Go to the Guidance Counselor: Into the Dead Zone

Da-wa Sherpa crouched at the door of our tent, his slender fingers pressed against his eyelids. Henry Sharp pulled the oxygen mask back a bit. It sucked his lips and nose slightly as it came off.

"What's wrong, Da? I need you if we're going to do this," Henry gasped.

"The mountain is poison now. There is nothing holy now."

Henry grimaced. As if there weren't things working against him. Da-wa Sherpa's spiritual crisis had begun just after Camp 1, and grew with each ascending step. Trash had been the first trigger. Henry, as exasperated as he was with being slowed by superstition of all things, thought he could at least understand why a Sherpa might be pissed. All across the holy mountain of Everest, shredded tents flapped like mangled battle flags. Oxygen tanks were left to oxidize into ugly logs that dyed snow maroon. It was a dump, yes. Absolutely profane. But Henry hadn't just paid good money, he had paid an obscene amount for this secret expedition. Everest had been forbidden ground for four years.

They weren't in the Dead Zone yet, but they were close enough that sitting in a tent singing Koomb-a-Ya was suicide.

"We need to go. You of all people should know that," Henry grumbled before taking another pull from his mask.

"Yes. Down."

He pulled the mask away. "You go down, you go alone."

That would do it. Under any other circumstance, a Sherpa could descend alone with a strong possibility of reaching the base relatively unscathed. But more than once, Da-wa had grasped at the sleeve of Henry's parka. Usually when they encountered a body.

"Please."

Henry grinned. "We're mighty close, Da. We get to the top, I plant the payload, and we both get the hell off of this place."

Da-wa still knelt. With gentle tugs, as if he was ashamed to be seen, he pulled the straps on his glove tight against his wrist.

"I get my money, and you get yours. And then, early retirement for the two of us," mumbled through his mask. It didn't matter if Da-wa understood anymore, though Henry hoped he did. There was something about taking a done deal and making it a little sweeter. It was the closest thing to charity that Henry Sharp was willing to get.

After girding themselves, the two men stumbled into the graveyard  of Camp 3. Tent frames arched from the snow at obtuse angles. Da-wa had rifled through the tents and packs for supplies before bedding down the night before, and found nothing beyond a pair of small women's gloves and a digital camera. The gloves fit neither of them, of course. Henry slid the SD card from the camera and pocketed it. Souvenirs were foolish, but he could spare a sliver of pocket space for the sake of curiosity.

Da-wa disassembled the tent with urgency and crammed it into the sleeve. Henry considered scolding him, but decided not to press his luck. The Sherpa was still on board, and that was good enough. He didn't need to be thrilled about it.

The two of them crept forward, trudging past a gloved hand ascending from the snow like an alien tree. Henry smirked and waved back.

"Damn! Damn!" Da-wa cried as he fell forward onto his hands and knees.

Henry grunted and moved to help his partner to his feet until he saw just what it was that had stopped the seasoned Sherpa. Da-wa's boot and broken through a thin sheath of snow and into the swollen belly of a long-dead climber. The skin was like parchment, forming a fragile dome over the cavity where the organs had been. Even at this altitude, scavengers still took what they could. With George Mallory, they had gone in through a buttock and pillaged his torso.

"What is it?" Da-wa grumbled as Henry pulled him forward.

"Nothing worth caring about," Henry replied. "Come now, we have a date with the Dead Zone."