Endurance - Jack Kilborn [110]
From there, it was only a few inches to the seam. Once she had a solid grip, she put her leg back on, pressing the button for suction.
This route was trickier than the other one. Steeper. Fewer decent holds. But this route didn’t have a cougar waiting for her, so Deb followed the seam, keeping away from the shelf where the creature perched.
After five minutes, she found her rhythm. Hand hold. Toe hold. Hand hold. Toe hold.
After ten minutes, the lookout station was in sight. Deb kept her emotions in check, but she was secretly astonished that she was actually going to make it.
“Deb!” Mal yelled.
Deb looked down. The cougar was a few feet below her, legs splayed out, clinging to the rock face. It thrust its entire body upward, its massive claws batting her artificial leg.
Of course it can climb. That’s why they’re called mountain lions.
Deb stuck her hand deep in a crevice, gripping the stone inside, waiting for the next lunge.
The lion jumped again, coming up another two feet, its fierce jaws locking around Deb’s stump cup.
Deb quickly reached down, hitting the release. Her leg came off.
The cougar, losing its balance, fell from the rock face. It landed a few feet below, on the angled, sheer face where Deb had slid off all those years ago.
Like Deb, the cougar couldn’t get a grip on the sheer rock. It spread out all four legs, claws scraping against stone, but couldn’t stop its inevitable slide.
“How do you like it?” Deb shouted at the lion.
It roared once—an angry, futile roar—and then the monster that had haunted Deb’s dreams for so long slipped right off the edge of the mountain, falling thirty long feet, smashing to the unforgiving ground below in a brilliant explosion of blood.
And it felt pretty goddamn good.
“You okay!” Mal called to her.
“Yeah! Are you!”
“I am! But it’s raining cats and dogs down here!”
Deb smiled.
Next time I have a chance, I’m going to kiss that guy.
The rest of the climb, even with only one leg, was uneventful. Deb made it to the shelf, and crawled to the lookout post. It was unoccupied, but the rangers were kind enough to leave a door open for her, and a fully charged radio.
“Hello, hello? This is Deb Novachek. I’m with Mal Deiter. We called earlier, and there’s a helicopter looking for us. Can anyone hear me?”
“This is ranger base three. We read you, Deb. Over.”
Deb practically wept.
“I’m at a lookout station. The number on the radio is six-four-eight-seven-two.”
“Roger that. We’ll send the chopper your way.”
Deb found a stash of water bottles next to the radio. She twisted the top off one, drank the whole thing in a few gulps, and let out the biggest sigh of her life.
Then she closed her eyes and waited to be rescued.
Eleanor Roosevelt’s head hurt. She felt someone patting her cheek, and she opened her eyes, ready to tell whichever son it was to leave her alone.
But it wasn’t one of her sons.
“I’m thinking of a number from one to ten,” Maria said, staring at her. “Guess what it is?”
Eleanor looked at her wrists. The strappado cuffs were on her.
No. Not this.
I’m royalty. I have presidential blood in my veins.
They can’t do this to me.
“The answer,” Maria said, “Is fuck you.”
Then the man, Felix, kicked Eleanor in the face.
Eleanor fell backwards, through the gate, off the edge.
The next thing she knew, her head was hurting again.
She looked around, saw she was on the first floor.
Those fools. They must not have put the chains on correctly.
My head still hurts. But other than that, I’m perfectly fine.
Eleanor reached up a hand to rub her temple.
It didn’t work, for some reason.
She tried with the other hand, and that didn’t work either.
Then she felt something drip onto her face.
Looking up, Eleanor saw Maria and Felix, staring down at her. She also saw the two lengths of chain.
Each chain had an arm attached to it. Each arm trailed veins and arteries and tendons and torn muscles that stretched down and were still tenuously