Chapter Text
Murdock extricated himself from the bunk with the exaggerated care of a cartoon burglar. Shivering a little at the loss of the scratchy but warm wool blankets and Face’s body heat. On the bunk, Face didn’t stir, head turned towards the wall and arm flopping on to the newly unoccupied space next to him. Murdock replaced the blanket with smile.
His shoulder ached, but it already felt better than it had yesterday, thanks to the Advil in the first aid kit and a surprisingly decent night of rest. He stretched carefully, and looked over at B.A. and Hannibal.
Hannibal was rolling his unlit cigar between his teeth, hunched over the table with B.A., whose gold-laden fingers splayed across what appeared to be a map. Murdock drifted closer, curiosity piqued.
"Morning, Captain," Hannibal said, flashing him a cheery grin as he nodded toward the empty chair.
"Got something cooking in that devious brain of yours, Hannibal?" Murdock asked, intrigued to see what the colonel had planned for them.
"Just might." Hannibal's eyes twinkled as he folded the map with practiced precision. "That storm turned everything into a waterpark from hell out there, but this charming woodland retreat isn't exactly a long-term option. Radio's shot, and park rangers won't be making social calls anytime soon, especially with this rain" He gave Murdock a wink, "besides Amy's waiting on us, and this is my only cigar. Go tell your bunk buddy to rise and shine—vacation's over."
“I’m awake.” Face said from somewhere underneath the blanket, though his voice indicated awake was a relatively new state of being for him. “Hannibal’s loud.” He complained.
“Well, did you hear him say it’s time to rise and shine? Because you’re not rising and you don’t seem very shiny.” Murdock grinned, leaning over the bunk.
Face glared reproachfully, but pushed himself up to sitting slowly, rubbing his eyes. Murdock offered him a hand when he put his feet on the floor, pulling him up.
“Shoulder okay?” Face asked, voice still rough with sleep.
“Better than yesterday.” Murdock shrugged experimentally. “Don’t worry, I’ll still be able to perform all my daring heroics, Faceman.” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw B.A. watching Face closely as he stood, his expression dark.
Face must have noticed too, because he waved a dismissive hand. “I’m fine, big guy.” He said easily.
B.A. just grunted and crossed the room, pulling out the coil of rope and a bottle of lighter fluid from the cabinet under Face and Murdock’s bunk.
Hannibal must have already made one of his lists.
“I’ll be the judge of that,” Hannibal said with a raised eyebrow, gesturing Face over to him. He pushed up the flannel shirt and examined the dressing. Murdock leaned around the table so he could see, too.
Some blood had leaked through it overnight, and Hannibal seemed to have an internal debate for a moment, before he let Face’s shirt back down and clapped him on the shoulder. “Don’t join in on any heroics.”
Face shot Murdock and then Hannibal a suggestive look, clearly pointing out their own injuries. “Maybe leave those to B.A.?” He said, and from across the cabin, B.A. grumbled irritably, making Hannibal chuckle. Murdock grinned too, and resisted the urge to point out that the only reason B.A. had escaped injury was he’d been asleep the whole time.
Well. Drugged unconscious, if you were going to be technical.
It was like a drunk in a car crash, he figured. But considering the subject of B.A.’s anger at the moment seemed to be Face instead of him, he decided not to upset the balance anymore than it already was. He tucked that observation away for later with a cheeky smile that had Face shooting him a questioning look.
“What we need all this stuff for, Hannibal?” B.A. asked, voice still disgruntled as he shoved more items into a pack.
Hannibal’s mouth twitched around the cigar, “options, B.A., options, now eat your spam and your chocolate and we’ll hit the road.”
Face grimaced at the reminder of their current food options, which only had Hannibal smiling again. Though, it was that ‘all teeth’ smile Face often accused of being evil.
“Spam and chocolate, the breakfast of champions.” Murdock winked, then added to his left “no, no chocolate for you Billy.” Which Face confirmed was a very knowledgeable pet owner choice, causing B.A. to grumble at both of them for foolishness.
Thirty minutes later they were climbing down the slippery, rotting stairs of the cabin and trying to keep raindrops off their necks. B.A. was carrying the pack, complaining about the validity and weight of the contents even as he hefted it with ease on to his shoulders.
