As the first few flakes of the day’s snowfall kissed the exposed areas along his face and neck, Ethan attempted to sit forward. He flexed his right arm and made a fist, relieved to find that the extent of his injuries were encapsulated in only his shoulder. After three such injuries over the last twenty years, he’d be able to repair the damage on his own, if only he could get the beast clawing its way toward his throat to find another victim.
. . .
Friday, October 6th, 1995. Seventeen minutes into the most important game of his epic high school football career, Ethan Runner found out that his seventeen-year-old body wasn’t necessarily invincible.
Lying flat on his back in the middle of the street, he flashed to the first time he suffered pain of this magnitude. The fourth quarter of what would be his final high school football game, a night that should have brought about no less than eleven full-ride athletic scholarship offers, became the crutch he’d carry for the next two decades.
From the huddle, he nodded as his best friend signaled the next play. Before turning back to the rest of his offensive squad, Ethan looked toward the four seats occupied by his parents, his sister Emma, and the woman who’d become his wife only a handful of years later.
Emma, his mother, and his girlfriend seemed to be buried in whatever gossip they felt needed their attention at the moment. However, as was always the case, his father leaned into the railing and made eye contact with Ethan. He smiled and looked toward the end zone. Ethan smiled and nodded before dropping his head back into the huddle and calling out the play.
“We’re going big. Let’s show these children on the other side of line of scrimmage why they should have never stepped off that bus.”
His offensive line began to slap at their hip pads as he called the play. “Eighty-three blue goose, deep pocket, blast left, on two.”
As they moved into position, Ethan again scanned the crowd. This time he looked toward the upper right corner, attempting to count the number of college scouts spaced intermittently throughout the local families enjoying their Friday night ritual.
They weren’t hard to spot. Discreetly alone and most with a massive clipboard obscuring their faces, these individuals only took their eyes off the field when Ethan moved to the sidelines. Although he’d already made up his mind on which school he’d quarterback for the following season, his father told him to keep an open mind and visit as many schools as time would allow.
There were a total of six schools on his short-list. And even though many of his friends were staying local or heading to the West Coast, Ethan had his mind made up that he’d be tossing the pigskin for the Florida Gators. His trip to the Sunshine State over the summer sealed the deal.
As he settled in behind center and scanned the defense, the world around went silent as it always did. The other twenty-one players on the field were his to own. Ethan was told on more than a few occasions that his ability to read defenses, as the plays were actually happening, was unparalleled at his age.
Taking the ball and dropping back, he quickly accounted for the three closest defenders and pumped the ball, sending those most near back and onto their heels. Ethan then shuffled left and hesitated as his teammate sped up field, losing the last two opponents.
Six seconds ticked off the clock as Ethan took a step forward and stiff-armed the opposing number sixty-six, sending him face-first into the turf. Pausing for another second, he waited for the pocket to clear, dropped his shoulder, and shot forward through the small opening between his left tackle and guard.
Crossing the line of scrimmage, Ethan leapt one of the cornerbacks and turned up field. As he cut left and headed for the sideline, seven of the players on the opposing team were already too far behind to be of any real danger.
Less than a second later, as he was blowing by the fifty yard line, there was only one player left with any real chance of stopping him. Ethan’s forty yard dash would be the best his school had seen in decades and only second to one other player in the entire valley. That player was now less than ten yards away. That player was the opposing number forty-two.
Cutting the field at a thirty degree angle, number forty-two was closer to the end zone, although Ethan was sure that one perfectly timed cut would put another six points on the scoreboard before the half ended. He only needed to stay on the gas.
At the twenty, the player now clearly making this personal, cut into his peripheral line of sight and moved quicker than anyone he’d played to date. As Ethan planted his left foot, just inches shy of the sideline, number forty-two left his feet, the red stripe along the top of his helmet in a direct path with Ethan’s right arm.
Switching the ball to his left hand, pushing off, and raising his right arm, Ethan met his opponent at the six yard line. Attempting to force them both into the end zone, Ethan leaned into the collision, sending both he and his opponent airborne.
Number forty-two’s helmet stuck Ethan just below his armpit and continued upward, forcing his elbow and forearm over his head. As they re-entered the atmosphere and were thrown into the grass, he slid headfirst to the three yard line, as fragments of sod and soil caked in around his facemask.
Twisting to the right and attempting to push himself up, Ethan only was able to pull free his left arm. As number forty-two scampered away to rejoin his team, and the crowd’s applause began to die off, Ethan rolled to his back and sat forward.
