"Seventy meters."
He nodded. He didn't ask what thickness, so she guessed that Walter had only the one roll stocked. They would use whatever was there.
He disappeared out the front, and she left the food to inspect the gear. She hadn't touched it since putting it in the attic three years ago, when she moved here. He hadn't brought down the helmets, but she understood why: they were brightly colored, easily visible. A lot of climbers didn't wear helmets anyway, but she and Derek always had.
The old fascination returned as she sorted out the gear, and for a minute she felt the tug of excitement, the hue of sun and height, her skill and strength pitted against the rock. She had fallen, of course. So had Derek. So had every climber she knew. But that was what the ropes were for, and that was why she wouldn't climb with old ones.
She forced herself to turn away from the gear and go back to food prep. Water would be a big problem, because it was so heavy. A gallon of water weighed eight pounds, not counting the weight of the container. She had some bottled water, but no convenient way to carry it. They needed a waterskin that could be sitting on the back, but she couldn't think of any way to improvise one.
Maybe Roy Edward would know if there was running water on the mountains. There was, surely, aside from the bigger stream that formed part of Trail Stop's boundary before joining with the river.
Cal returned with coils of rope over his shoulders. He looked over her preparations and nodded. "I helped myself to some things while I was getting the rope. I have matches in a waterproof box, some things like that. How about blankets?"
"The ones I have are thick," she said. "I was going to take some back to the others, but they're too thick to carry while we're climbing."
He nodded. "I have a couple of thin blankets at my place, and a sleep pad that rolls up tight. Okay, that's it. We could use more stuff, but we can't carry it. Let's go. By the time we get ready to leave, we won't have much daylight left."
"What are we going to do? We can't climb in the dark."
"We're going to get into position, which could take a couple of hours. Whatever we can do tonight, that's time we'll save tomorrow."
He was right about that, and he had a brisk discipline to every movement, even his tone of voice, that told her he knew exactly what he was doing. He'd done this before, probably in circumstances just as dire.
When they made it back to the Richardsons', they found that Creed had organized the others with the same sort of crispness Cal displayed. While Cal took some of them out to show them the safest ways to move around, the angles they should use, and where they should be wary, Creed worked on the water problem.
According to Roy Edward there were several streams in the mountains, which helped, but they still had to solve the bottle problem. Creed looked thoughtful. The next thing Cate knew, Maureen was cutting the legs out of some of Perry's thermal-knit underwear. She tied off the end of one, and loaded bottles in the cutoff leg as if putting torpedoes in a firing tube. When each leg was full, she tied off the other end, then fashioned slings that could be worn across the shoulder and chest, with the weight of the water on their backs, Cate tried it out. There was more weight than she was comfortable with, but that would lessen as they drank.
Cal returned with two blankets and what she supposed was a sleeping pad, which looked much like a yoga mat. One of the blankets was rolled up and strapped to her, while he carried the mat and the other blanket. He put on his sling of Water, grinning at the solution, then looked at Creed.
"What's the closest place we can go for help, after we get through the cut?"
"My place," Creed said. "From my back porch, I can see the cut. Other than that, there's a dude ranch about six or seven miles off the highway, and Gordon Moons place is a little farther than that in the opposite direction. If you can find my place, you can use the phone there, but you'd have to use some dead-on course plotting, Marine."
Cal grinned. "If you happen to know the coordinates, I have a handheld GPS unit." He tapped the cargo pocket on his right thigh.
A slow answering grin spread across Greed's face. "Imagine that. It happens I have one, too. Wouldn't look good for the guide to get lost, now would it?'
"You remember the coordinates?"
"Does a kitty cat have an ass? Know em like my birthday.'
Chapter 26
"What the hell are they doing over there?" Toxtel muttered to Teague when the latter walked by on his way to relieve Billy. Goss was taking a break back at the tent, since he was due to relieve Toxtel at midnight. Now was when they settled into routine, and now was when staying alert would become harder and harder.
Teague looked like hell and felt worse, but he was walking, and he intended to take his shift. The lump on his forehead was so big he couldn't get a cap on, but the slightest pressure made him feel as if his head were exploding anyway, so he was just as glad to do without one. The pain had kept up a steady pounding all day, but he'd checked his pupils in his rearview mirror and they were both the same size, so he figured he was okay; he'd just have to tough it out through the pain. He popped a couple of ibuprofen every four hours and that took the edge off, which would have to do.
Teague glanced across at the seemingly deserted community. From where he stood, he could see a couple of bodies lying where they'd fallen. If anything much had happened over there today, he couldn't tell. "What do you mean?"
''You'd think they'd at least try to find out what's going on, but no one's stuck his nose out or yelled."
"Give em until tomorrow," said Teague. '"I figure Creed is getting them organized to try something. They may not wait until tomorrow; they might try something tonight. We'll have to stay alert." He stared across the wreckage of the bridge; he wouldn't have been surprised to see Creed on the other side, shotgun to shoulder and sighting down the barrel at him... Shit, he had to stop thinking about Creed, stop letting himself be mind-fucked. He wasn't stupid, he wouldn't discount Creed, but the bastard wasn't a superman. He was good at what he did. period. Well, Teague thought, so am I.