NOW
Webb woke up only because something was pulling hard at the skin of his exposed leg. Something sharp.
He kicked with both legs and heard a scattering of gravel above the sound of rushing water.
It was freezing and his body was convulsing with cold. Much better to go back into the soothing darkness where it was so warm and comfortable. He slipped away.
But then that nipping sensation came again. He growled and kicked, and this time realized that there was an animal on the gravel bank with him.
A wolf. Taking an experimental chew, as if Webb were already dead. The thought horrified him enough to make him roll over and sit up. The wolf backed away and sat on its haunches, staring at Webb.
And a split second later, the reality hit him.
A wolf! Feared predator. Savage beast that hunted in a pack. An animal that could tear out a man’s throat.
Webb held his breath. He had an image of the body beneath the pile of rocks, and realized why the rocks had been placed over the body. To keep away animals. Like the wolf.
The wolf panted slightly, tongue hanging out. Webb saw teeth. Big teeth.
What could Webb do to protect himself? He made fists, ready to smack the wolf’s nose with his hands bound together. It would be a useless act of defiance, but Webb wasn’t going to go down without a fight.
The wolf cocked its head as if it was curious.
Then Webb realized the animal was curious, not threatening. Maybe it would sit there for a while. But if it did, would other wolves show up?
Webb lifted his hands and made a shooing motion. “Go!”
The wolf did not go.
But it didn’t attack either.
“Heard of Little Red Riding Hood?” Webb asked the wolf. He felt silly. But what was he going to do? Jump at the wolf? “It doesn’t have a happy ending for you.”
The wolf shook its head. It looked like a scornful shake to Webb, but he knew he could be reading too much into the wolf’s actions. Webb’s entire world right now was his focus on the animal.
The wolf rose and trotted away. If it had just been curious, obviously it had learned what it wanted. But would it return?
Thinking about animals tearing at his flesh made Webb forget about how wet and cold he was. His hands and ankles were still bound with the plastic ties. He had fallen down a cliff and was on a gravel bar in a river in one of the remotest parts of the Arctic, helpless as a newborn.
More images came back to him.
Brent. The rifle. The grizzly.
He had no idea how much time had passed since he fell. Or how far down the river the current had taken him before dumping him on this gravel bar.
Maybe it was a miracle he was alive. He couldn’t say, because he had no idea what had actually happened.
He knew, though, that his face hurt where the grizzly had slashed him.
But it wasn’t bleeding. He had been unconscious long enough for the blood to start clotting.
Maybe that meant he’d also been unconscious long enough for a search party to start looking for him. Then he remembered. He’d put down a false trail that led north. That’s where any searchers would be going. He could yell all he wanted, but nobody was going to hear him.
He’d have to save himself and then hike out.
Something hurt his butt. He shifted, thinking it was a rock, but it was the knife he’d pulled from the skeleton.
Maybe it was a murder weapon, but now it could save Webb’s life.
He shifted and squirmed until he managed to slide it out of his pocket. He rolled over, his hands still cuffed, and got to his knees. The knife was on the gravel below him.
His hands were so cold, he could barely hold it.
The blade had rusted a bit, but still had some edge. The rocks must have protected it from water and snow. He began to saw at the plastic around his ankles. Agonizing minutes later, when the plastic snapped, he yelled with joy.
The next task was more difficult.
He had to sit, squeezing the knife upright between his boots, so that he could saw the plastic around his wrists against it.
It must have been only a matter of minutes, but it seemed like he was sawing for hours. Frustrating as it was, he had no choice. It was either saw through the plastic or become a lifeless piece of meat for the nearby wolf.
Finally there was a snapping sensation. For a second, Webb feared he’d broken the knife blade. But his hands fell loose, and once again he yelled with joy.
He realized, though, that his survival was far from certain.
His entire body was shaking, so much so that he couldn’t even hold his hands still.
He needed a fire.
He slapped at his belly. The money belt and matches were still there.
But there wasn’t any wood on the gravel bar.
He took a running start and splashed through the river to the shore, discovering how shallow the water was.
That’s why he’d lived. The river was running fast, but it wasn’t deep. He must have landed on his back in the river, never going under in the current long enough to drown.
On the far bank, he kept moving, tempting as it was to sit down and go to sleep.
He collected small branches and snapped them, grateful that he’d helped George build fires from scratch. Without that, he wouldn’t have known what to do, and he didn’t have enough matches to learn by making mistakes.
Carefully, he put the small branches down. He prepared larger branches, ready to feed them once the smaller branches caught.
Then he unwrapped his money belt. Safe in the plastic bag were his matches.
He could barely hold them, his fingers were so numb. He managed to get one of the matches to flare, but he was shaking so hard that when he tried to hold it beneath the kindling, the match burned down.
He tried again.
And again.
No way was he going to be able to do it. Why hadn’t he thought to put fire starter in the money belt too? George used fire starter; he should have too. Instead, all he had were the bank cards and a few wet receipts from The Northern.
He was going to die, simply because he couldn’t hold a match steady enough.
Then Webb grinned.
He’d forgotten about the length of nylon guitar string tucked into his front pocket. String he’d intended to burn at the first opportunity. String that burned just like the wick of a candle.
Looked like the first opportunity would also be the best opportunity.
He used a match to start a small flame at the end of the nylon, and gently slid it into an opening beneath the twigs. The flame wasn’t strong, but it was enough.
The first of the twigs caught fire, and then the bigger twigs, and within minutes the fire was strong enough to throw heat.
Webb had always believed that without his J-45, his life would be nothing.
Now he knew it was absolutely true.