Pathways - Jeri Taylor [122]
Tom took a breath, trying to still the fury he could feel overtaking him. These cowardly quitters were going to cost him his feeling of well-being and plunge him back into the well of despair he’d been in for so long. How could they do that to him? Indignation flanked anger and they began to fuel each other.
“I can’t believe this. You call yourselves Starfleet cadets? I thought courage was one of the attributes we’re supposed to have.”
“Common sense is another,” said Bruno, unfazed by Tom’s sarcasm. His unruffled demeanor provoked Tom even more.
“I call it cowardice. I wouldn’t want anyone flying next to me who was going to back off because they imagined there might be danger ahead.”
Even good-natured Charlie took affront at that. “I guess I wouldn’t want someone flying next to me that was going to put us at unnecessary risk.”
The fact that Charlie, his friend since childhood, sided against him cut Tom to the quick. His fury returned in full force, and his voice was venomous when he spoke. “Then go on back. I’ll finish the run by myself.”
“Tom,” he heard Odile say, imploringly, as he carved into the snow, but he neither answered nor looked back. He’d made one turn when the snow suddenly seemed to settle, a dusting of white rising from its surface. Startled, he came to a stop and looked back up the slope.
The snow had fractured fifteen meters below Odile, Charlie, and Bruno, who had realized it and were staring at him. “Move!” yelled Tom, and turned to ski out of the path of the descending slab of snow.
The sound was terrifying, a massive rumble like a thousand volcanoes erupting. Tom’s heart pounded heavily in his chest, but he thought there was a good chance he could get to the side of the avalanche and avoid it.
A second later, the full impact of the descending snow slammed into him, upending and completely engulfing him. His poles were ripped from his hands as he was tossed about like a dandelion puff in the thundering snow, and the noise level suddenly subsided: all he could hear was a surprisingly gentle whoosh.
As the snow enveloped him, it took his breath away and he gulped for air, a mistake he instantly regretted, for his mouth immediately filled with snow, a phenomenon he’d read about and remembered now he should have avoided by keeping his mouth closed. His mind raced to recall the other survival techniques associated with avalanches.
Swim, he thought, and began moving his arms and legs as best he could while being carried down the mountainside by what had to be kilotons of snow. The sensation of speed was incredible, and the realization that he could be slammed into a rock, or a tree, and broken like a piece of balsa threatened to panic him once more. The snow in his mouth had quickly condensed into a hard ball that he couldn’t expel, and he felt as though he were drowning.
But he kept his legs and arms moving as best he could, flailing at the snow as though it were a flume of water, and he felt himself rise in the rushing snow and managed to get himself into a kind of sitting position, legs in front of him.
He had no idea how long the headlong plummet down the mountain would last—not until the slab of snow reached a leveling of the ground—nor whether its breakneck descent might carry it, and him, over a cliff, plunging him to his death.
But he must be ready to thrust for the surface the second he sensed the snow slowing, because once it slowed and stopped, the weight of the snow would become like concrete, packing him in, unable to move. He would have just a few seconds to try to get his head above the snow pack so he could breathe, or an arm free so he could dig out.
Down, down he plunged, for what seemed endless minutes. He paddled furiously in the snow, trying to swim up, where it was lighter, for that way lay air, and freedom.
The mass began