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  Everywhere hurts, except the ripped and torn section of my arm, possibly due to not getting all the feeling back in that section of my body yet. I continue hollering. The group on land rushes to the platform, all of them shouting after Juan. “Guys,” I manage between tortured hollers, fall to my knees, unable to continue standing under this mysterious torment. “Something’s wrong…guys!”

  “Juan!”

  I wrap my arms tight over my head and squeeze, hoping maybe the additional pressure will ease the home-acupuncture sensation assaulting my senses. Miraculously it helps a little, but only where my gaping wrist hole touches my head. To test the theory, I press that section of arm tighter to my scalp and the brain shaking stabs abate enough to move to a spot where I can see what everyone is staring at.

  The zip line is about a third of the way out over the ravine, the chord dips and rises with the breeze, but not the weight of Juan. There is no Juan on the wooden seat. “Where’s Juan?”

  Gordon answers without turning to look at me. “He fell.”

  Head pain flares. I press my arm harder against my hair, determined to stay coherent enough to be of some use. “But where is he?” I say stupidly.

  “He fell, Jennie. He fell.” Mav loses patience. “Where do you think he is?” He points to the deep divide between us and the other side.

  Keeping my arm steady and firm to my skull, I fight to control the wince building from the needling still pinging most of the surface of my skin. “But…I don’t hear him.”

  “What part of ‘he fell’ don’t you understand?” Mav hollers.

  “He’s a robot.” I thrust my arm out for emphasis, but the result is instant unrelenting pain, and I drop to the ground before I can regain the pressure patch of open wrist to head. “It’s not like he can die from the fall.” I remind everyone.

  “She’s right,” Gordon says. “We have to go find him.”

  “It’s a sheer drop.” Mav backs away from the edge of the ravine. “There’s no way we can climb down that safely.”

  “We find another way down,” Belen offers. “There are more places.”

  Finding another way down does not include shoving me off the side of the cliff to prove my ‘he’s a robot and won’t die’ statement, even though I suspect Belen really wants to test the theory.

  Instead, Gordon pulls the line back to us. When the stick seat is within reach, Mav flips a pocket knife from his pants. Nothing impressive, just a small metal clip with a moderately dull blade on a bolt hinge so that it swings out. He saws at the rope until it frays itself loose from the swing, which jumps once freed from its tether and skips away down the line out of reach—effectively promising decent as our only crossing option left.

  “Grab it!” Gordon calls, too late. Luckily Belen is faster than me and manages to catch the end before we’re totally stranded.

  “Now what?” I ask.

  “Repel.” Mav hefts the lengths of rope like he’s testing its integrity based on its weight.

  “Belen said there might be other paths down,” I point out.

  “But then we’ll be searching for where Juan fell.” Mav double checks where the tow rope secures to the post. The post does not boast strength in itself. I wonder if, without the added stability of its pair, the post won’t hold a person. “If we descend here, we’re more likely to find him.”

  “More likely? As in there’s a chance we won’t?” I say pressing my arm so hard against my head, my whole-body leans with the pressure.

  “I don’t hear him,” Gordon reminds us. “What if there’s a river or an animal?”

  “Wouldn’t we have heard him hit?” I say.

  “Not with you screaming like that,” Mav sounds anything but empathetic.

  “Oh, yeah. Sorry.” I don’t hide my irritation. “Sorry my head’s exploding and my nervous system’s going napalm. So sorry to inconvenience you with all that.”

  “Do you need to recharge or something?” Gordon asks.

  I turn my whole body, so I can face Gordon without talking through my arm, which I refuse to move from where it’s pressing into my face. It’s the only thing keeping me from screaming the insane elevated system stimulus that feels like fire erupting from everywhere inside me. “No. Juan and I both took turns charging in the car.”

  Mav tosses the rope into the mountain pit. It’s not a loud sound, but the motion draws all our attention. The rope dances in rounded waves that worm back up to us once it slaps the musty wall of earth we’re standing above. “Who’s first?”

