He saw now that he was close enough to the opposite bank of the river to throw his sleeping bag there, his water bottle. Stopping, he carefully removed the sleeping bag from around his neck and began to fasten the straps around it as tightly as he could so that it wouldn’t open up when he threw it.
First, he threw his water bottle across the remaining space, gasping in dread as it bounced off the tree foliage; for a few seconds, it looked as though it was going to be deflected into the river. Then it fell to the ground of the bank and he groaned with relief. He had to be more careful with the strapped-up sleeping bag.
It was easier than he thought it would be—although the tree trunk shifted slightly under him as he raised his right arm to fling the sleeping bag, the tightly strapped bag flew past the edge of the tree foliage and landed smartly on the riverbank. Good! he thought. Maybe things are going my way at last.
Then it happened.
Stunned, his hands jerked off the tree trunk and he toppled to his right as, in the distance, high and echoing, he heard Doug shouting “Bobby!”
The second echo was engulfed by roaring water as he plunged beneath its leaping, frigid surface. Instantly he was swept along by the swirling, plummeting current, feeling the icy cold of it knifing through his clothes. He fought to reach the surface and, for a flash of seconds, was able to gulp in air. Then he was beneath the water again, kicking and flailing helplessly against its surging pull.
He surfaced again and watched in shock as he was hurtled by a huge jagged rock. If I’d hit it! The horrifying thought coursed his mind. Then his brain was blanked as he continued tumbling over and under the rushing water, trying in vain to struggle toward the riverbank. He had to reach the bank. If he kept on tumbling this way, he’d be pounded to death on the jagged boulders all along the river.
He had no control though. Like a weighted cork, he was flung above and beneath the turbulent velocity of the water. He had to get to the other bank. If he stayed in the river, sooner or later he was bound to be smashed against a boulder or a sunken tree.
Suddenly the river swept him into a boulder-rimmed pool where he was dragged into an overhang and felt himself being tugged down by the cold, dark water. He tried to lift his legs but it seemed as though a huge magnet were holding them down. Unable to fight his way up, he felt the maelstrom sucking him down. Abruptly he was dragged down more then ten feet and his ears began to pop. I’m dead! he thought. It’s over!
With unexpected suddenness, he heard a voice shout in his ears, “Swim out of it!”
Unquestioning, he forced himself onto his stomach and began to kick as powerfully as he could, breast-stroking with all the strength he could summon. His lungs and chest ached from held breath, his eyes were wide and staring, terrified.
Abruptly he was flung from the whirlpool as though some unseen force had grabbed his body and hurled him through the water.
He gasped in air as he burst through the surface. Just in front of him, he saw another fallen tree, a number of logs trapped against it. Frantically, he clutched at a branch of the tree, breath laboring, his expression blank as he looked around expecting to see Doug on the riverbank; someone; anyone. There was no one though. He stared into the confusion of his mind and thought: Who shouted at me?
9:09 PM
When he had dragged himself infirmly from the river, he found himself unable to stand. He tried repeatedly; in vain. His legs felt devoid of strength and he kept flopping over like some hapless rag doll.
Finally, shaking with cold, his entire body aching from his harrowing experience in the river, he half crawled, half pulled himself away from the riverbank until he reached a fallen tree. Working his way beneath its trunk, with weak, fitful movements, he pulled as many dead leaves around himself as he could reach. It helped a little to abate his chilled body. Shivering, with occasional violent spasms, he lay beneath the tree, his body feeling so heavy he was sure he would never be able to move on again.
Only his brain kept moving.
Had it been an actual voice? Had something beyond himself come to his rescue?
He didn’t realize that he was smiling cynically at the concept. What he had heard, undoubtedly, was an audible expression of his own subconscious. Somewhere along the line, he had read that the only way to escape a whirlpool was to swim out of it. Now that he recalled, it was Randy who had told him that. He’d gone on a river rafting trip, been tossed from the raft, and sucked down into a whirlpool. He must have read about swimming out of it and had done so, thank God.
Anyway, he’d told his father about it and, obviously, Bob had remembered it and, in the extreme peril of the moment, had produced what seemed to be an audible voice telling him to swim out of the whirlpool. It would be comforting to believe that a guardian angel had saved him. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t allow himself to slip into such a deluding state of conviction. He’d become dependent on it. God forbid, complaisant in it. And that was out of the question, unacceptable. He still had to depend on himself to reach Marian. And there was a far more serious threat extant than whirlpools.
There was Doug.
A shudder racked his body. God, he was cold! He was going to have to move and soon. He had to retrieve his sleeping bag and water bottle, try to light a fire, attempt to dry his clothes—or, at least, dry them as much as he could. He hated having to go back up the river. He must have been swept along for quite a distance, perhaps gaining an unlooked for gain on Doug. But there was no help for it. He had to have the sleeping bag or he’d never make it through the night.
He tried to avoid thinking about where Doug was but it was impossible for him to do it.
He couldn’t believe—he mustn’t let himself believe—that Doug had actually seen him crossing the river on the fallen tree. The forest growth was just too thick—and Doug’s echoing shout had come from high above.
Most likely—he hoped—Doug had been high on a ridge and had—with terrifying coincidence—shouted Bob’s name simply to remind him that the pursuit was still on. Not that he needed reminding. He knew Doug had no intention of abandoning the chase.
The thing was—the question made Bob shudder uncontrollably—how far behind was Doug?
Leaving the question that preyed on his mind almost every moment, consciously or otherwise.
Was he going to make it?
By the time he’d found the sleeping bag and water bottle, darkness had fallen.
Fortunately, his flashlight still worked. If it hadn’t he would never have been able to locate the sleeping bag.
He unstrapped it, opened it up, and put it across his shoulders to try to warm himself a little. As the darkness deepened, the air grew more and more chilly, making him shiver almost constantly. I’m going to get sick if I don’t start getting some warmth in my system. God, but he could use Doug’s brandy flask right now. He’d save his one bottle of vodka.
Filling his water bottle from the river and adding two iodine tablets to it, he moved away from the river, into the forest, shining the flashlight beam on the ground so he wouldn’t accidentally run across a rattlesnake or step on a rock or into a hole and damage himself worse than he already was.
His mind wandered uncontrollably as he moved through the forest. Could Doug see his flashlight beam? Was Doug evil? Anagram: vile. And evil spelled backward is live. Any meaning there? Probably not. Is it evil to live? Evil not to live?