble the second we crashed. Harper was also banged up, but she was fine.

Until I asked her to swim out there and risk her life.

This is my fault. She’s going to die because of me.

Finally I force myself to stand up and turn away.

Sabrina is at the back, talking quietly with Yul. “Have you seen Harper?” I ask her.

“Yes.” She just stares at me.

“Well, what’s the prognosis? What’re you doing for her?”

“I’m currently monitoring her.”

“That’s it?”

“She has an infection. I’m waiting to see if her body can fight it off.”

“It can’t.” I struggle to keep my voice level. “Her forehead’s as hot as a firecracker.”

“A positive sign. Her body’s immune system is mounting a robust response.”

“That robust response isn’t enough. She’s getting sicker every day. She didn’t even wake when I shook her. She needs antibiotics.”

Sabrina steps closer and lowers her voice. “We’re almost out of antibiotics. I’m rationing them, saving them for critical cases.”

“Harper is a critical case.”

“Critical as in life-threatening.”

I shake my head, trying to compose myself. I’m boiling over. The exhaustion, the crappy, shallow sleep, and the stress of the last forty-eight hours are finally getting the best of me. I’m losing control—I can feel it. I fight to keep my voice level, and I’m not sure I succeed.

“Her life wouldn’t be in danger—she wouldn’t even be sick—if she hadn’t gone into that plane and saved those people. We owe it to her to save her life.”

Nothing. No response. My rage simmers.

“Okay, Sabrina, think about what message we’re sending all these people if she dies. Huh? You stick your neck out for someone around here, and when we’re done with you, we’ll leave you for dead. That’s what you’re talking about, and that’s dangerous.”

“If I administer antibiotics to her today, when she doesn’t absolutely need them, it might be a death sentence for someone else. That’s dangerous, too. I’m taking a logical risk to save the most lives. I believe you’re familiar with this concept—you demonstrated it at the lake.”

“You’re a real piece of work, Sabrina. You know that?”

“You’re unable to see this situation objectively. You’re irrational because you’ve formed an emotional bond with Ms. Lane—”

“You know anything about that—forming emotional bonds with people? Or did you read about it in a journal?”

“Your bias is easily demonstrated. William Boyd, in seat 4D, has symptoms worse than Ms. Lane’s. You have yet to ask about Mr. Boyd.”

“William Boyd wasn’t in that plane, drowning. Harper was. Hell, she might have been the one who saved William Boyd in the first place! I asked her to risk her life, and she did. And we,” I almost shout, pointing my finger between Sabrina and myself, “are going to do everything we can to keep her alive.”

“Harper did not save Mr. Boyd. He was in the water, in the line that passed the people from the plane to the shore. But this isn’t about his role in the rescue operation. You haven’t asked about Mr. Boyd because you don’t have an emotional connection to him. You’re not objective, Nick. I am. In fact, for reasons you’ve already alluded to, I’m almost uniquely qualified to make unemotional, logical decisions about the care of these people, maximizing the number of lives saved.”

Hopeless. I’m arguing with a robot. My jaws are clenched so tight it feels like my rear molars might shatter at any second.

“Give me the antibiotics.”

Sabrina stares at me, unflinching.

“You heard me, Sabrina. Hand them over.”

“Are you threatening me?”

“You’re damn right I am. You’re threatening the life of someone I … someone we all owe a huge debt to, and I’m not going to let you. You can play your bizarre medical chess game on somebody else.”

“I knew this moment would come, but I didn’t anticipate it would be from you.”

“What moment?” I look at her, suspicion creeping into me. “What did you do?”

“I’ve hidden the antibiotics, along with all the medicine.”

Of course she has. The rage that has been building inside of me settles into a focused, ruthless calm. I’m almost scared of what I’ll do next.

I turn and march down the aisle, past Bob Ward, who’s got Mike at his side.

“We’re ready, Nick,” he says, but I don’t even look at him.

I pause at Harper’s side, slip my hand into the pocket of her sweat-soaked jeans, and fish out the key I gave her yesterday. In the cockpit, I unlock the box and flip the lid back. Four handguns lie there, stacked at haphazard angles.

I learned how to use a handgun as a kid. Kidnapping is a constant risk for every child who grows up the way I did.

I take the top gun out and weigh it in my hand for a moment, telling myself I’m acclimating to the feel of it, telling myself I can do what I’m contemplating. But as I crouch in the cockpit, holding the handgun, I know I can’t. It’s funny: you can imagine committing a vile act, something completely against your moral code, but only when you physically hold the means to take that action does the decision become real. Only then do you learn what you’re capable of—and I’m not capable of this. I’m not sure if that makes me a bad guy or a good guy.

I hope help is out there. I really do.

Slipping the other three guns into my jacket, I slam the lid shut and stand there for a moment, the key in my hand but no resolve in my heart. My bluff is called. Defeated by my own morals. So be it.

Sabrina stiffens as I approach her, but I just hand her the key. “There’s a lockbox in the cockpit,” I mutter, turning away from her. “Could be a good place for the meds—it’s close by, sheltered from the elements. That’s the only key.”

She tucks the key in her pocket wordlessly, her intense dark eyes locked on me, not betraying a shred of emotion.

I can only imagine how I must look to Sabrina and the others around us right now. They’re thinking maniac and madman, but they haven’t made the calls I have in the last forty-eight hours. I wonder what I would do if I were in my right mind, if I were well rested and well fed, if the lives of a hundred people weren’t in my hands at this very moment.