They found the narrow trail beyond the cabin, something none of them had looked for last night, in the dimming light and with the threat of the mountain lion; the memory of which wasn’t far from any of their minds based on the furtive looks they all cast towards rocky outcroppings and long grass as they began down the trail.
“At least it’s warmer, Billy don’t even need his jacket” Murdock offered, optimistically.
“That’s not a good thing, fool” B.A. countered, “that means we not only got the rain, but the snows meltin’ too.” He nodded his head to the higher peaks, which still clung on to patches of white. “And you ain’t got no dog.” He added, to which Murdock only shrugged one shoulder.
The trail ahead of them wound its way down the ridge in loose switch backs, and although the rain had eased, it had been turned into slick, brown soup from the night. Murdock slipped his arm out of the sling in the particular steep parts, wanting to be able to catch himself. B.A. in the rear on the tight single file trail, had already managed to slip once, cursing loudly as he stood back up, pants coated in mud from knee to ankle. Immediately in front of Murdock, Face was keeping up with Hannibal well enough, though he stayed quiet as he focused on the footing and moved gingerly, occasionally putting a hand out against the hillside in sections where it rose so steeply beside them it nearly formed a wall.
A little further down the ridge, the trail narrowed sharply around a bend- and then was simply gone.
A twenty foot long section of the footpath had eroded away, crumbling down the steep grade below in a rocky mudslide. In its place, muddy water gushed from a crack in the hillside, carving a miniature canyon through what had once been solid ground.
The stream—probably no more than a docile little stream in better weather—had eaten away the path completely, leaving nothing but steep, slippery banks of exposed earth on either side of the rushing water. Above the wash out there was no more than a small ledge, probably only half a foot wide and unstable looking. Below, the mudslide made for impossible passage.
“Only way past is through,” Hannibal said with a grin, rolling up his sleeves for no greater purpose than symbolism.
Climbing down into the washout was a dirty and undignified trip. Hannibal slid the last few feet down the muddy bank with a splash, sinking in soft, compromised earth and ankle-deep water as he crossed to the other side. He paused to wave them on.
Face followed carefully, boots slipping on the churned, clay-like mud as he worked his way down the steep slope. By the time Murdock joined him they were both already grimacing as cold water soaked their shoes. Murdock found himself envying Hannibal and B.A.’s practical, heavy boots.
The climb out proved worse. The opposite bank was nothing but slick mud and loose rock, and it took several attempts and more than one slide back to the bottom each before they managed to scramble back onto the trail.
By the time B.A. pulled himself up last and took the pack back from Hannibal, every one of them was wetter, muddier, and considerably less impressed with the mountain than they had been half an hour earlier. Murdock, however, still managed to grin broadly as he wiped the sticky reddish brown clay onto his already nearly coated pants.
“That’s the attitude, kid.” Hannibal praised him, then steadied Face when he grabbed Hannibal’s shoulder for balance and dumped water out of his shoes wordlessly, one by one.
He winced as he straightened back up, hand on his side. His complexion wasn’t as deathly white as it had been last night but he still looked a shade or two too pale, dark shadows under his eyes.
“Faceman, you doing okay?” Murdock asked.
Wiping mud off his cheek and managing to only smear more in its place, Face gave him a slightly wan smile.
“Fantastic.” He replied with a hint of sarcasm. From behind them B.A. snorted derisively.
“You sure you'd say, man?” He asked Face flatly, and Murdock couldn’t quite parse where the line fell between anger, suspicion and something more concerned.
Face paused before replying, his expression tightening slightly. “I’m fine,” he said finally, repeating what he’d said in the cabin, but now a bit of weariness crept into his voice. Murdock guessed had more to do with the conflict between them than his physical state.
None the less, he unzipped his jacket and pushed the flannel up to check Hannibal’s bandage, it had slipped down an inch or so, but the wound was still covered, and the patch of blood that had seeped through hadn’t gotten any bigger. B.A. glared, jaw flexing.
Hannibal was puffing his stubby cigar, seemingly deeming crossing the muddy washout as a cause for celebration. Now, he snuffed it out. “Talk and walk, gentleman. Talk and walk.”
“Hmm, how about yodeling, Hannibal? Can I walk and yodel?” Murdock asked, hoping to dissipate the unpleasant tension.
“That sounds wonderful, Murdock.” Hannibal replied around the unlit cigar, beginning to pick his way down the trail again.
