9. The Rescue
CHAPTER NINE
the rescue
The sound finds us before the light does. A low hum. Mechanical. Rhythmic. Thwup-thwup-thwup. Blades cutting the air. A vibration that rattles my teeth.
Clara looks up. "Helicopter."
"They found us."
My throat is dry. I don't feel relief. I feel dread. Exposure. We are grotesque, covered in blood and soot. We don't belong in the world of machines anymore. Clara starts laughing. It’s a high, hysterical sound that scares me more than the silence. I stand up. My legs are jelly. I wave my arms—a black smudge against the white sky. The machine crests the ridge. It’s red.
Ugly. Loud. The downwash hits us, blinding us with snow, whipping our clothes like flags.
A mechanical dragon is coming to claim its prize—a basket drops.
A man leans out. He’s wearing a helmet and goggles. He looks like an alien.—an insect.
"Grab the line!" his voice is amplified, metallic.
I grab Clara. I fumble with the harness. My fingers are useless blocks of wood. I can't feel the buckles.
"You first," she screams over the rotor wash.
"No. You." I clip her in. I check the buckle twice. I pull on it. It holds.
"You'll follow?" she begs, clutching my coat.
"Always."
The cable tightens. She lifts off the roof. I watch her ascend. She looks small. Fragile. A doll being pulled up by a god. The basket disappears into the belly of the machine. The line drops again. Empty. I stare at it. The part of me that has kept us alive—the Enforcer, the animal—whispers to me.
Stay. You belong here with the ice. No noise. No mercy. Just the cold.
"Sir! Grab the line!" I force my hand to move. It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done.
I grab the steel hook. The harness tightens around my chest. I lift off.
The roof falls away. The shack is just a broken box in a sea of white.
I am pulled up. Hands grab me. Drag me inside.
Warmth hits me like a physical blow. It smells of kerosene and men’s sweat and stale coffee. It smells wrong. It smells like noise.
I fight it. I thrash.
"Easy! You're safe!"
A medic pins my arms. He looks at me with wide, horrified eyes. He sees the blood. "Jesus, look at his hands."
I look at my hands. They are claws. Covered in dried blood. Stitched with black thread. Primitive. Savage.
"I'm safe," I whisper.
The word feels like a lie. Clara is strapped to a stretcher. She reaches for me. Her hand finds mine. She squeezes.
"We made it," she mouths. I look out the window. The mountain is receding. But the white is still there. Watching. Waiting. We didn't escape, I think. We just changed cages.