Hell Is Above Us: The Epic Race to the Top of Fumu, the World's Tallest Mountain, Jonathan Bloom [best ebook reader TXT] 📗

had refused to rescue him. “You don’t even have to tell me. I know it. And I wouldn’t have wanted him to rescue me anyway,” he said. He would rather die than end his friend’s journey due to his own flagrant incompetence. McGee also promised her that he would calm down sooner or later, and that when he did, he would help get them out of the Oculus. “I just neded [sic] to let things sink in,” he wrote. “Then I’d be redy [sic] to win my million dollar bet.” How River Leaf responded to this is not easy to envision. She may have been disgusted by the endless bluster of the foolish men entering her life. Or perhaps she felt remorseful for questioning Junk’s judgment. He had only done what McGee had wanted. The fact it worked in his favor was only a lucky boon. What River Leaf felt about this we will never know.

She took out sleeping bags for them and laid them out on the ground. The two unlikely adventurers lay down for the remainder of the night. Sleep did not come to harbor them from their terrible sojourn in the ground. Their hopes of tackling the problem well-rested would not come to be.

When daylight did shine down from the Oculus and their living quarters turned deep blue, McGee was weeping again. River Leaf made a half-hearted attempt to cheer up the old street tough. She pointed out that they were at the true summit of Fumu at that very moment so McGee had actually beat his best buddy to the top. That had to be worth doubling the pay out. McGee wrote: “Nice of her to try and make me laugh. But that wouldn’t happen as I was to emberaced [sic]. I just blubbered again, ‘I will find my bravery, River. I swear. Soon. I swear.’”

Chapter Sixteen: Cannibals!

Upon returning to base camp several days later, Drake wrote in graphic detail about the events befalling Hoyt’s team just below the Eastern Ridge:

“I am writing this all down so soon after the event because, despite the pain it dredges up in my heart, I wish to never forget it. For if I forget, then that only creates an opportunity for me to remember anew, and that I could not bear.

“Chatham and I slept quite hard on the night of the tenth. It was the height of the storm and Camp Four had provided no protection from the wind. Nonetheless, exhaustion had gotten the better of us. I dreamt not at all and awoke in the same position in which I had fallen asleep. When I awoke at dawn, three things were immediately evident. Firstly, Chhiri Tendi had left. Wherever he had gone, he had taken his equipment with him. Secondly, Chatham was wide awake and sitting up in the corner of the tent, his eyes showing naked fear even through burnt, deformed eyelids. He was shaking uncontrollably. Thirdly and finally, there was a sound coming from outside the tent the likes of which I had never heard before nor do I ever hope to hear again. It was the sound of a man screaming. But the screams conveyed an unfathomable quality of distress, the kind of distress one only hears in the most vocal of infants as they are pulled from the birth canal. I mouthed to Chatham ‘What is happening’ to which he shook his head violently as if to reply ‘I haven’t the slightest” or maybe “This is not happening this is not happening this is not happening.

“I peeked one eye out of the tent and saw before me the worst sight of my life to date. There were four men, none of whom I had ever seen before, eating someone alive. I could not see whether it was Wilde or Ferguson and the scream could not be used for identification purposes. Three men held him down while another was chewing into the flesh of his arm. They had already removed other body parts - feet, testicles, fingers – and had thrown those away onto the snow behind them. Blood was everywhere. Then they moved, but for a moment, and I saw it was Wilde upon whom they feasted. Ferguson’s body lay right next to Wilde, already destroyed, missing eyeballs.

If this sight were not strange enough, the strangers wore white attire from head to toe, probably as camouflage. It was a strategy similar to that of the Germanic Harii warriors, albeit exchanging black for white. Of course, the white camouflage of their uniforms was now splattered with maroon. Topping off this ensemble was the one object on their uniform that was not white: a cobra tied around each of their necks like ascots. These were no doubt some sinister form of heraldry, the origins of which I did not care to understand.

“What made the scene even more surreal was the weather. The storm had broken and the sky was a deep blue. Only the summit remained grey. The sun had risen and the wind was unusually calm for 28,000 feet. Had I cared to look at the sweeping vista, I would have been able to see the Himalayan peaks to the south, the flat stretch of the Terai beyond them and at last the dense, lush forests of India on the horizon. But considering the view was not to be. What was happening only ten feet away held far more import.

“I closed up the flaps and moved to the back of the tent next to Chatham. What was there to do? Nothing? Nothing. Perhaps something, but in my panic the ideas just did not come. I intentionally do not carry knives on climbing campaigns (they tend to give a climber unpleasant options when tied to someone who has gone over the edge of a precipice) and I had no other weapon at my disposal. Nothing came to mind. Nothing, that is, except the