Behind him, B.A. snarled, “Don’t you dare fool!”
“Come on now, B.A., it’ll scare off the mountain lions!” Hannibal called back, in his placating, ‘I’m being entirely reasonable, what’s your problem?’ tone he often used. Murdock waited a beat, expecting Face to jump in on the teasing, but he stayed quiet, eyes fixed on the trail ahead of him.
Murdock began with glee.
After what must have been another two miles of slow going down the shifting, slip-and-slide descent, the character of the trail changed. The sharp switchbacks and open hillside was replaced by a winding, more gradual downward descent that curved into rocky ground and sparse pine trees. Murdock tucked his arm back in the sling when the trail became a little less slippery, sighing as it relieved the aching of his shoulder. He admired the stunted mountain trees and their curved trunks, growing upwards even in sections where the ground sloped sharply away above their roots. Murdock reached his hands out to brush a few of them, sending tiny droplets of water flying.
He had stopped yodeling after having to ask B.A. for the water a second time, it really was a taxing art form, and apparently, B.A. did not appreciate the sacrifice that went into it.
He took up whistling old army songs instead, pleased when Hannibal joined in on some of them. Between bars of the songs, Murdock listened to the distant rush of water, loud and insistent and slowly growing louder as they trekked.
“Anybody else hear that?” He asked.
“It’s the river.” Hannibal offered ominously, sounding unbothered.
“Uh, do we need to cross that boss, because it sounds angry.” Murdock asked.
Hannibal threw him a grin over his shoulder, “don’t worry, Captain.” Murdock shrugged and continued on.
As the path wound it’s way downward, the sound got louder and louder, and by the time they caught the first glimpses of raging white water through the trees, they would’ve nearly had to shout to be heard over it. Ahead of him, Murdock could read Face’s apprehension in the way he moved, tensing and slowing ever so slightly at the indication of the obstacle before them. Hannibal, however, seemed non-plussed still, navigating the trail as it dipped sharply downwards again. The ground gave way to slick stone and exposed roots as they began a steeper climb towards the river. The air felt instantly cooler here, damp and heavy, with a misty breeze stirring the trees.
As the trees thinned, the river revealed itself in full—wide, fast, and churning in a coiling thrashing mass of white and brown water.
But that wasn’t what they all froze to stare at.
The trail ran straight to the bank and ended between two massive posts, with nothing connected to them.
What remained of the bridge clung to the far side, a broken span of heavy milled timber twisting in on itself. Snapped cables lashed and dipped in the current, the whole wreckage bobbed and shook against the water, the last fitful shuddering of a dying thing.
“That doesn’t look promising.” Face called, leaning against a tree and raising his voice to be heard. Hannibal gestured them away from the bank and they retreated enough where they could hear each other once more.
“There ain’t a bridge no more, Hannibal.” B.A. nearly growled, pointing out the obvious.
“Technically there still is” Hannibal offered dryly. “Plan B it is then.”
Hannibal turned with a broad, beckoning arm gesture and started along the riverbank, making his way upstream. The others fell in behind him without question, though Murdock shot B.A. and Face a brow-raised look. Hannibal’s Plan B’s tended to be very exciting.
The ground along the bank was harder to navigate than the trail—slick stone and soft, waterlogged earth that shifted underfoot and was eroded in places. The roar of the river stayed constant at their side. Spray drifted through the air in a fine mist, settling on their clothes and skin.
They walked in single file where they could, spreading out only when the terrain forced them to pick their own footing. Hannibal moved with steady purpose, scanning as he went, occasionally slowing or veering closer to the bank to study the current.
“What exactly are we lookin’ for, Hannibal?” B.A. called over the noise.
“Wider,” Hannibal yelled back without turning. “Shallower. Or at least something that looks less interested in killing us.”
“That narrows it down,” Face, currently right next to Murdock, muttered. He was huffing for breath and sweating, though he kept pace.
They hiked for a long time before finally, the river changed. Below the high banks, it was wider and calmer, though still powerful, the blue-grey water swirling and moving frighteningly fast. The far bank was made of grey stone, but it formed a gentle, sloped, tree-topped rock face instead of a sheer drop.
“This’ll do.” Hannibal said, able to talk at a normal volume without the roar of the rapids. He still kept walking another hundred feet up stream before stopping by a large cedar tree. The trees here, buffered from the wind and fed by the river, were bigger and stronger than the stunted ones that grew out of the steep hillsides. Hannibal gave the tree an appraising pat, and then gestured for B.A. to hand over the pack.