This sensation was different. It was definitely a nine on the pain scale, maybe a ten. However, it was also infused with a dash of emptiness, almost as if his right shoulder was falling asleep. This was something he’d never experienced in this section of his body. Ethan attempted to place his hand on the ground to support pushing back to a standing positon, although his right arm refused.
His second effort placed him flat on his back, cradling his right arm in his left. And as the crowd went deadly quiet, the only voices were those of the overly exuberant crickets serenading one another, somewhere out in the late summer night.
Before the distant footsteps came bounding across the field toward him, Ethan regained the feeling along his left side. A rush of warmth was closely followed by a shock wave that raced from his shoulder into his neck, and exploded against the back of his skull.
His heart rate climbed with each second that passed and as he fought to take each new breath, a familiar voice broke the silence. “Hey buddy, I’m here.”
His father was the first to reach him and kneeling at his side, gently took Ethan’s right hand. “Your shoulder?”
Two quick short breaths. “Yeah dad. It hurts real bad.”
“I saw the hit son, it’s probably separated. But hey, we’ll get you to the hospital and fixed up before you know it. Just hang in there.”
On the stretcher and escorted along the outer edge of the track, Ethan’s breathing slowly began to return to normal. Hesitantly looking out over the crowd as the game continued, he watched as four of the six scouts packed their things and without making eye contact, hurried out of the stadium.
Wheeled into the emergency room with his father at his side, Ethan waited for the doctor and the nurse to vacate. As they slid the privacy curtain around his bed and the pain meds started to do their job, he had only one thing on his mind. “Dad?”
“Yeah?”
“The scout from Florida, did you talk to him? Is he still here?”
“Your mother has been trying to reach him at his hotel since the game ended.”
Only half wanting to know, Ethan said, “Dad, do you think I’m done? I mean this is my throwing arm.”
His dad smiled. “It won’t be easy, but you will come back from this. The pain you’re feeling is only temporary. Ethan, you were born to be a leader. So, when we leave this hospital, I want you to hold your head high and act like one. Show everyone in this valley who you are by doing what you need to do to get back on that field. Let your actions be your words.”
. . .
The man clawing at his waist was now gone and as the rapid gunfire died off, David came into view, now standing over him. “Buddy, you nearly got yourself killed. How’s your head?”
Back on his feet and moving slowly past the six corpses, Ethan said. “My head is fine, it’s my shoulder, and it’s out again.”
“Well,” David said, “then it’s a good thing we’re headed to the hospital.”
As David helped him back into the passenger’s side of the armored truck, Ethan thought back to that night twenty years before and only wished he’d have taken his father’s advice.
Eyeing the edge of the cliff nearly thirty feet above, she waited for Griffin to appear; he didn’t. Five minutes maybe ten, she wasn’t sure, but it felt like time slowed to a crawl. She called out to him numerous times and after all she’d seen over the last ten years, it almost seemed absurd that she needed anyone’s help. Least of all from a man.
Onto her right elbow, Cora torqued her shoulders left to get a glimpse of her predicament. Through the mess of blood and dirt clinging to her jacket, she could see where the branch pushed out of the ground, traveled eighteen inches, and then buried itself into her left side. The actual wound wasn’t visible, however the rib-splitting agony confirmed that she had more to worry about than her lost partner.
Lying back down, Cora slid her right hand into the pocket-sized gash along the front of her jacket and pulled free several lengthy strips of the black nylon fabric. She tied them end to end and then retrieved two large handfuls of the inner lining from just above her waist.
As the initial shock began to wear off and the area along her left side flowed a steady river of blood, Cora closed her eyes. She focused on each individual breath and counted to ten. Checking the rock-face one last time, she spotted something that wasn’t there two minutes before.
It was his arm. From the forearm down, it was Griffin. It wasn’t moving and although normally that would be cause for alarm, she was relieved to see it motionless. It meant that those chasing them weren’t hovering over his body tearing him apart. If they were, there’d surely be some sign. At least she hoped.
With the black nylon tied into a three-foot strap, Cora snapped off a pencil-sized branch that hung just above her head and placed it between her teeth. Setting the jacket’s lining near the entry point along her left side, she slid the strap over her back, wiggled it behind her, and down to her waist.
“Now or never.”
Sliding her legs back, Cora placed her feet against the twin mounds of granite at her left and bit down hard into the six-inch limb. Digging her heels in as tears rolled down her cheek, she reached overhead and anchored herself to the largest branch she could find.
