Survive by Alex Morel Read Free Book Online Page B

blotchy and red. I pull on the first pair of long underwear, then the socks and a baggy pair of snow pants. I tuck a second pair of long johns and a dry pair of jeans for Paul underneath my coat.
    I pull out a wind shell that I quickly put on.
    Underneath, I find a sweater and a stash of energy bars. I tuck them down my shirt and zip up the shell.
    There’s undoubtedly more stuff in the rest of the plane.
    I walk down the aisle opening the overhead luggage bins. I pull down what I assume is a sleeping bag brought by one of the climbers. I slide my arm under the bungee cords wrapped around the bag and strap it across my back like a makeshift knapsack. I open the next overhead bin. I leap out of the way as luggage falls out. I start popping open the bags one by one. Hats, gloves. Pants. Sweaters. Wool socks! I grab three pairs and I stuff the extra gloves and hat into the pockets of my shell. I pull out a scarf and wrap it around my neck. I find a bag of chips I pocket for later.
    Halfway down the aisle, I find another one of the climber’s bags and I pull it down. It’s stuffed with ropes and all sorts of other, unrecognizable gear. I loop a coil of rope around my shoulder. I look for a knife or any other sharp objects, but there’s nothing.
    The yellow bag,
I think.
Find the yellow bag.

Chapter 15
    I walk out of the main cabin and look at the graveyard of luggage strewn across the snow. All this stuff must have been in the cargo belly of the plane, which tore open like a tin can on landing.
    I look for yellow rather than the shape of the backpack. Every color in the rainbow pokes up bright and clear against the canvas of white. Red sweaters, brown shoes, toothbrushes and makeup, tan pants and striped shirts. Black bags. Red bags. Pink. Orange. White. And about twenty feet from the far end of the cabin sits a neon yellow backpack.
    I push through deep drifts, my right hand grazing the cold metal of the main cabin for balance. When I reach the end, I turn left and walk twenty feet out, wading through a pile of unopened bags until I reach what I really hope is Paul’s backpack. I fish around inside the main pocket of his bag until I locate his knife. I pull it out. The blade is sharp and thick, jagged at the tip. A day ago, had I stumbled upon this in Life House, I wouldn’t have thought twice about using it on myself. Now using it for any purpose other than to save Paul is inconceivable. I unzip my jacket and tuck the knife in the side pocket reserved for wallets and keys.
    I sling Paul’s bag over my shoulder, next to the sleeping bag. My burden is bulky and the weight is top-heavy and uneven, making it difficult to walk. A few steps are all it takes for me to know that carrying it to the ledge will be too time-consuming. I take it off and shove it under the roof of the main cabin to protect it from the snow. I trudge back along the outside of the main cabin, using my hand for balance, and then out toward the ledge, with the rope over my shoulder and Paul’s clothes under my jacket. I pat my side pocket several times to make sure Paul’s knife is still there.
    • • •
    I get back to the ledge and look over at Paul. I call to him, but he doesn’t hear me. The wind has picked up and it makes it difficult to hear anything.
    I scream, “Paul,” as loud as I can, and then I kick some snow and he looks up.
    “Hey,” he says.
    We stare at each other for a brief moment. Even from this distance, or maybe because of it, there’s a lot in his eyes: fear, death, and a kind of desperate loneliness I understand but could never explain in words.
    I look down and really study Paul’s predicament for the first time. He is sitting twenty feet below the ledge, wedged between a tree and the slope of the mountain. It is closer to a cliff than a mountain slope. He is still fastened into his seat by his seat belt, which is jammed. If he were to somehow cut away the belt, I don’t see any conceivable way he could exit his seat