He pulled out the long, thick coil of rope.
“Whatcha thinkin’ there, honcho?” Murdock asked.
“Strong anchor points on both sides,” he said, more to himself than the others. Then he straightened and glanced back at them. “We need to run a line across the river, hard anchor on that tree, same on the east bank. Keep the line high and tight and we can climb across.”
“Somebody still gotta get the rope across, Hannibal.” B.A. said, staring at the river. Face looked apprehensive too, though he started unspooling the coil of rope.
Murdock whistled long and low, “Bet you’re wishing you hired that emu, boss.”
“Wouldn't help, Murdock, emus are a flightless bird.” Hannibal said, cigar between his teeth again, unlit. He set about fixing the rope to the large cedar, pulling it snug.
“Don’t tell them that, they get reallll testy about it.”
When Hannibal was done, B.A. took the other end of the rope from Face, tying it around his waist with grim acceptance, before Hannibal even had to ask him to take it across.
“You on the jazz, man,” he muttered. “This real crazy.”
But he headed down the bank toward the river anyway, pausing as what looked like nearly a whole, uprooted tree floated past.
Murdock watched as he waded into the river, hesitating briefly at the shock of the cold water. Next to him, Face stood very still, eyes glued to B.A. as he staggered against the drag of the river. Even Hannibal, whose posture was as casual as ever, had bitten down unnecessarily hard on his unlit cigar.
Finally, unable to wade deeper, B.A. dove in and began paddling hard towards the opposite bank. His muscular arms worked like pistons against the powerful river, but the current was an unmatched force, pulling him quickly downstream as he made too-slow diagonal progress.
Murdock realized his fingers were tapping a nervous staccato rhythm against his legs as he watched B.A. get further and further away from them.
Once or twice, his head disappeared under a spray of water. Each time, came up again.
Finally, finally, he reached the other bank. The long black line dragging in the river as he staggered onto the east bank, a hundred and fifty or so feet downstream from where he’d started.
Murdock let out a breath, a giddy grin spreading across his face as he whooped. Unable to stop himself from pumping a fist in the air as B.A. climbed laboriously up the gradual bank. He dragged the end of the heavy rope with him, and suspended it, sagging and dripping between the two banks.
It was awkward going, Murdock could tell, working his way back upstream, keeping the line tensioned enough to keep it out of the water.
B.A. braced both hands on the rope and it was a long time before they were directly across from each other once more.
He took a moment before finding the right tree, and then worked the rope until slowly it was pulled taut and nearly straight over the river.
Hannibal went first, tucking away what was left of his cigar. He fashioned a make shift harness out of a shorter length of rope and a clip he affixed to the line, doing the same for them. Then, one arm looped the line, he hooked his ankles over it and began climbing hand over hand— carrying the now light pack on his shoulders. Murdock had asked him to let Billy ride in the pack, and the thought made him grin even as he watched Hannibal's climb, transfixed.
Despite their efforts to tension the line, it still dipped slightly under Hannibal’s weight. In an echo of crossing the log the day before, Face gestured for them to wait until Hannibal, painstakingly slowly, had made his way halfway across.
Face checked the knot at his waist.
For a moment, he just stood there, one hand on the rope, eyes flicking to the water below and then back to the far bank.
He offered Murdock a tight ‘here goes nothing’ smile and began to climb.
Murdock always enjoyed looking at the world upside down any chance he got.
Now, his shoulder ached unpleasantly under the strain as he climbed, watching that upside-down world sway beneath him — the black line, the churning grey water, and Face ahead of him, suspended under the rope, moving steadily toward the far bank.
Beyond him, Hannibal and B.A. stood braced, using their weight to keep the line as taut as possible.
Murdock focused on the rhythm.
Arm, leg, arm, leg.
He hummed under his breath, more habit than choice.
By the time they reached the middle of the river, Hannibal was shouting at them to move faster — which seemed a little unfair, considering the man himself hadn’t exactly set a record getting across.
Then B.A. shouted too.
“Hold on!”
Hold on?
Murdock didn’t question it, not really. He just tightened instinctively, shifting his grip—
—and then he saw it.
