We set up the pulley system as planned, tying the rope to Jeb’s stretcher, then threading it up the Chimney, through the carabiners at the top and back down to the ledge eight feet below the Chimney’s opening. As an extra safety measure, we anchor a GRIGRI to the ledge and thread the rope through it. The GRIGRI’s a kind of belay device that will lock the rope in place, even if I accidentally let go. I take my position on the ledge and give Rusty a nod. We’ve agreed not to speak for fear of waking the bikers. He disappears down the chimney, and I’m left with no company but the full moon shining through the lattice of tree branches.
Waiting for Rusty’s signal to begin pulling, I can’t help remembering my thoughts when Jeb first discovered the cave. Sleeping there would feel like being buried alive in a tomb. It could have become a tomb for Jeb if the bullet had hit an artery. If he had bled to death. If I had fallen into the river. If I had failed to return with help. It could still become a tomb, I think. But I push the thought away. Somehow, we’ll get out of this. Somehow, we’ll claw, scrape and scratch our way out of the darkness, into the light. Out of the underworld, into the land of the living.
The rope jerks three times—Rusty’s signal to start the evacuation. I pull on the rope and feel the weight of Jeb’s stretcher inching upward. I want to shout in excitement and relief. I want to call down to Rusty, “It’s working!”
But we can’t risk waking the bikers.
I pull on the rope, and the stretcher rises, inch by inch, foot by foot. Every gain is locked in place by the GRIGRI. Then there’s a pause, and the rope goes slack. Rusty must have reached a ledge and stopped for a break. I shake out my hands and let the GRIGRI hold the rope. Overhead, the treetops make dark, intricate shapes against the sky.
I shine my flashlight down the Chimney but can’t see Rusty and Jeb. It’s not a straight route but a twisty, dodgy course through the spaces between fallen boulders and rock walls. Three tugs signal it’s time to get to work again. I tighten the rope and haul in. Another few inches gained. Slowly, the stretcher jerks upward. We’re making good progress. Any moment, I expect to see the poles of the stretcher peek over the rock ledge. But then everything stalls. I yank on the rope. It won’t budge. Maybe Rusty’s resting again. But the rope is taut, not slack. It doesn’t feel like a rest stop. I shine my flashlight down the Chimney again but see only gray boulders, jagged rock slabs and shadows. No glimpse of Rusty and Jeb.
“Vanisha?”
It’s startling to hear Rusty’s voice after we’d agreed to work in silence.
“Rusty?”
“Come down. It’s stuck.”
Stuck? I glance nervously upward, wishing I could see the campsite. But there’s nothing but the black silhouettes of trees against the sky. Carefully, I ease my grip on the rope. The GRIGRI clamps shut, holding it tight. I lay my flashlight on the rock ledge and lower myself halfway over the edge, feeling for footholds.
If I jam one foot on the wall behind me, I can push the other against the wall in front of me—positioned like a runner clearing a hurdle. There’s a good handhold on the underside of the ledge. I fumble around with my left hand until I find the scooped-out pocket. I grab the flashlight from the ledge. Then, hanging on to my underhanded grip, I walk my feet down the Chimney’s walls.
Three feet below me, another boulder forms a safe spot to land. I let go and jump. The beam of the flashlight bobbles, lighting up random bumps and cracks in the rock. The boulder is smooth and round. It rests on the large rock ledge that almost blocks the entire Chimney. Lying on my stomach, I slither down the boulder, sliding and scraping until my feet touch the ledge. I shine the flashlight around, looking for the hole that leads farther down the Chimney. “Rusty?”
“Down here.”
I follow his voice to the hole in the rock ledge, where one stretcher pole sticks up through the gap. I crouch and shine my beam down. Jeb’s face looks ghastly pale. Below him, Rusty’s face peers up at me, strained and worried. The stretcher lies on the diagonal slab that leads up to the hole. Obviously, Rusty was trying to push Jeb up the slab. But one of the stretcher poles got wedged into a corner beneath the rock ledge.
“I see it, Rusty. It’s the pole on this side.”
Laying the flashlight on the ledge, I reach into the hole and grab the stretcher pole. My face hovers so close to Jeb’s that I can feel his heat, hear his rapid, shallow breaths. He’s muttering something about a forty-yard pass.
“Interception!” he mumbles.
“Have you got it, Vanisha?” Rusty calls up.
“It’s jammed in really tight. Can you pull from your end?”
We tug and pull. The pole budges a bit, then a little bit more, scraping against the underside of the rock ledge. This is stupid. It’s got to come. I take a firmer grip, brace my feet and yank hard. The pole jerks free, and I whiplash backward, whacking my head against the rock wall. My knee bangs the flashlight, and it rolls over the edge, its beam disappearing down the gap in the rock.
“Rusty?” I blink in the dimness. The hole in the ledge glows with the light of Rusty’s headlamp.
“Vanisha, are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m okay. Where’s the flashlight?”
“Jeb’s got it.”
“Jeb’s got it? Jeb isn’t even conscious.”
“It’s laying on him. Reach down.”
I crawl to the edge of the opening. “Jeb. Come on, Jeb. Pass me the flashlight.”
It’s useless. He can’t hear me. Or if he can, he can’t make sense of what I’m saying. I lie on my belly and reach down over his sweating-hot chest. I feel a rapid heartbeat but don’t know if it’s his or mine. At last my fingers hook the flashlight. By its light, I adjust the poles, make sure they’re pointing straight up through the gap in the ledge. I check the knots on the rope. Everything’s fine now.
“Good work,” Rusty says.
“I’ll give you the signal when I’m back on belay.”
Retracing my steps to the belay station on the ledge, I realize I’m shaking. Even the easy moves require an effort that seems almost too much. How much longer can this night go on? How much strength have I got left? I reach the ledge and start to haul on the rope. Inch by inch, the stretcher rises until at last we haul Jeb onto the ledge.
Rusty squeezes my hand. “We’re nearly there, Vanisha.”
Nearly, but not quite. “How do you want to do this?” I look up the Chimney. It’s eight feet to the top.
“You go first,” says Rusty. “Once you get to the top, I’ll pull Jeb up with the rope. If you can grab the poles and get his head above ground, I’ll push the rest of the stretcher up from the bottom.”
I nod. “Sounds good.”
I place my back against one wall of the Chimney and my feet against the other. My thighs shake. Focus. Straighten my legs. Push my back up the wall. Walk my legs up until my knees are bent. Straighten my legs again. Push my back up the wall. Walk my legs up.
At last I reach the top, grab the slings wrapped around the trees and haul myself over the edge.
I turn to call down to Rusty.
But a hand grabs my arm in an iron-hard grip.