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“Grab her feet,” Butch said. “We have to get her off before the fucking bridge falls into the fucking creek.” He was right. I could hear the supports groaning and the Jilasi thundering, in full spate thanks to all the rain.
I got her feet. She was wearing boots and corduroy pants, and there was something funny about them, too. But it was dark and I was scared and all I wanted right then was some solid ground under my feet. Butch lifted her by the shoulders and gave a cry of disgust.
“What?” I asked.
“Ne’mind, come on, hurry!”
We got her off the bridge and into the clearing. Only sixty feet, but it seemed to take forever.
“Put her down, put her down. Jesus! Jesus Christ!”
Butch dropped the top half of her and she face-planted, but he paid no attention. He crossed his arms and started rubbing his hands in his armpits, as if to get rid of something nasty.
I started to put her legs down and froze, not able to believe what I thought I was seeing. My fingers appeared to have sunk into her boots, as if they were made of clay instead of leather. I pulled free and stared stupidly at the marks of my fingers as they smoothed out. “My God!”
“It’s like… fuck, like she’s made out of Play-Doh, or something.”
“Butch.”
“What? For Chrissakes, what?”
“Her clothes aren’t clothes. It’s like… body-paint. Or camouflage. Or some damn thing.”
He bent toward her. “It’s too dark. Have you got—?”
“A flashlight? No. Didn’t bring it. Her hair—”
I touched it, then pulled away. It wasn’t hair. It was something solid but pliable. Not a wig, more like a carving. I didn’t know what it was.
“Is she dead?” I asked. “She is, isn’t sh—”
But just then the woman took a long, rasping breath. One of her legs twitched.
“Help me turn her over,” Butch said.
I took one of her legs, trying to ignore that weird pliability. A thought—Gumby—shot through my head like a meteor and was gone. Butch grabbed her shoulder. We rolled her. Even in the dark we could see she was young, pretty, and ghastly white. We could see something else, as well. It was the face of a department store mannequin, smooth and unlined. The eyes were shut. Only her lids had color; they looked bruised.
This is not a human being, I thought.
She took another rasping breath. It seemed to catch in her throat as if on hooks, when she exhaled. She didn’t take another one.
I think I would have stayed where I was, frozen, and let her die. It was Butch who saved her. He dropped to his knees, used two fingers to yank down her jaw, and put his mouth on hers. He pinched her nose shut and breathed into her. Her chest rose. Butch turned his head to one side, spat, and took another deep breath. He blew into her again and her chest rose again. He lifted his head and stared at me, bug-eyed. “It’s like kissing plastic,” he said, then did it again.
While he was bent over her, the woman’s eyes opened. She looked at me through the bristles of Butch’s buzzcut. When Butch pulled back she took another of those rasping, guttural breaths.
“The kit,” Butch said. “EpiPen. Inogen, too. Hurry! Fucking run!”
I swayed on my feet and for a moment thought I was going to faint. I slapped myself to clear my head, then ran for the cabin. She, it, whatever it is, will be dead when I get back, I thought (I told you, none of this ever excaped my memory). That’s probably good.
The first aid kit was just inside the door, with our packs on top of it. I shoved them aside and opened it. There were two fold-out drawers. Three EpiPens in the top one. I took two of them and rammed the drawers shut, pinching my right index finger in the process. That nail turned black and fell off, but at the time I didn’t even feel it. My head was throbbing. I felt like I had a fever.
The Inogen oxygen bottle with the attached mask and the controller was in the bottom, along with flares, rolls of bandage, gauze pads, a plastic splint, an ankle brace, various tubes and ointments. There was also a Penlite. I took that as well and sprinted back down the path with the light swinging back and forth in front of me.
Butch was still on his knees. The woman was still giving intermittent gasps for breath. Her eyes were still open. As I dropped to my knees beside Butch, she stopped breathing again.
He bent, sealed his mouth over hers, and pushed breath into her. Raised his head and said, “Thigh, thigh!”
“I know, I took the course.”