A tangled mass of uprooted trees and debris, sweeping downriver toward them. Tall enough to catch the rope. And it was moving too fast.
“Oh, that’s not good,” he breathed.
He barely had time to lock his arms and legs around the rope before the impact came.
The line lurched tight with a violent jolt, the force shuddering through it hard enough to rattle his teeth. Murdock gritted them anyway, clinging on as the rope bucked and trembled beneath him.
He hadn’t realized he’d squeezed his eyes shut until he heard someone yell his name.
“Murdock!”
Face.
He snapped his eyes open and craned his head back.
Face wasn’t on the line anymore.
Not properly.
He was dangling over the river by the makeshift harness which had caught him hard under the arms. He hung there, struggling to pull himself back up as the line swayed violently above them.
“Hey— hey— hang on muchacho!” Murdock called, already moving.
He climbed faster now, abandoning rhythm for urgency, pressing himself closer to the rope as it jerked and shivered under the strain. Every movement sent another ripple through the line.
Arm. Leg. Arm. Leg.
He was nearly to him, close enough he could almost reach out and grab his line.
Behind them, something cracked.
And then the line was slack and loose under his arms, and for a second, he felt weightless, suspended.
And they were falling, the mass of swirling water rushing up to meet them.
The impact punched the breath from his lungs as the freezing river swallowed him whole.
Sound distorted. Light vanished. The world turned into pressure and motion and cold.
Something yanked hard at his waist—no, his chest—no, everything—The rope. It wrapped and snapped and dragged at him, tightening as the current, or maybe the debris, took hold.
He fumbled for it as the water pummeled him, lungs beginning to feel too tight.
His fingers snagged the rope and he wrenched at it blindly, jamming one arm then the other through the loop and working it upwards until it slid loose over his head.
As soon as he was free the current dragged him hungrily and all of a sudden he was moving faster, trying to remember which way was up.
He reached for anything he could grab, anything to orient himself, kicking hard—hoping he was fighting in the right direction, because his lungs were aching for air.
His fingers brushed over something.
Not debris or rope, but material.
The leather of Face’s jacket.
He closed his hand over it, tight, and didn’t let go. Not even when something struck him hard on the back, and then what felt like a tangle of pine branches whipped past his other hand.
Then his feet hit something solid. His toes dragging over rocks and shifting sand as the current wrenched them down stream. The river bed. He realized faintly. The water had forced them all the way to the bottom.
He pushed off it with all the strength he could muster, not letting go of Face. He kicked with a last burst of desperate energy, reaching one handed towards the surface.
Air. He needed air. His lungs begged him to just open his mouth.
Just when the impulse to breathe in felt too strong, just when he felt his limbs growing too weak for even adrenaline to override, he broke the surface and gasped greedily.
He only managed a lungful before water was crashing over his face again, but it was enough to keep fighting. He caught glimpses of the east bank, unfamiliar and treelined instead of the rock slope they’d been climbing toward.
He clawed his way towards it.
To his relief he felt Face kicking beside him, delayed and clumsy but alive, moving.
He didn’t let go, unwilling to let the river rip them apart.
He gasped for air every time the river allowed him to, vision filled with trees, water, water, water, the blur of Face’s blond hair beside him, trees, water, trees, closer, closer, closer.
Then his feet caught something solid and he could stand. The current pulled viciously at his legs and he staggered downstream as he pulled Face with him.
And then they were on the bank, slick rocks and sand under his hands when he staggered and fell to his knees. He collapsed with the river still tugging at his ankles, Face next to him.
Filling his endlessly hungry lungs with ragged gasping mouthfuls of air, vision blurred by tears or water or both.
Finally, he pulled his knees under him, trying to get his breathing to deepen and slow.
He reached clumsily for Face again, “Faceman?”
He hadn’t moved from where Murdock had dragged him, and didn’t answer now, coughing and shaking as his fingers dug into the soft bank. His jacket had been pushed up and Murdock could see where the bandage had been torn away.
He could see the fresh blood mixing with river water and staining his shirt, running in pink rivulets down the exposed skin above his hip.
Murdock kept his hold on him and looked around, panting and wiping a trembling hand across his eyes.
No Hannibal. No B.A.
Just raging water, dripping trees and a section of the bank that Murdock didn’t recognize.
The giddy relief of making it to shore wobbled precariously and tipped into a gnawing, icy pit of dread.
