The Lost and Alone Affair chapter 9/?
The Lost and Alone Affair Chapter 9
AN: If you have never been to the desert or have never seen a flashflood, I would like to suggest that you go to youtube and do a search for flashfloods. There are some amazing videos out there.
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In its own curious way nature pointed the way to the site of the car wreck and the carnage that lay about it. Just as scavengers flew above and settled around Kessler's body, they were also present at the site, except there were many, so very many more.
Pulling his jeep onto the shoulder of the road some distance away, Napoleon stepped out and carefully observed the area. As much as he wanted to charge down the steep bank into the arroyo and look for Illya, it wouldn't do to run into a THRUSH trap. Ahead, about 200 yards, just around a curve in the road, was a jeep with the THRUSH insignia painted on the door. Next to it was the twisted and broken guard rail. If Illya's vehicle went down there how did anyone survive?
With mounting tension and trepidation Napoleon, once more, glassed the area both above the road and around the jeep. No sign of THRUSH. He surmised that if they had been around then the birds would not be hovering over the site. Abandoning caution he grabbed a knapsack from the rear of the jeep and sprinted over to the area. The vultures moved away slowly, not wanting to relinquish their bounty. Steeling himself, he looked over the edge. One body in civilian clothes lay in the wash close to the near bank. Although he couldn't identify the face, Napoleon knew it couldn't be Illya. The hair color was wrong and Kessler had said that he was trapped under the car. The car! The vehicle was overturned, resting on its roof. Napoleon couldn't see anyone from the side facing him.
As he began to walk around the car he saw three bodies in THRUSH uniforms lying near the car.
"Illya?" Oh, God! Illya!" His cry was punctuated by a bright flash and a huge clap of thunder. The storm was upon them. All he could see was a crown of blond hair and a hand. A hand that had been ravaged by wild animals. His friend was dead. He sank to his knees in despair. Illya was gone.
A cold drop splashed on Napoleon's forehead bringing his attention back to the urgency of getting clear of the arroyo. The miasma of grief that weighed him down lifted as he realized that time was running out. There would be time for grieving later. He needed to get Illya out from under the car. He was damned if he would let flood waters further ravage Illya's body. He needed to recover him and get out of the arroyo. Napoleon approached the car and knelt down next to the blond head.
"I'm sorry Illya. I've should have gotten here sooner." Tears running down his face, mixing with the light rain, Napoleon reached for the blond hair intent on brushing it off of his friend's forehead which was facing the other direction. Napoleon jerked his hand back as if burned. "What the hell?"
The texture of the hair was all wrong. The color wasn't even right! Napoleon leaned over and dug under the car to reach the face. This man had a mustache! Napoleon's spirits rose from the deepest depths of despair and he began to hope again that perhaps he wasn't too late to save his friend. But where was he?
Napoleon looked up and saw marks in the sand. Not foot prints of any kind. No, they were drag marks! Someone, and he believed it had to be Illya, was dragging his body up the arroyo. Kessler had said that he thought Illya's back might be broken. Concern for his partner's physical condition did not wash away the renewed sense of hope that Napoleon had for finding Illya.
As he headed up the arroyo, Napoleon noticed with relief that the rain had stopped. There had been a few sprinkles but mostly lightning and thunder. He tried his communicator. Where the hell was that helicopter!
"Open Channel D, Napoleon Solo reporting." Nothing but static, damn. Well that explained why Kessler was so far away from the wreck. He was trying to get a signal. He stopped a moment to make some adjustments to the communicator. In that instant a strange sound registered in his brain. A strange rumbling…and he knew.
Quickly Napoleon jammed his communicator into his jean's pocket and headed for the west bank of the arroyo. As he climbed up a flash of metal fell unnoticed back into the arroyo. Solo looked up and 100 yards up the arroyo he saw it. He had always thought of a flash flood as announcing itself with a ten foot high wall of water. But that wasn't the case! What he saw frightened him even more. Not necessarily fear for himself but for Illya. The flood was preceded by a deceptively peaceful trickle in the sand. However, it was quickly followed by a roiling, seething three feet high wall of mud that consumed and churned up everything in its path. Large sections of the banks were undermined and fell into the raging waters. Whole mesquite trees raced down stream smashing into rocks and other debris.
