This Place of Darkness

Nothing distracts from the nausea that’s clawing at my gut; not the biting wind that has robbed all feeling from wet, wrinkled fingers, nor the shards of sunlight that stab through the heavy clouds like a dagger ripping at an oily tarpaulin. Those few triumphant rays dance pools of light across this barren, god-forsaken mountainside and another time would be a marvel, but here, now, they offer little solace; instead I am gripped by the gravitas that one of our crew is missing. Somewhere on this wild, untamed island, lost in a swirl of freezing fog, hail and sleet is Claudio. We have no idea where he is or how he is. I don’t want to even entertain the question of whether he’s alive. 

I want to vomit. 

 The faces of my five fellow riders mirror my concerns. We peer out from dripping hoods, blow into our clenched hands and shout above the gale that’s clawing at our last remnants of energy. We have to make a plan, and quickly. It’s been a nine-hour death march to get to this point —the last three under a barrage of hail and snow— and none of us want to backtrack to look for Claudio, to prolong the acute discomfort. Inside, I’m wrestling emotions, altruism battling self-preservation. I’m sure I’m not alone.