22

The threat to Stevo's life is immediate. It's not safe to take chances. You raise your shotgun, squeeze the trigger, and brace yourself for the kick. There's no missing at this range; the bear, hit right between the eyes, staggers back with a final, agonized groan. It twitches out its life on the floor.

"Thanks, mate," says Stevo. Then he grunts in pain and clutches his shredded shoulder.

Zhu looks at the bear for a while. "A shame," he says. "Still, you protected the expedition. My thanks, Dr. Spillane."

Your guides quickly throw up one of your tents. In the insulated interior, Stevo can safely take off his coat and shirts. You watch as Zhu efficiently and swiftly treats his injury, disinfecting the wound, stitching it closed with a sterilized needle, and wrapping it tightly in bandages.

"That is the best we can do in these circumstances," says Zhu. "We'd better hope the wound is not infected. We will not be able to treat you up here."

"You'd better not slow us down any more."

*"Slow you down?" asks Stevo, incredulous. "Come on, mate, I'm solid, you know that. This is just a bloody scratch. It'll be grand."

You can tell he's lying. His wound is serious, and he's feeling it, however hard he tries to conceal his pain.

With Stevo's injury patched and stitched, you pack up your tent and press on again into the howling white void.

You have no real sense of the substance, but the discussion is clearly extremely heated. Sangpo is gesturing wildly at the storm howling around you. Zhu glares at him, his eyes red and wild, his body trembling with fury. They are both bellowing at top volume, just to be heard over the storm.

Then Zhu ends the conversation. He strikes, sudden and vicious, hitting Sangpo across the face. Blood spurts from Sangpo's nose, and the guide tumbles backward, stunned and wounded.