Traveller's Refuge by Anny Cook Page B

to be shut up in a cave with a body—even Trav’s— for company.
    “Trav?” He could see Trav’s chest moving, so that meant he was still breathing. “Trav! Wake up!”
    “Why?” Trav’s voice was a faint thread.
    “Because I would like to be untied now. That was the deal. The canyon goes down, I get to be untied,” Bish reminded him reasonably, while trying to stave off the panic that threatened to overwhelm him. He didn’t do well in small places. Especially small dark places.
    “I seem to recall that the deal was based on me blowing the stuff, not some idiot with a rifle for a brain.” He sighed. “I’ve always said that they let any fool jackass carry a gun. Too bad, they don’t know what to do with them. Well, don’t stand there. Get over here and dig my knife out of my pocket.”
    Bish studied him thoughtfully. Trav wasn’t moving and that was a very bad sign. “How badly are you injured?”
    “Well, I think that pretty well everything that can break is broken,” Trav replied too calmly. “I seem to be breathing, so I’m not sure about my neck or spinal cord…and I seem to be feeling plenty of pain, so I suppose that’s a good sign—if I was within a reasonable distance to a hospital. Even my hair hurts.”
    “Want me to cut it off?” Bish offered helpfully, squatting down next to him. “Which pocket is the knife in?”
    “The right one. And if you cut my hair, there won’t be a place on earth I won’t find you.”
    Moving like a lame duck, Bish carefully turned around with his back to Trav. “You’re going to have to tell me when I get in the general vicinity. I don’t want to touch you any more than I have to until these manacles are off.”
    “That’s handsome of you after all of this,” Trav observed.
    “Well, you’re right about Dance. Dad should have let him go.” He moved down a couple of inches. “How far now?”
    “Back toward my head, just about an inch.” Trav was in so much pain, his vision was blurring. He felt Bish catch the edge of his pocket and then when he slid his fingers inside, Trav passed out.
    “Trav?” When no response was forthcoming, Bish decided that the faint might be for the best. Fishing out the knife, he worked it open and sliced through the plastic ties. When Bish finally had them off, he found a couple of nicks but overall, he was satisfied that he hadn’t sliced a finger off. Traveller kept his knives sharp. A couple of slices later, his ankles were free and he stood up. He located Trav’s flashlight and wormed his way up the passage to the canyon far enough to confirm that they were definitely trapped. With a deep sigh, he twisted around and returned to the cave.
    Suppressing the panic attack with a strength he had never suspected he had, he prowled around, checking through Trav’s piles of junk, happy to locate a blanket and a spare sleeping bag. He found the water bottles and gulped down another long drink. After he built the fire up, he checked Trav’s pulse and found it surprisingly strong. Methodically, starting at the top, he checked for breaks, bleeding and internal injuries. After a quick inventory check, Bishop decided that there wasn’t much he could do for him, except slide him into his sleeping bag, while he was still unconscious. There were no breaks with obviously displaced bones and without Trav’s input, he wasn’t going to mess with him. If they did get out of their predicament somehow, he didn’t want Trav paralyzed because of something he did. He rummaged through the boxes and junk piled against the back wall, looking for something he could use for a backboard, finally settling for a large box, which he had to empty.
    He was quite pleased to find some high-energy food bars and a bag of apples. These he set aside, while he continued to dump things on the floor. Near the bottom, he found a pair of nylon pull-on jogging shorts and a ratty t-shirt from some long-forgotten rock concert and that made his day complete.