Napoleon looked back towards the overturned car just in time to see it picked up by the crest of water and tossed around as if it was some child's toy being carelessly thrown about, and his heart sank. If the flood could do that to a vehicle what chance did a person with a broken body have? Illya!
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The roots of the cottonwood tree were buried deep into the sandy side of the arroyo, with just a few exposed and reaching out past the bank. Despite his exhaustion and pain Illya Kuryakin had dragged himself to the spot within ten minutes. With a sardonic half simile he congratulated himself for breaking his earlier speed record for dragging himself across the sand.
The lip of the arroyo's wall was a good five to six feet above him and the lowest root was two feet below that, but both may as well be 100 feet high Illya thought. He tried to reach the roots by pushing his chest off of the ground and found it was impossible. His left arm was still weak from being trapped under his torso for so many hours. Biting his bottom lip in concentration the Russian flipped onto his back and with great effort pushed himself into a sitting position with his back against the wall. He could just grab the lowest of the roots with his right hand. Taking the canteens from around his neck Illya thought he could use one of them as a grappling hook. If only he could snag the canteen in the upper roots and get it to hold he could use the strap to pull himself up.
On the fourth try the canteen jammed between the roots. Illya gave the strap a hard tug. It seemed strong enough to hold his weight. That was the easy part. Now all he had to do was climb hand over hand with a weak arm and pull an uncooperative body up through the roots and over the bank. Piece of cake, Kuryakin! He knew his chances were slim. Worried that he might lose his flares, remaining canteens, and weapon in his struggle to climb out of the arroyo, Illya tossed them up onto the ground away from the lip of the bank.
Taking the strap in his hands, he began the task of pulling himself up…and with a cry of pain fell back onto the sandy bed of the arroyo. He tried again with the same results. Illya was known in the UNCLE gym for his incredible upper body strength, but each time he pulled, his broken ribs threatened to pierce his lungs or his muscles. Gasping for air with shallow breaths, he let out a groan of frustration. He contemplated just staying there, 'though he knew he couldn't.
As he sat quite still waiting for his energy to recharge he felt it. A slight vibration, almost as if the earth was humming. As it got stronger it reminded him of when a subway was speeding along beneath the street. It took a few moments for Illya to comprehend what was happening. As he began to understand the cause of the vibrations he looked upstream and felt sheer terror such as he had never felt before. Bearing down on him was a muddy tumbling crest devouring everything in its path.
As he desperately reached again for the roots, his mind registered the image before him in slow motion and magnified detail. He saw every rock, every piece of wood, bits of the opposite bank collapsing as the mud choked wave reached for him. With a last surge of strength Illya, ignoring all pain, pulled himself as high up on the strap as he could and wrapped it twice around his bad wrist. With his good hand he tied a knot hard and fast praying it and the canteen jammed in the roots would hold.
In seconds the wave was upon him, hitting him with such force he feared he would lose his arm. The silt filled water washed over his head when the wave's crest hit him. His body was dragged along with the current until it reached the end of the tether. His legs jerked and bucked against the wave. Illya fought to bring his face above the water, but it was reluctant to give up its hold on him. He felt a sudden jerk. He knew the canteen was losing its hold in the branches. Illya brought his face up once more just in time to see a small tree heading straight for him. A branch hit his skull with a glancing blow, the extra force challenging the canteen's tenuous hold even further. Illya knew he was going to die. He no longer had the strength to hold himself against the current, to fight to raise his head above the water. The number 2 agent of section 2 of UNCLE Northwest last thoughts before losing consciousness were of his partner. I'm sorry, Napoleon, I tried. His vision faded from brown, to gray, and finally black. He never felt the rope that was slipped under his arms, the hands that pulled him above the water. Neither did he feel the strong arms enfolded around him nor the tears that fell upon his face. Nor did he hear the prayerful pleas from his partner's lips, "Oh dear God. Illya stay with me, tovarisch. Please stay with me!"