  “Not me!” I call out. No one fights me for coward dibs. And no one complains. It seems I’m the last person they want to be the first person down.

  “I’ll go.” Gordon takes the length of rope out of Mav’s hands, then slides five inches when the weight of the hanging section pulls him toward the edge of the platform, which cracks and slides toward the gaping maw. Gordon drops the rope, reaching for the post nearest him.

  “Don’t let go,” Mav warns, but Gordon still doesn’t have his balance and can’t reach for the fallen rope and the post for support at the same time.

  Gordon swings his arms windmill style, slapping the air for something to mute his stumbling, finding nothing.

  “Grab the rope!” Mav takes a step closer to Gordon to assist. His broad weight impresses on the dock with another split and pop of wood. Gordon lunges forward, falling against the dock face down.

  Rotted wood separates from the platform where it’s snapped and Gordon slides with it as it dips into the abyss. His hands slapping for rope, or anything to grab. He’d probably settle for a snake if he thought it’d give him leverage to stop falling.

  Everything slips away. I can’t look but hear chunks of wood hitting tree trunks and knocking sideways in a game of random bouncing from one ping to the next. The rope’s gone taut when I open my eyes.

  “Gordon!” I rush to the post, careful to have something for support. My protective arm lowers for only a second, but I replace it just as quickly. Can’t do that—too much pain.

  Mav and Belen cling to the post as well.

  “Don’t everybody hang on that post!” Gordon hollers up. “I can feel it slipping out of the earth with all your weight on it.”

  We all step back, holding nothing, respecting his insight. Because we felt it move just a little as well, and we’re better off staying together. Which means we all have to go down the rope.

  Gordon continues to descend. No one thought about how to belay. Gordon isn’t the most in shape guy. He’s not overweight, but there’s more to being fit than pounds. It only takes thirty seconds for him to mention anything. “My arms are shaking.”

  “Can you wrap the rope around your waist?” Mav calls down.

  “Not now!” Gordon raises his voice. I’m sure if he wasn’t afraid of expending his much-needed energy for holding onto the rope, he’d add more to his response such as ‘that would have been a good suggestion a minute ago’ or ‘thanks dumbass’ or maybe, ‘why don’t you get down here and wrap it around my waist for me?’. But he doesn’t say anything more.

  “Go down faster,” Belen suggests. I’m not sure if the guys are understanding her Spanish better, but it’s seeming less weird to me that she speaks mostly in her own tongue. Maybe we’re just really good at context clues. Both Mav and I nod in agreement, not that Gordon can see it. Gordon needs to get down faster.

  Mav cups his hands around his mouth, projecting his voice down the cliff. “Cover your palms with your shirt, or some kind of cloth, and slide.”

  Gordon doesn’t respond, but the rope shakes accompanied by the sizzle sound of a hot zipper.

  “Gordo?” Mav calls. “Can you hear me, man?”

  Still the zipping sound. “I can’t stop.”

  “Use your feet.” Mav presses his own feet into the dirt like he’s got the passenger brake on a student teaching vehicle.

  “I can’t, it’s not working,” Gordon yells, but it comes at us faint and frantic. How far down i
s the bottom? “I see the end of the rope!”

  “Okay, great, you’re almost there.” Mav’s face lights with relief, he shines hope at Belen and me, on the verge of laughter. The man can’t handle heights. It’s obvious he’s terrified to attempt the climb down to Juan.

  “No,” Gordon calls.

  “What?” Mav’s smile drops without a crease of its memory. “Gordo?”

  “The rope ends, but there’s… I can’t stop!”

  “Gordon!” Finish your damn sentence. “What’s there?”

  “Nothing. Nothing’s at the end of the rope. No earth.”

  The zipping sound tightens. I imagine Gordon choking the line, burning through fabric and skin to slow his fall. Then the line bounces.

  “Gordo!” Mav screams down. He leans so far over the edge, I think he might fall as well.

