Chapter 32.
La Montana Serpiente
As Jack makes his way up the mountain, the heat of the day somehow becomes even more brutal, the humidity even more suffocating, and the pain from the shark bite stings with each step he takes.
In addition to all of that, the trail ahead of him appears to be at a ninety-degree angle, or maybe steeper than that, like he’s pulling himself up a vertical ladder.
Not exactly a stairway to heaven, he grimly tells himself. But at the same time trying to maintain his focus, take in all of his surroundings at once, the trail and the trees and foliage, even the jungle sounds.
He’s already felt a shark’s teeth today. Now he very much wants to make his way up this mountain and back down without feeling the sting of a snake or—worse—the type of spider that killed Luca.
Jack keeps moving anyway.
That’s what he’s always done. Keep moving. Don’t give your brain time to build a story about how this ends.
He keeps his eyes on the trail, on leaves, on the places a snake could hide and look like nothing at all until it’s too late.
From the prep reading he’d done, Jack knows to be alert for even the slightest movement, how they can coil and look as innocent—and the same color—as a pile of leaves.
He had even watched a 60 Minutes segment on his phone about a reporter who’d traveled to a place called Snake Island off the coast of Brazil.
The reporter said at one point, “You have to look anywhere and everywhere. But the key is to keep moving.”
Jack keeps moving despite the pain in his leg, his backpack starting to feel so heavy, like it’s full of rocks.
He doesn’t even stop for water breaks, just grabs his bottle from the pouch on the side of his backpack and takes quick swigs as he goes.
The trail somehow gets steeper, if that’s even possible.
Jack has always been good at memorizing maps, having known as a Ranger that making the wrong turn could be the difference between life and death.
But he doesn’t know how close he’s getting to the summit, or how long it’s been since he left the beach.
He just keeps going, using a sturdy branch he’d broken off a tree right after he’d started as a walking stick, hoping he won’t need to use it on a snake.
Or on one of the gnarly, nasty eight-legged spiders.
He’d definitely checked out images of them when they’d been on their way to the airport at Punta Arenas.
Some of the spiders were orange, some a deeper shade, almost brown.
Some black. But no bigger than the palm of your hand.
He’d read they only attacked when threatened.
Then he feels it. A sharp sting above his right knee, hot and precise. The feeling of being stabbed by the point of a sharp knife.
And Jack knows before he looks down.
He knows.
He thinks of a bullet hitting before hearing the gunshot.
He looks down and sees the black spider clearly outlined against his pale, khaki-colored pants.
Don’t panic.
He forces air in, then out. He doesn’t smash it. He flicks it off hard with the back of his hand and watches it vanish into the leaf litter like it was never there.
Except for the sting.
Except for the heat blooming under his skin, spreading outward like somebody poured something hot and wrong into his leg.
Jack takes another step.
His leg buckles.
Jack feels his heart beating hard enough that he’s surprised he can’t hear it over the sound of his own breathing and the sounds of the jungle.
Don’t panic.
First the shark.
Now this.
Am I about to die?
He tries to catch himself, but the trail is too steep—maybe shock, maybe fear, maybe the beginning of something worse. He slides, catches himself, ends up seated on the trail, breath coming too fast.
He hears footsteps coming down the trail.
Jack looks up and sees Ant Tipton coming down the path, moving like nothing can touch him.
“McHenry,” Tipton says, almost friendly. “You look like crap.”
“Spider,” Jack grits out.
The burn in Jack’s leg spread. Not a massive stab of pain, he knows enough to know it doesn’t work that way. But it’s there. He can feel it starting to swell up without being able to see it.
Tipton crouches. Not close. Not kind. He glances at Jack’s leg, then at Jack’s face. Fast assessment.
“Unlucky.” Tipton shrugs. “Lot of that going around.”
“Help me,” Jack says. Simple. No pride.
“You feel dizzy?” Tipton asks.
“No.”
“Nauseous?”
“No.”
“Good,” Tipton says, like it was a checklist.
Tipton’s hand drifts to the chain at his neck, thumb rubbing the clasp like it’s a habit he hates. For a second his eyes go far away—then the mask snaps back into place.
He reaches into his pocket and tosses Jack a small strip of bright surveyor ribbon, the kind used to mark trails. It lands on Jack’s chest.
“Wrap it tight,” Tipton says. “Keep moving.”
He stands.
Jack stares at him. “You got a radio? You got a phone? Call it in.”
“I’m not your medic,” he says.
“You left Luca,” Jack says.
“You don’t know that.”
“You leaving me?” Jack asks, voice cold.
Tipton’s smile is small. Controlled. Charming in the way it makes you want to punch him.
“I’m not leaving you,” Tipton says. “I’m just not dying with you.”
Then he adds, almost like advice:
“Press your red button if you start seeing God.”
And he keeps walking.