Project - 16 Read Free Page B

her chest and pooled in her lap.
Her eyes were open and glazed, staring west in the direction of
home.
    I approached slowly and undid the buckles of my pack, letting
it fall softly to the ground. I approached at a half-crouch,
stopped at her feet and looked at her plain features, her pale
skin, her distorted expression. She'd died in pain, died alone and
died very far from her own people. I wasn't a stranger to a dead
person but all the same this one seemed particularly saddening and
I sat on my haunches for a moment and digested the last few hours
of her life.
    The toxic water had destroyed her insides and by the time
she'd have realised it would have already been too late. In pain
she'd fumbled her way along, turning round at some point as if to
try and return to the others, maybe to get some help, maybe out of
regret or something. Then, when she'd realised it was over, she'd
found this tree, turned towards the setting sun and thought of
home.
    I looked to my left, trying to imagine what she saw. All
there was for me was an empty field and a few sheep on the
hillside. She must have seen cities and skyscrapers and yellow
cabs. Eggs easy-over and big cars. The American dream.
    I leaned over and closed those eyes that saw nothing now. I
checked her pulse, more out of habit than anything, and began to
search her pockets for a letter or a photo, something she would
have wanted sent back home. I found a small travel wallet on her
belt which held her ID in a plastic case. Rebecca Silverman.
Chicago, Illinois.
    I stood up and looked around. I'd been right about the
trainers but from the worn patches on her coat I could see that
she'd worn a pack of some kind but it wasn't nearby. No doubt she'd
dropped it at some point and I searched the area for over fifteen
minutes before realising it wasn't there.
    She'd have been in a panic. She would have opened her pack,
torn it apart in the hope of finding something to stop the pain, to
heal the sickness inside her and there it would be. A little
scattered here and there. Frantic hope somehow hidden inside the
canvas.
    I stood looking at her frail form as I puzzled over what had
happened until it hit me. She'd drunk the water because she'd been
thirsty.
     
    There was no other choice because she had none.
     
    They'd taken her pack off her.
     
    They'd taken her things and sent her off on her own to
die.
     
    I returned to my own pack and found two large orange sacks
that I always kept in the bottom compartment with my poncho. I also
took my duct tape on its little half-roll and returned to Rebecca,
gently rolling her away from the trunk of the oak and onto the
floor. I did my best to ignore the smell of her indecent death and
removed the mud splattered trainers from her feet by cutting the
laces with my knife. Then I lifted her legs into the mouth of the
first sack, pulling it up to her waist before taking the other sack
and pulling it over her head. I was grateful that her coat had
buttoned cuffs and I fastened them together so her wrists were held
in place on top of her stomach. Then I brought the mouths of the
two sacks together and sealed them with the duct tape, doing three
turns at the seam, her ankles and around her neck.
    I gathered my gear and got to my feet before testing the
weight of Rebecca's body in my arms. She was light enough to carry
but the real weight felt like it was on my heart. She'd died here,
alone, and I struggled to get the thought out of my head. In those
situations there were always the feelings of remorse, of thinking I
could have done more, maybe found her in time the previous night.
But what could I have done? I was no Doctor and it was clear that
she would already have been dead even if I'd have found her in the
blinding darkness. The blame lay elsewhere, a few thousand miles
away but it didn't stop the nagging in my head.
    It was too far back to the Land Rover to carry her all the
way and so I looked for a suitable spot to set her down where I
could find her