As she pushed away, the sound of her anguish echoed through the valley below and then came rushing back just as fast. Pulling free of the limb impaled along her left side, Cora rolled onto her stomach and dropped her head to the ground.
Spitting out the small stick, Cora slowly backed out of the bush, wiped her face, and sat looking up at the steep hillside. Her pulse soared as she pulled her jacket up and fastened the length of nylon around her waist. Struggling to take a breath, she reached in and forced the jacket’s lining into the space between her wound and the makeshift strap.
Light-headed and not quite ready for what came next, Cora winced as she leaned forward and used the short ledge to help her stand. Scanning the area to the right, she found a slightly less aggressive route back to the top. The slight angle meant not having to actually climb, giving her an opportunity to possibly repay her debt to Griffin.
Testing her strength, she stepped first with her right foot and waited for the flood of pain. To her surprise, only a slight twinge shot along her left side, and nothing more. Not wanting to under-compensate for the opposite side, she raised her left foot and matched the arc traveled in her first step. Twice the volume of pain as the first, but nothing to write home about.
Three more slow steps and then out into the soft underbrush at the right side of the cliff, Cora took another head-clearing breath before starting up the incline. So far, so good. The pain was tolerable and in lifting her jacket once again, she could see that the flow of red velvet along her left hip had slowed considerably.
She’d reach Griffin in a matter of minutes, and although she hadn’t seen any movement from above, this was something she needed to do. One foot in front of the other, Cora moved in a zig-zag pattern through the awkwardly spaced trees, her left hand keeping pressure over the injury.
Not wanting to alert those in pursuit of her presence, but with the need to defuse her growing fears, Cora put a voice to her concerns. “Griffin.”
She spoke quickly, while attempting to keep her voice from carrying. “Are you okay?”
Although she hadn’t expected a response, she slowed and waited between two large spruces and listened to the passing storm move through the treetops. Nothing but her heart beating against the inside of her chest as Cora shook her head and started again.
Three feet from the crest and around the last tree, she spotted his boots. Another few feet beyond that, one of the women from the bus, clawing at the ground and inching toward him. Without another foothold in sight, Cora used both hands for leverage, and swung herself up and onto the open ledge.
The tenderness at her left side resurging, she clutched her hip and moved without caution to Griffin’s side. Flat on his stomach, his arms and legs jutted out in four different directions, but looked to be injury free. She laid her hand on his back and exhaled as she felt the rise and fall with each new breath.
Pulling the hair away from his eyes, the bruise running from just above his right brow and ending at his hairline was beginning to swell. His lids fluttered as she leaned in and spoke quietly into his ear. “Griffin, wake up. I need to get you off this mountain, but I can’t do it by myself.”
Turning back to the woman now only inches from his legs, she was able to see where the others that followed had met their end. Putting the pieces together, it looked as if the ice-slicked rock formations were as much of an ally to Griffin as they were to his downfall.
Three of the six that gave chase were obviously eliminated by Griffin, as evidenced by the bloodied, grapefruit sized rock sitting at their feet. It appeared he must have used the slippery surface to take them to the ground one at a time, and then rapidly extinguish what remained inside.
With the last two nowhere to be found, Cora had a more pressing matter that needed her attention. The woman at their feet now had a hand hold on Griffin’s pant leg and began to pull him toward her. Cora grimaced as she rolled Griffin onto his back and away from the disturbed woman.
Her left hand on her hip, she used the other to drag the flailing woman across the frozen granite, to where the earth dropped off. As the woman clawed furiously at the air, striking Cora’s right pant leg repeatedly, she carefully slid her over the ledge. She paused a moment to watch the woman slide slowly into the same outcropping that had assaulted her minutes before.
Ten feet away, Griffin began to cough. As she hurried over, he arched forward and began to dry heave. Kneeling at his side, Cora held his hand and waited for the episode to pass. He didn’t look good, but at the same time his eyes were now open, he was breathing, and for the moment was somewhat coherent. “Griffin, can you hear me?”
He nodded as he brought his hand up over the goose egg protruding from his forehead. “Yeah, I’m okay, what happened?”
“Too much to go into now. How do you feel?”
“Nauseous,” he said. “And my head feels like it went through the garbage disposal.”
“Can you walk?”
“I think so, but it doesn’t really matter. We both have to get up right now.”
“What?”
“There’s more coming.”