Dan Simmons - The Abominable - A Novel

Sigl laughed. “No, you may not. You’re an Indian nigger and your hands should never touch Aryan flesh…even that of a dead Frenchman.”

I ground my molars. But I did not move. I did not lunge for my rucksack eight feet away to dig for my pathetic, unloaded Very pistol. I did not lower my hands. Even if only for just a few more minutes, I found that I very much wanted to live.

“I watched through my field glasses while you took the photographs from the bodies,” said the German. “Five envelopes. Do not insult my intelligence again.”

“Herr Sigl,” I rasped. “May I spit?”

“What?” He aimed the Luger at my face.

“Blood, Herr Sigl. I’m ill. May I spit this blood out of my mouth before it makes me sick?”

The German said nothing so I turned sideways, careful that the wind would not carry it toward Sigl or anyone else, and spat out a glob of blood that had been building up in my ravaged throat. “Thank you,” I said to Sigl. Thank you for not shooting me, sir. Pathetic.

“That does not look good, Herr Perry,” said Sigl with another laugh. “You might be suffering a pulmonary embolism.” He waggled the pistol at us. “Everyone strip naked, please. Drop your clothes at your feet, then step away. Do nothing stupidly heroic or you all die now.”

“I’ll start,” said Reggie, taking a single step forward. In a few seconds she had set down her rucksack—out of her easy reach—and had pulled off her anorak and Finch duvet and goose down trousers, holding them in place with her foot as the wind at her back blew hard on her. In another fifteen seconds, she was down to a wool blouse over what looked to be silken underwear. Sigl was watching her and chuckling, but he also never took his eyes off the rest of us, the Luger steady. If it had been Reggie’s plan to distract Sigl to give the Deacon or me a chance to rush him, the plan wasn’t working. The distance was still too great to cover without being shot. None of us was in front of another, blocking the German’s shot, so Sigl had us all covered with that ugly pistol.

Reggie dropped her shirt, kept it from blowing away with a quick stab of her booted foot back onto the growing pile of garments. She pulled off the cotton and silk layers beneath that shirt. Now she was in wool knickerbockers from the waist down, and nude except for her brassiere on top. She reached around and undid the brassiere.

I felt like weeping. Delicate parts of Reggie would be frostbitten within minutes, more probably within seconds. Jean-Claude continued to writhe on the snowy rock, the blood continuing to spread.

“I’m sorry, Frau Bromley-Montfort,” laughed Bruno Sigl, “but I’ve seen English women’s tits before. Sogar die Titten von englischen Mädchen! And larger. But when you are naked, I will kill you last…perhaps leave you for my men to look at and play with while you are still alive.” His face seemed to transform into something beastlike then and he snarled, “Where are the photographs, you English cunt?”

“In my rucksack,” began Reggie. “I can get them if…”

Sigl started shaking his head.

Then Jean-Claude catapulted to his feet, not even holding his bloodied, wounded side, and rushed Sigl.

The German took half a step back and fired twice. Both slugs hit home somewhere in J.C.’s chest or gut. Jean-Claude kept staggering closer.

Sigl took two steps to his left, toward the South Face but still yards from the rotten snow cornice there, and fired twice more. The fourth 9-millimeter slug tore out through J.C.’s back, passing through the oxygen tank still in his rucksack and sending a hissing stream of English air up and out into the wind, enveloping both men in a hissing fog of ice crystals.

We all moved now, but it was Jean-Claude who had his arms around Sigl in a bear hug, forcing the larger man back one step, then two, then four…

“Nein, nein, nein!” screamed Sigl, hammering at Jean-Claude’s head with the black steel of the Luger’s grip. They both staggered another three steps back onto the snow at the cornice.

“Bâtard boche!” gasped Jean-Claude, coughing great amounts of blood all over the chest of Sigl’s pristine white anorak. Even with five bullets through him and oxygen hissing white and freezing in the air around them, J.C. continued flailing away with his bloody right hand at Bruno Sigl’s left side.

The cornice broke beneath them. They both dropped out of sight through the hole in the snow. Everyone but Reggie rushed as far to the south edge of the Second Step as we could. Sigl was screaming for a very long time, the scream Dopplering away from us as the two entangled men fell and tumbled over and over and then fell and then fell some more. No miracle crags to break their fall as one had with Percival and Meyer, and Sigl and J.C. weren’t roped together anyway—just bound by the iron vise of Jean-Claude’s one-armed bear hug. Eventually they were both lost to sight, dots and then less than dots disappearing against the background of the Kangshung Glacier 10,000 feet below.

I heard not a single scream from Jean-Claude. I believed then and choose to believe to this day that he was dead before he really knew he was falling, although falling through the cornice with Sigl had been his plan from the first.

The Deacon looked down, not at the drop but at the edge of the rock, and I saw the reason for J.C.’s flailing with his free hand.

He’d wrested the Deacon’s Lee-Enfield rifle off Sigl’s shoulder and dropped it behind them a second before they fell.

I picked it up. “The telescopic sight was broken on the rock,” I said dully.

“That doesn’t matter,” said the Deacon and took the rifle from me. He snapped the trapezoidal metal magazine free from its place in front of the trigger guard and quickly emptied into his hand and counted the long, brass-bound cartridges. Then he quickly reloaded them into the magazine, using his thumb. I’d counted ten rounds. The lead nose of the bullets looked very heavy and very pointy.

Reggie was getting dressed again with Pasang’s help. She was shaking uncontrollably with the cold and her lips were blue. Despite Bruno Sigl’s sneering at her, she’d distracted him just enough for Jean-Claude to do what he did.

I crossed the top of the Second Step with the Deacon to the limestone bench at the top of the 90-foot drop. He went to one knee behind the bench, supporting his elbows and the rifle on the stone. I took a knee next to him and accepted the binoculars he’d just pulled from his rucksack.

“Be my spotter,” said the Deacon.

“I don’t know what that means, Richard.”

“It means keep looking and tell me if I’m shooting low or high, too far left or too far right,” he said. “If I miss, tell me in which direction I missed and how many yards left, right, up, or down. I’ll correct according to your calls.” His voice was so calm that we might have been discussing railway timetables in Paddington Station.

“Got you,” I said and raised the heavy field glasses to my eyes.

The four other Germans were only halfway between Mushroom Rock and the Second Step. They must have taken a break on the east side of the bollard, somewhere out of the roaring wind, while Sigl—the fittest and best climber in the group—had gone on ahead without a rest.

Before Reggie and Pasang could come up to join us, the Deacon—using only the iron sights on the rifle, ignoring the off-kilter telescopic sight on the left—had taken a breath, held it, and fired his first round. The sound of the shot made me jump and deafened me for a moment.

The first German in the line on the ridge dropped backward as if someone had jerked his legs out from under him. Through the binoculars, I could see the crimson stain spreading across the chest of his white anorak and into the white snow.