  “Mav, step back.” The tips of my fingers on my good hand hover over Mav’s shoulder, ready to grab him if I must. “Away from the edge.”

  “I didn’t hear him hit, did you?” Mav spins to face us. “Did you hear him hit the ground?”

  “No.” Belen looks up as though the sky or her forehead holds the memories of whether or not Gordon’s body struck earth.

  “Gordo!” Mav screams again. “Gordo…” Mav removes his shirt, rips it in two and wraps a half around each hand. He lifts the now loose rope and circles his waist with it. He holds one padded palm at his hip with the rope secure in his grip and the other in front of him and out slightly, so his arm is bent, showing off a lot of well-defined muscles.

  I remember thinking Ace had the same defined build. In the game, I assumed Ace’s appearance was invented, which it was. He invented himself to look like his brother—who it turns out has unbelievable, very real, physical definition.

  “I’m coming.” Mav sits back into the hold of the rope, almost as if he’s resting on the hand at his hip. He’s at the edge of the land above the ravine. None of us steps foot at the broken platform. He cocks his head to the side once, his internal conversation shows by the movement of his mouth, arguing with himself about taking that first step. Then, he does.

  Once Mav drops enough distance to ensure he won’t overhear me talk to Belen, I say to only her, “We might be the only ones left.”

  Belen slowly turns toward me. The expression on her face, far from commiserate.

  “Not that I want that,” I stammer. “I’m not rooting for that…or you know. I’m just saying…” Genuinely, I have no idea how to recover this. “It’s not like we’re going to continue to copy the same folly behavior, though…right?” She’s not going to do the same thing if we lose Mav too, is she?

  I wait for Belen to answer. The language barrier means I need to give longer wait time, I think. Except that wait time keeps extending. I have no other human comparison up here with me now. I can’t look to Mav with the expression of, ‘has this been a weirdly long wait time?’ in order to judge what to do next, or when. Or if I should look away or something so it looks less like I expect Belen to answer me. At this point, I’d be less surprised if she climbed to the top of the post and leaped to her ravine-splat death instead of responding to me.

  “Good call,” I respond after so long Belen looks at me again. I’m unsure if I’m programmed to feel embarrassed, or if it simply comes naturally to my existence. I mean, I’m essentially the brainwave elements of failed donors. Failure is sort of my MO. Embarrassment feels worse.

  “Jennie.” Mav’s voice carries from the pit.

  Belen and I both lean farther, pressing our ears closer to the sound and farther from safety. “Do you see anything?” I shout down.

  “The rope stops above the tree line.” The trees here are overtly healthy. Like trees that grow triple the size of what Mexico managed under ideal conditions.

  “How far you think?”

  A long pause. “I don’t know.”

  Totally unhelpful. Why bother pausing to answer, if he’s not even going to estimate a response? “Can you climb back up?”

  “I don’t know.”

  If he was standing next to me, I’d do something. Something equally annoying to the response ‘I don’t know’. Like maybe flick his ear, or pull out three hairs individually. “What’s your plan?”

  “I can’t make it back up,” he says. “My arms are spent.”

  “What if I pull the line up?” I can tell by the way the open canyon swallows our sounds and how the mist of cloud cover cushions our words like we’re hollering with pillows over our faces, there’s a great distance between us. Also, it’s not a short rope. It’s long. The bottom of this canyon is exceptionally deep.

  “I can’t hold on that long, not for the ride up.”

  “Yes, you can,” I say.

  “I told you, I’m spent.” His voice sound strained, but that could be the effort to throw volume up to us from the depth he’s descended.

  “What other options do you have?” I scream and lean maybe too close. My foot slips and I think ‘idiot! You’re going over.’ Until a firm, but a small hand grabs my shirt, pulling the slack out of the fabric with her balled fist, yanking me back. I weigh a million times more than Belen—and that’s only slightly exaggerating—but her support gives me the split second I need to regain my footing.

  “Thanks,” I say in a winded tone. I don’t get winded, mind. I don’t breathe, so it’s an emotional response more than a physiological reaction.