One in particular.

But force won’t work on Sabrina. I’m ashamed that I thought it and more so that I almost tried it. However, there is something she’s vulnerable to: logic. And she has another weakness: reading people. A solution forms in my mind, as clear as the plan I devised by the lake. It could work.

“In case it affects the calculus on your end, I need to say this. As you pointed out, I have an emotional connection to Harper. I stared into her eyes and asked her to put her life on the line. I feel responsible for what happened to her. If she dies, I’ll be depressed. That’s a psychological disorder. I assume your training includes psychological conditions.”

I wait, forcing her to answer.

“It does.”

“In my depressed state, I’ll be unable to take on any leadership duties. No more quick life-and-death decisions from me. As you noted previously, this camp would be in chaos without me. That could lead to a loss of life.”

Sabrina’s eyes move to Harper and back to me, and I can almost see the wheels turning in that biological computer she calls a brain. “Noted,” she says.

I search her face for any clue about whether she’s bought it, but there’s nothing there to read.

I feel every eye in the cabin upon me as I walk past Harper’s seat. I did everything I could. I’ll see if I can get myself to believe that.

Outside, I try to put the encounter behind me and focus on the very important task at hand. I pass guns to the other three team leaders. They’ll alter their vectors forty-five degrees today, heading northeast, southeast, and southwest, respectively. Mike, Bob, and I will follow Mike’s eastward path back to the glass-and-steel structure, our pace quicker today. Our goal is to reach it before noon.

“Use the guns only if you’re threatened by hostile animals—save your ammunition for absolute emergencies. If you don’t find help, on your way back tomorrow look out for big game to shoot—deer, moose, cows, whatever you come across. Run back to the camp and get people to help you lug back anything you kill. You all know the situation. I’m not going to give you a speech. The truth is, if we don’t come back with help or food tomorrow, we’re looking at casualties in the following days. The elderly and weaker passengers are going to starve, and there are people in desperate need of medical supplies. Either we succeed, or people die. That’s it. Good luck.”

The group breaks up, and Mike, Bob, and I set out through the dense green forest and frosted fields. The tall grass thaws with the rising sun, soaking my pants below the knee as we go. It’s cold, but the pace keeps me warm. I try not to think about Harper.

We stop every hour to activate our cell phones and snap photos, but we never get any service or see anything significant. It’s like Mike said: hills, fields, and forest as far as we can see, both with the naked eye and with the binoculars Bob found in a carry-on bag yesterday.

Finally we get to the ridge from where Mike took the photograph and spot the octagonal glass structure. It looks about ten miles away, and the hike to it confirms that. We don’t even stop for lunch. To Bob’s credit, he keeps up, though he’s panting a lot harder than Mike or me and looking drained. I could swear he’s aging by the hour, but I don’t think he’d miss this for anything.

About halfway to the octagonal structure, at one of our hourly stops, I look around through the binoculars and spot something else: a stone farmhouse to the south, maybe another ten miles away. I make a note of its position—if the glass structure is a bust, it will be our next stop. I study the house for a few minutes, searching for signs of life, but there’s no movement. It looks abandoned to me.

It’s later than I had hoped, midafternoon, when we finally get to the glass structure, which is much bigger than it looked from the ridge. It’s at least fifty feet high and maybe three hundred feet across. The glass walls are frosted bluish white, and the frame appears to be made of aluminum.

There’s no pathway—dirt, paved, or otherwise—leading to or from it. Very odd.

The three of us walk the perimeter, looking for a door. Halfway around, I hear the sound of a seal breaking. A panel rises from the ground toward the ceiling, a frosted glass curtain revealing a spectacle I can barely believe.

The three of us stand there, our eyes wide.

I know this place. I’ve been here only once in my life, but that day is easily one of my most vivid childhood memories.

I was eight then, and for the entire week before I visited this place, I counted down the days and hours. It wasn’t the destination that excited me. It was the chance to take a trip with my father. He was the U.S. ambassador to the United Kingdom at that time, and we didn’t spend a lot of time together. That day, though, I felt very close to him.

I remember the drive, the moment I caught my first glimpse of the site. The morning fog still shrouded it, veiling the ancient treasures towering in the green field. I turned the name over in my mind as we drew closer: Stonehenge. Everything about it seemed otherworldly to me.

I was more mesmerized than my peers. To the other kids on the tour, the prehistoric monument was just a bunch of big old rocks in a field. Not to me. And not to my father. To him, it was not only history but inspiration, the symbol of an ideal. Nearly five thousand years ago, its builders had sweated, bled, and sacrificed to preserve their culture and their vision for future generations. That these mysterious people had erected Stonehenge and some part of it still remained to inspire and inform us, however cryptically, spoke to my father. It was how he saw his own career as a diplomat, I realized that day. He was building his own Stonehenge—America, and specifically its foreign relationships—to help pass down his vision of a better human society, a global one, with freedom and equality at its center. It wasn’t that he didn’t like me or spending time with me, he just thought his work was more important.

Stonehenge, age eight: that’s when I gained a perspective on my relationship with my father that spared me a lot of anguish throughout my childhood. It was a revelation for me, something to hold on to when I found myself wondering why he was never around, why other kids’ fathers took so much more interest in them.

But that revelation pales in comparison to the one that confronts me today. Twenty-eight years ago this was a crumbling ruin, chipped away by time and vandals, half the pillars gone, some lying on the ground. But the Stonehenge that towers before me now is no ruin. It looks like it was finished yesterday.