Writing
First half of chapter 8. Bouta be a banger when its done.
Chapter 8:
Darkness, and the cold seeping in through his coat. Cold burning both sides of his cheeks, neck aching, his chest trying to fill with air but blocked by the endless ice pressing in from either side. He was upside down, wedged in an ice crevasse, arms pinned tight, head wrenched painfully to one side.
He tried to move. His head and torso exploded with pain. Gasping tiny sips of air, he felt warm blood running down the ice wall; the movement had torn open some wound that had clotted while he was out.
Deep in the narrow crevasse, it felt hopeless. No equipment, his cloak shredded and mostly gone, no gear he could feel. Guns? In this upside-down coffin he had no way of knowing if he still had anything at all. He opened his eyes slowly. Nothing but deep blue ice in front of him. The blood concentrated in his brain made his eyeballs throb like they’d burst, so he shut them again and focused on breathing.
In a spot like this, the easiest thing would be to give up and die. Nothing in John’s life was so precious that it demanded he fight this, but he was stubborn as hell. He’d set out to bring in that killer no matter the cost, and apparently he’d gotten a lot closer than he thought. Like the proverb says, the guilty flee when no man pursueth—or in this case, the guilty try to kill the man they’re afraid will catch them tomorrow, when that man never even suspected them in the first place.
He’d started a job, and he wasn’t about to let that son of a bitch get away with dry-gulching him. Rage flared, hot against the ice. He tried to move again and was instantly humbled by fresh pain.
A place like this needed thought, and thought was damn near impossible with blood pounding behind his eyeballs and leaking from his wounds. If he could just get right-side up, he could climb out. But the crevasse was so narrow he could barely twitch. If only he had a drill or an ice chisel to carve a little room around his head and torso. The image of chiseling gave him an idea: if he could reach his pistol, shooting into the ice might break enough away to let him move. But did he even have a pistol? His arms were pinned, yet when he worked them carefully he found he could shift them a little. The left was less crushed against the wall, more useful. He felt upward along his thigh for the tied-down holster. Empty. He forced his eyes open again, searching the blue gloom for the gun, maybe fallen nearby. The effort brought a headache that lasted minutes. When it finally eased, the left holster was still empty.
The right holster held the backup gun, usually secured with a leather thong around the butt—meant for when the left-hand gun ran dry and he needed a fast switch.
His right arm was more tightly wedged; he was jammed in a slight off-width. He drew his scapula hard left and gained another inch. Reaching downward, he felt the porcelain grip—still there, thong in place. He shifted his torso again, slow and careful, worked the thong loose, and drew the revolver clear.
For one reckless second he wanted to empty the cylinder in a frenzy, just to feel something happen. He forced the urge down. Precision only. Thick ice could ricochet, and every sliver he knocked loose had to help, not kill him. Twelve shots. That was all.
To flip himself upright he needed to haul his body up far enough to twist. First, blow out enough ice around his arms and head to get purchase, something to push against. His head was lodged tightest—no movement at all—then his upper chest and legs. One careful shot on each side of his skull, maybe, praying the bullet didn’t come screaming back into his face.
But even if he freed his arms, he’d still need real grip on the ice to pull upward. The pistol wouldn’t give him that. He’d have to reach the knife in his boot somehow.
The revolver was already cold as death in his hand. He brought it up slowly, angled the muzzle perpendicular to the wall just beside his left ear, took the deepest breath the crevasse allowed, and squeezed off the first shot.