Raymond Benson - High Time To Kill

“Have you ever killed anyone?” she asked softly.

The absurdity of the question caught Bond off guard, but he was too weary and cold to laugh. Instead, he simply nodded.

“I should have known,” she said. “I did know, instinctually, I guess. It’s why I found you attractive.”

“You’re attracted to killers?”

“That’s not what I meant. Is there any water in that thermos?” She pointed to one in an open sack. Bond shook it, heard a splashing sound, and handed it to her. She took a long drink, then said, “Remember I told you that I like to see how far a human being can go? Killing is related to that. I’ve always wondered how someone can kill another human being. You see, in my career, I try to save lives. We all lose patients, of course, but I vividly remember a particular one. It was a Maori woman, a mother who died during childbirth. She was brought into the emergency room at the hospital where I worked. She had an ectopic pregnancy. I did everything I could to save her. The baby lived, but she died. I always blamed myself for her death.”

Bond put his hand on her leg and said, “It wasn’t your fault. Surely you know that?”

“Of course, but still . . . Actually once I knew that she wasn’t going to live, I used her to satisfy something in myself. I was so goddamned curious about her condition. I wanted to see it. Remember I told you that I look at the human body as a machine? I wanted to see if I could fix it. What I tried didn’t work. She would have died anyway, but I think I might have helped her along. And to tell you the truth, I was horrified and saddened, but at the same time excited by the thought that I had that power. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

She took a breath of oxygen from the respirator hanging over her shoulder. She coughed a couple of times, then continued talking. Bond thought she might be exhibiting shell-shock symptoms.

“When I think of us up here where God never intended humans to be, the concept of life and death becomes such a trivial thing. Any one of us could die quickly and suddenly. Some of us already have. In the grand scheme of things, we’re just like bugs. Are we ants that wandered too far from home? I mean, here we are, stuck in this tent, sitting under God’s microscope—a male and female of the species. What kind of experiment is waiting for us? What kind of test?”

She looked at him and laughed, but it quickly turned into coughing. She grabbed the respirator again and took some deep breaths of oxygen. Then she said, “I’m babbling. Don’t pay any attention to me. Hey, you know, it’s medically advisable that one snuggle with a partner to keep warm at high altitude. Would you like to do that?”

Bond moved closer to her, and she clutched him tightly.

“Wait,” he whispered. He loosened her grip, then pulled out the bivouac sack with the built-in electric heaters. He unzipped and held it open. She laughed again and slipped her legs inside. He got in with her and zipped it closed.

They held each other for what seemed like an hour as the wind howled outside. Their bodies gradually warmed, and soon their hands were exploring each other. Her face, ashen and dirty, never looked more beautiful. Bond ran his hand through her blond hair and brought her head closer to his. Their mouths met in a passionate kiss, then they broke away, breathless. They read each others thoughts, then kissed again . . . and again. She unzipped his parka and slipped her hands inside so that she could feel his chest through his shirt. He did the same, running his fingers slowly and sensually around her firm breasts. They kissed some more, then he felt her hand exploring between his legs, encouraging his arousal.

They were breathing heavily, fighting for air. Bond managed to say, “We’re going to asphyxiate if we continue this way. Wait, I have another toy. Just a second . . .”

He reached for his bag and removed the dual respirator that Major Boothroyd had given him, then attached it to his oxygen canister.

“Oh, my God,” she said when she figured out what he was doing. He slipped the respirator on her face and attached the other to his own. Then he slipped his hands underneath her sweater and shirt and felt her nipples harden beneath the bra she was wearing. She moaned slightly, then moved in to kiss him, forgetting that they were both wearing respirators. They bumped and she laughed.

He expertly removed her bra and pulled it out from under her clothes. Then he began to work on her trousers, slowly inching them off, while her hands were busy with his clothes. It was awkward and clumsy, but in ten minutes they had undressed each other inside the bivouac sack.

It was a first for Bond . . . sex at 7,900 meters.

They used up the precious air in the canister quite quickly, but it was worth it.

TWENTY-THREE

BLOOD. SWEAT. AND DEATH

CHANDRA DID HIS BEST to follow Roland Marquis across the plateau. The wind was so fierce that it was an effort to place one foot in front of the other. Marquis’s footprints were covered within minutes of his making them, so Chandra had to force himself to keep moving or he would lose the trail. Using an ice ax as a walking stick, Chandra pulled himself forward one step at a time until he came to a rock face. Anchors and a rope had been affixed there, and there was no other possible route. Marquis had gone farther up.

Chandra found climbing the rock face surprisingly easier than walking against the wind. Here, the wind pushed him snugly against the wall. It took him nearly an hour, but he finally made it to the top, where a blast of wet snow and ice hit him in the face. He nearly lost his grip and fell, but he hung on for dear life and willed one leg to swing up and over the lip. Chandra slammed his ice ax into the rock and ice, using it as a lever to pull himself up. He lay there, totally exhausted, dangerously exposed to the vicious elements. He said a silent prayer to Shiva and breathed through his oxygen respirator for Several minutes, trying to regain some strength.

After an eternity, he knew he had to move or he would freeze to death. He rolled over and crawled away from the ledge, searching for some kind of shelter.

Through the blinding snow he saw a tent set up some forty meters away. That was where Marquis had holed up, Chandra thought. He wouldn’t be going anywhere until the storm let up, so the Gurkha figured he must find a bivouac for the night.

There was a Bergschrund to his left. His father had taught him how to enlarge a crack in the ice big enough to crawl into. It was his only hope. Mustering every ounce of strength, Chandra got to his feet and slowly moved forward.

He raised the ice ax and let it fall over and over as chunks of ice flew about him. It was tremendously hard work, and he had to stop every minute or so to take deep breaths of oxygen. His legs were beginning to feel numb, but he kept chopping.

Eventually, it was done. He had made a hole that he could crawl inside and assume the fetal position. He did so, closed his eyes, and was immediately asleep.

He awoke with a start. The storm had stopped, and the light of the new day was beginning to spread over the mountain. Chandra was stiff and cold, but alive.

Then he noticed his left hand. Somehow he had lost his glove during the climb or while he was digging the hole. His hand was completely frostbitten. The fingers were dark blue and the rest of the hand was purple. He tried to flex his fingers, but they were paralyzed. The skin was insensitive to touch.

He crawled out of the hole and stood. The rest of him appeared to be in one piece. With his good hand he slowly ripped off his backpack, opened it, and dug around for anything he could wrap around his hand. There was a prayer scarf that his father had given him when he was a boy, so he used that. It didn’t help much. He knew it was entirely possible he would lose the hand when they got back to civilization.