Maxence scrambled away from the edge and crawled to the other side of the road, collapsing next to the wall.
His abdomen didn’t feel like anything major had ruptured inside, though he was already sore from deep bruises. He didn’t feel ripped apart, though.
No sharp pains of broken bones lanced through him, which was astonishing. Father Booker could commend Maxence to the Vatican for sainthood on the strength of that miracle, alone.
Yeah, no one was going to mistake Maxence for a saint.
His mind was simultaneously traveling through an emotional fog and making razor-sharp evaluations of his current state, which he concluded must be due to shock and adrenaline racing through his body.
He gingerly pulled himself into a seated position, resting his back against the granite cliff on that side of the road, although he kept glancing up to make sure no more rocks were falling that might smash him in the head. He wrenched his motorcycle helmet off and unthreaded his arms from the straps of his backpack.
His helmet appeared undented, though long scratches cut parallel lines into its glittery finish.
The rear wheel of his motorcycle, still attached to what remained of the body, spun lazily in the late morning sunshine. Other parts lay strewn across the asphalt. A dark gold stain spread under the engine, and gasoline trickled from behind the bike and down the mountain road.
The faint roar of the other motorcycles echoing off the mountains toward the other end of the valley faded away.
His choices were to stay where he was and wait for rescue or to walk to the next village, which should be about forty miles farther down the road. The previous town was farther away.
The road stretched away from him in both directions.
He wondered how often trucks traveled on this road during the winter. Hours or weeks might pass before the next delivery truck rumbled by on its way to supply the small village stores with flour, sugar, rice, and other staples.
The rear part of the motorcycle hadn’t gone over the edge of the cliff. His saddlebags contained a few essentials like energy bars that might keep him alive for days. Water was going to be a problem. Very little precipitation fell in Nepal during this time of the year, if any. The villages drew their water either from running rivers or from enormous ice-wells, an evaporation-cooled technology that grew a massive stalagmite of ice during the rainy season that could then be harvested during the dry parts of the year. But he knew there wouldn’t be any ice wells near such a remote stretch of highway.
Upon further consideration, Maxence believed that he was not gravely injured, and his best option was to walk to the next town, even though he expected it to take at least two days.
Carefully, he held onto the rock wall and drew himself to his feet, noting that one of his motorcycle boots had taken the brunt of the skid over the rocks and dirt. The part that covered his ankle was shredded, and his boot flapped against the bottom of his foot when he cautiously took a step.
Maxence was far enough away from a bend on the road that he would have time to make it back to the wall if a truck lumbered around one of the far turns, so he limped across the few feet of dirt road to his decapitated motorcycle.
The medical and food supplies in the steel boxes over the back tire were mostly unscathed. A few of the protein bars bent at odd angles, and some of the boxes of bandages were banged up. He started moving everything in his saddlebags to his backpack, triaging what supplies were the most important, like vaccines, and which could be purchased again in Chandannath, like dry rice.
He ripped open a protein bar and ate it because it was easier than stuffing it in his backpack with everything else.
His teeth all seem to be firmly planted in his mouth.
That was a good sign.
He patted his helmet in thanks.
He considered his most serious challenges to his survival. The temperature was going to be a problem.
The nights had been well below freezing for the last week, and even the tent with Dree had gotten quite chilly. His bedroll was strapped to the base of his backpack and seemed to have survived the crash without rips.
In the saddlebags of the motorcycle, he also found one mirror-shiny thermal blanket, which he could put underneath and around the mummy bag, and several of the chemical hand-warmer packs that Father Moses had sent for Dree.
Since his alpine-rated mummy-style sleeping bag was intact and he had the other supplies, he stood a decent chance of not freezing to death.
Not that freezing to death was a bad way to go. You were cold, and then you weren’t, and then you went to sleep.
Drowning was worse.
So was starvation.
Well, if he froze to death in the sleeping bag, then that’s how it was.
But in the meantime, he could start walking to the next village where he would find supplies and, hopefully, Dree and the guys.