  “I’m letting go.” Mav’s voice comes out like a hoarse roar.

  “Mav, no!”

  The rope bounces with the absence of weight pulling it taught.

  Belen lifts the rope, wraps it once around her waist.

  “Are you crazy?” I yank it away, pulling Belen and the rope away from the mouth of the fall.

  “No.” Belen yanks back.

  “They’ve all fallen.”

  Belen continues to prep by binding her hands with material from the bottom of her pants.

  “Stop it.” I wasn’t far off about Belen possibly jumping to avoid talking with me, but damned if I thought I was being dramatic. Passing the time via mental melodrama. I never thought she’d actually repeat the failed behavior the last two guys who tried. She doesn’t stop. Her back to the ledge, she sits into her hold, imitating Mav beautifully. If he were here, I’m certain he’d be proud of his role modeling accomplishment.

  “What am I supposed to do?” I ask. “Repeat the same nonsense?”

  Belen makes no effort to answer my question. Instead, she looks where my arm is still pressed firmly against my head. Like somehow the fact I’m stuck with my arm in this ridiculous position just so I can function proves something, or answers something, or means something.

  It doesn’t. It’s just the way it is until I can figure out what the problem is, where the torturous feedback originates from and eliminate the stimulus. I’d suspect Juan had something to do with the feedback, but he fell like an anvil and hasn’t made so much as a whimper since.

  And then, Belen steps out and down. She’s over the ledge and makes regular step-step-slide of the rope progress. She doesn’t communicate with me. All I can do is wait.

  Do I follow after her? Wait? Lament the fact I’m with a bunch of morons who don’t understand their own mortality? Humans are mortal. It’s their definition. I’m not human. But part of me feels mortal even still. In this world, things have a sense of finite, limited, fragile. There’s no leveling up. If anything, life here is varying degrees of tradeoffs on a long-angled level, sliding ever faster toward ‘end’.

  The line remains rigid with swinging motions indicating Belen still hangs on.

  “You alright?”

  “Go down.”

  She wants me to add my weight to the rope while she’s still on it? That sounds like very poor judgment. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea, Belen.”

  “Come!”

  “I’m just not sure about your logic, right now.” I holler down what I hope are appeasing explanations as to why I’
m not climbing on that rope. Not now while she’s on it, and probably not even if she decides to drop as the others did. I’m not about to follow erroneous behavior to the same tragic result. “…what with everyone dropping from unknown heights and no one seems to be feeling well for the last, I don’t know how many hours.” Then it hits me. No one is in their right mind. No one.

  “Belen!” I shout but keep talking before allowing enough time for her to answer. “Stop!”

  “Basta!”

  “No. STOP.” I assume basta means she’s about to drop like she’s had it with everything and is ending it on her own terms, but who knows. Basta could mean ‘I’ve stopped’ for all my translation skills work. “Before you go another inch, just tell me…” How to phrase my question so it doesn’t trigger her to do something stupid? “What do you think will happen if you drop? No, no, no… I mean, what do you think happened to the others when they dropped?” Stop saying ‘drop’ dangit! “No. I mean, what are you thinking?” It comes out more motherly than I intend. But, seriously, what are they all thinking?

  The rope pings upward, void of weight pulling it to earth.

  “Belen!” I reprimand. “I told you to stop!”

  Rebels never listen.

  I have a choice to make. Repeat actions that have proven faulty time after time. Or walk away. I turn to face uphill. The path erodes where our feet pushed grass and flowers out by the roots, the dirt falls deep from our muddy shoeprints.

  A wisp of cottony mist wraps around me, winding up the path and covering evidence of where we changed the landscape. I turn toward the cold condensation rolling in around me. I can no longer see the edge of the ravine, the platform, or even where rock peeks through the greenery. Only the high posts at the mouth of the openness mark danger. If we found this place in the state it’s in now, we’d all have toppled over its edge before realizing what we’d done. All of us together. Not one of us walking off alone and unharmed.