Alex Morel - Survive

“Now you’ll think of me.”

I laughed. And it makes me smile even now.

My pace steadies, and I move along the river until it takes a wide turn back toward the mountain range I left days before. It is so easy to walk along the river and follow its path mindlessly. But I feel the sun, and I know where that river is going. I can’t go back there. I stop and look across the river, considering my options. As far as I can see from here, there’s nothing but an open field of grass beyond the underbrush. Cross and take my chances of dying from exposure in the middle of the field? Or follow a river back toward a world I know holds certain death for me?

My eyes focus deep into the vast expanse beyond the river and follow a clear dark line straight along the horizon. Is that a fence? A road? A power line? A logging road? It must be man-made, whatever it is. Nothing in nature could cut such a long, straight line across the horizon. It occurs to me that my eyes could be playing tricks on me.

The first thing standing between the line on the horizon and me is a narrow piece of river. I step to the edge of the riverbank and look down to where the bend breaks. It is probably fifteen or twenty feet across at the narrowest point, maybe less. The river isn’t deep; I can tell because I can see it rippling off the rocks on the bottom.

I take out all my dry clothes: a pair of pants, a shirt and sweater, two pairs of wool socks, and my jacket and shell, and I put them into a plastic bag and tie it. Then I put the bag in my sleeping bag, knowing I must keep my clothes dry if I am to survive crossing the river.

I shimmy down the bank and slide into the water with both boots. The slow-moving current is more powerful than I anticipated, but it only goes up to my shins. I plant my full weight and hold the bank with my arms so as not to be swept away. I look up to the bank and know that scrambling back up isn’t an option. I take a deep breath. Let me cross. Let me cross.

I stand still for a moment, taking in the strength of the current and the distance I have to cover. It is less than twenty feet, I tell myself. You can do this. I walk out and the current stays around knee level for the first two or three steps, then the water is up to my thighs and its chill is bracing.

I jam my stick as far out as I can manage but am pushed a few feet downstream as I do it. I step and push against the stick like a pole vault jumper, and the current sweeps me up. I flutter kick as fast as I can and push hard against the stick and I’m able to move two or three yards across the river. Don’t fight it, Jane. Let the river move you. I try pulling my stick back toward me, but the force of the drag makes it impossible. I see it float away, rushing in the current, and I feel like I’m losing my best friend.

I’m moving quickly and making progress, but the bend is closer than I expected. I don’t fight the current; it floats me directly toward the far bank. The cold of the water strangles my muscles, and I am struggling to stay afloat. Their tightness makes lifting my arm from the water nearly impossible. My body feels heavy and numb. For a moment, my head is swallowed by the heavy drag from below. I get my mouth just above the waterline and gasp, trying to inhale deeply. My lungs feel frozen.

My legs are numb and weighted down by my waterlogged pants and heavy boots. My treading slows, then stops. I flail my arms, but the cold has numbed my shoulders. I look up, and I can see that I’m halfway across but stuck in the center sweep of the current. When the river breaks right, I need to be near the bank so I can stop my forward momentum. But I have nothing left. The fight in my legs is gone, and my arms offer no more force than a feather against the churning, moving beast.

Just as I hit the bend, the river roils and my feet graze the rocky bottom. I immediately kick back and run through the mud, and the effort ignites my arms, which thrash into the water with ferocity. My body lurches toward the shoreline, and I slam into the riverbank just before it turns sharply and cups the excess roiling water.

I drag myself up, drape myself over the lip of the bank, and hook my right leg over the top, rolling myself onto solid ground. I cough and heave water and bile into the snow. I am shaking and sobbing and my fingers and hands begin to burn with pain. After a while, I get on my knees to fling off my sleeping bag. I have no idea how much or how little time has passed. I push my frozen arms into the frozen bag and grab the ties with my teeth. I pull the knot free, and the bag unrolls.

I put my knee on the lip of the sleeping bag, but I can’t hold the edge of the lining with my frozen fingers, so I bite the corner and pull it open with my teeth. I reach in and grab my clothes. My hands are about as useful as clubs, but I manage. The bag is damp, but my clothes are dry.

I’m clumsy, but I get my clothes and jacket on and keep my frozen hands close to my heart underneath my clothes. They’ll never warm up under these conditions, but my hope is to stave off hypothermia as long as possible. I drape the wet sleeping bag over my body, propping the top shielded corner over my head. From a distance I must look like a sheik or nomad with a long, dark green cape, tromping over the snow.

I can see the dark line in the distance. I look to the sky and suddenly, for the first time since the crash, the sun comes out in full force. It warms my face.

I have to cross this field before the sun falls. A night under the snow-under a wet sleeping bag with soaking pants-will find me gone by morning.

My body shakes with chills. Early on, the exercise created warmth, and I could capture that heat to melt water or warm my hands or, with Paul, to heat our bodies at night. But I’m no longer able to generate heat. I may make the horizon, but if nobody is there to help me, I’ll be dead by dawn.

I walk, and the sun sets around me. There’s a low ceiling of dark clouds circling me. Snow is falling-at first lightly, but then the heavier stuff moves in and the wind starts to pick up. Luckily the wind remains at my back. I focus my mind on one thing I know is true: behind the clouds, the sun was as bright today as it has ever been. Clouds come and go, so do storms and rain and wind, but the sun will rise every morning.

I imagine it rising backward, breaking through the clouds, warming me and drying my clothes. I imagine its light pouring across the river, making it sparkle, and filtering over the valley and the mountains, making them glow. I imagine Paul standing up on the mountain, bathing himself in the warmth of the sun. I smile at the thought, and I imagine feeling the warmth of his body against mine and see us standing together in sun. He is whispering my name over and over, “Jane, Jane, Jane.”

A tear wells up in my eye and I feel its warmth roll slowly down my face, and then another falls. I don’t why I’m crying, but I know somewhere inside I’m melting. The long path I’ve walked since crashing into that mountain has brought me to this moment. Old Doctor would say that I’ve been on this journey for a lot longer than my six days in this frozen apocalypse. A week ago, if I were in session with him or the group, I would have snickered, probably to myself, about what a load of crap it all was. But today, I can see the long arc on which I’ve been walking.

Before I reach the thick black line against the horizon, I actually come to a barbed wire fence. I lay the sleeping bag over the wire and just flop over it. I have no strength or agility left to be cautious, and a sharp wire hooks into my left forearm, ripping a long gash from elbow to my thumb. The stuffing pours out of my jacket, and the material turns dark as it soaks up the blood. I try for a moment to untangle the sleeping bag from the wire, but it is completely enmeshed. With every tug, it tears.