As he grasped the rope, hanging on for dear life, the last three days flashed through his mind and he hated himself for taking this job. Hank was an "extreme retreat" guide, a retired park ranger who took WASPs on hiking and climbing trips in the Blue Ridge mountains. "Should have stuck with the family types and avoided these hipster-looking bums. You can't go hiking in girl jeans!" he shouted at the wilderness. Trying to support most of his weight with his legs by gripping the rope between his feet, Hank let go of the rope with his right hand to pull a yellow handkerchief from his back pocket, Using his teeth, he tied it around the grisly looking, rope-burned hand and grabbed the rope again. He would soon soak through it, and he started climbing, hoping to reach the top before the handkerchief became slippery with blood.
A minute later Hank reached the edge of the giant rock, the place they called Bald Eagle. He pulled himself onto his stomach and rolled over on his back to catch his breath. After a few seconds, it was time to survey the damage. His pack had been ransacked, supplies thrown about all over the place. Still a few hours of daylight left, so he had time to pull together what was left before the dark came and the bears got interested.
Hank grabbed everything he could salvage and tossed it into the pack: his carabiners and nylon rope with its new streaks of brown, most of his mess kit, some dried fruit and cans of beans, a collapsible water jug, a couple of dome tent poles (the tent itself was ruined). He found his emergency medical pack and got to work cleaning and bandaging his hand.
No need to waste alcohol and bandages on the kid though. He was already dead. His face was purple from bruises that could be seen between splotches of drying dark red. Mid-twenties, dyed-black hair in an emo cut, stupid t-shirt with a unicorn, probably went to grad school for philosophy on his parents' dime, looked like he needed a sandwich. Or, would have needed one...
Frick! Hank had told them not to harass any mountain people. Moonshiners scare easy, and now that meth had become big business out here, they were expanding into a new industry and scaring easier than ever.
A minute later Hank reached the edge of the giant rock, the place they called Bald Eagle. He pulled himself onto his stomach and rolled over on his back to catch his breath. After a few seconds, it was time to survey the damage. His pack had been ransacked, supplies thrown about all over the place. Still a few hours of daylight left, so he had time to pull together what was left before the dark came and the bears got interested.
Hank grabbed everything he could salvage and tossed it into the pack: his carabiners and nylon rope with its new streaks of brown, most of his mess kit, some dried fruit and cans of beans, a collapsible water jug, a couple of dome tent poles (the tent itself was ruined). He found his emergency medical pack and got to work cleaning and bandaging his hand.
No need to waste alcohol and bandages on the kid though. He was already dead. His face was purple from bruises that could be seen between splotches of drying dark red. Mid-twenties, dyed-black hair in an emo cut, stupid t-shirt with a unicorn, probably went to grad school for philosophy on his parents' dime, looked like he needed a sandwich. Or, would have needed one...
Frick! Hank had told them not to harass any mountain people. Moonshiners scare easy, and now that meth had become big business out here, they were expanding into a new industry and scaring easier than ever.
