Chapter Thirty-Three Delaney

Chapter Thirty-Three

Delaney

Now: Sunday, 5:48 a.m.

I catapult over the lump on the floor and somehow find my way to the fireplace. Clamping my eyes nearly shut, I wrap the towel I grabbed earlier around my hand. I reach blindly with poorly covered fingers for the metal loop at the fireplace's center until I feel something hard and round. I grab it with all my strength and yank. As soon as I feel the click of the flue opening to the sky, I drop to my knees. Crawling like a toddler, I move toward the windows. Hacking coughs threaten to break my ribs, but somehow I rise back into the smoke, disengage the lock at top of the sash, and then wrench up the glass pane. Finally I'm gulping frigid but blissfully fresh air into my lungs.

"Wyatt! Wyatt, no!" Camille cries. She's only feet away, but I can barely see her in the slowly clearing fog. The smoke flows in all directions: up the now-open flue, through the window I just opened, out into the hall and up the stairs, and into the main bedroom, too. The smoke alarm has been sounding so long my thundering heartbeat has synced to it. Whump, whump, whump. Pause. Whump, whump, whump. We call out to each other in the stuttering breaks.

Willa with a useless suggestion: "We need to get him somewhere with better air!"

Camille, bereft: "He's not moving! Wyatt, please wake up!"

Liam, immediately triaging: "Stand clear, I'm going to do CPR."

And finally Piper, voice jarringly clear in the abrupt silence: "I removed the battery."

Willa files in behind her; they must have tag-teamed to stop the alarm, since Piper can't exactly do much with just one arm.

Gradually the room clears of smoke. We all continue to cough intermittently, but the worst of the danger has passed. Too late for Wyatt, though.

"One, two, three, four…" Liam counts with each compression until it's time to push air into Wyatt's lungs. He does this for a minute. Then two. When his arms grow tired, Willa jumps in to relieve him. I take a turn, then Camille does, before it's back to Liam.

I was responsible for the first aid course for ASB; I remember they told us you can perform CPR for up to forty minutes before emergency help arrives. I lose track of how long we try. Ten? Fifteen?

Long enough for reality to set in. There is no emergency help coming, and Wyatt isn't responding. It's futile.

"Oh god!" Camille begins to sob at the realization, though I can't help but wonder if we're all performing crocodile tears. Crying because we're supposed to. I scan everyone's faces: Camille and Willa messy and squalling, the solemn frown on Liam as he compresses desperately on Wyatt's chest, Piper dabbing at her eyes. What even feels real anymore? I'm numb.

"Is he…?" Willa's doing that wilting-violet bullshit I loathe. She even bites her lip like a sad little girl and clutches at her stomach like she's going to be sick.

And finally Liam gives up. He slumps back onto his haunches, panting for air. And my autopilot turns on. I go to Wyatt's bunk and tear the sheets from the bed. One to cover, one to carry.

It's strange. In the sultry low light of encroaching dawn, remnants of gray smoke clinging to the edges of the room, Wyatt doesn't appear gone. He's small, could easily be sleeping, having just dozed off in front of the fire like an overtired kid.

"We should move him downstairs." My voice is foreign to my own ears.

"Or we leave him here and get the hell out of this place," Camille says.

Liam's brow furrows. "Works for me. Come on. Let's go check the road conditions. We need to get the snowmobile."

By the time we've all dressed warmly, the magic hour of morning is upon us. Alpenglow bathes the landscape as we emerge onto the porch. We step into our trench from last night. Fresh snow has erased our footprints and raised the snowdrifts another two feet, but we manage to crunch on top of the soft new layers. It's a much easier traverse this morning, following the same trail from before. Liam leads while I take sweep to ensure no one scurries off. I no longer know who to trust.

At the shed, I take point, whipping off the stiff gray cover. It requires some maneuvering and cold sweat, but Liam and I manage to get the vehicle out onto the snow.

"Who's driven one of these before?" I ask, already shooting my hand skyward. Predictably, Liam and Camille also raise their hands. It's us three ski bunnies versus sad-sack Willa and probable-killer Piper.

"Two of us take the snowmobile and the third skis," Camille says, surprisingly diplomatic.

Maybe she's smart enough to know it was always going to be Liam and me. Camille thumps a heel into the snow, testing the conditions for a run down the mountain, though we're nowhere near the road.

"You can't leave me here!" Willa cries out. Camille's math made clear who would be staying. "You know I can't ski well. Liam, please."

"It shouldn't take us long to get down," I say, voice steely calm. "If we go now, we can probably reach town in an hour or two." I crane my neck up to the gravel-gray sky. "It might storm again, but hopefully we're all clear."

"Come on." Liam throws a leg over the snowmobile, settling in at the front. I hop behind him.

"Hold on—let me run in and get my skis." Camille turns toward the outside ski-room doors, then stops. "God, they're in there with all the…bodies." She swallows audibly.

"I'll go with you," Liam offers.

"No." Camille sucks in a steadying breath, releases it slowly, finding her resolve. "I'll be fine."

"We'll wait for you," I say.

Snow slants against the ski-room door, but it's nothing Camille can't clear with a shovel from the shed. We watch as she disappears inside.

"You have the keys?" I ask Liam.

He pulls them from a bungee loop on the handle. It takes him a moment of fiddling before the key finds the lock.

"What the fuck!"

We all turn to follow Camille's voice.

"What is it?" Willa calls.

"They're broken!" Camille appears in the doorway. "Someone's damaged all the bindings! The skis are useless."

Liam and I exchange a grim look. He whips back around to the controls, throwing the kill switch into start mode. Then he turns the small silver key next to the choke lever and pulls. Finally, Liam yanks hard on the cord to the far left. We wait for the telltale roar of the engine coming to life, but the instead of a reassuring purr, it sputters pathetically.

"Does it have gas in it?" I ask. "Check the meter between your legs."

"I did, Delaney. It's full."

"Then why won't it start?"

"I don't know," Liam grits back.

The engine sputters without starting, no matter how hard or many times Liam tugs on the cord.

"FUCK!" Liam's frustration cracks in the air and echoes down the mountain.

Numb, I extricate myself from the snowmobile, mouth set in a firm line. And I say what everyone is thinking.

"Someone's sabotaged our only way out."