Contracts by Matt Rogers (i like reading txt) 📕

result when it came time to perform. It was eerily similar to what elite athletes go through before competition, only with more dire physical consequences. If they didn’t perform in the field, they didn’t get a participation trophy. They died. That translated to a sickening work ethic, and a pain tolerance practically unrivalled anywhere else on the planet.

It meant that when one of them badly sprained their ankle, they taped it back up and kept soldiering on, no matter what it did to them mentally.

Because all pain comes to an end.

It can’t last forever.

King knew that. Soon he’d be back on U.S. soil, back in his New York City penthouse, back in luxury. For now, he had to suffer. He wasn’t about to complain about it. He would never complain.

True to his word, he warmed up fast. Slater set the pace, but King valiantly kept up for most of the morning. In truth, Slater had little time to pay attention to his own nagging injuries. His right knee hurt on the descents, probably from the jarring impact when he’d kicked one of the paramilitary soldiers in the face. But all the slight grievances he felt paled in comparison to King, who slaved away at the trail like a man possessed. Slater asked him a handful of times if he was okay, and King didn’t respond. Just stared at the ground and put one foot in front of the other and dripped sweat into the dirt.

When they stopped for lunch, King refused to sit down. He paced back and forth slowly across the dining hall until the food came out, and then he wolfed it down, cradling the plate in one hand and a fork in the other.

Slater said, ‘What are you doing? You need to rest.’

‘If I sit down, it’ll swell more. I need to keep it warm.’

Slater shook his head. He couldn’t imagine what sort of discomfort the injury entailed. There were certain thresholds that even he considered his limits, and it seemed King was pushing past all of them.

They got moving again. The sun beat down on the backs of their necks, scorching it. There was no escape from the heat. The temperature wasn’t even that bad — it was the sun exposure coupled with intense physical exertion that did the trick. They sucked down purified water flavoured with BCAAs and kept striding forward.

Toward Phakding.

The town was only ten miles from Kharikhola, but the terrain was brutal, and their various ailments didn’t help. Slater went down awkwardly on his bad knee when he leapt onto a rock, and fear speared through him. Not because of the pain, but because of the consequences.

King noticed, and froze.

‘You okay?’

Slater swore and slapped the side of his thigh in frustration. Toward himself — the fact that his ignorance might have let himself get injured. He took a step forward and skewered his foot into the next rock, testing his weight on it, wincing in anticipation of any horrific twangs.

But there was nothing.

He was fine.

He nodded back to King. ‘We’re good.’

King breathed a sigh of relief.

Slater fidgeted with his knee for a spell, probing the soft tissue around the joint for any signs of inflammation. He couldn’t find anything. The seconds dragged out as he stood in place, fixated on his bad leg.

When King said, ‘Mules,’ Slater thought nothing of it.

They’d passed dozens of similar convoys over the last day and a half. There were often fifteen or twenty of the animals in a group, all wearing harnesses laden with supplies. Mostly gas bottles or crates of foodstuffs. It was the only reasonable way to get necessary supplies through such hostile terrain. The teahouses along the trail relied on the mules and their guides to keep the kitchens stocked with the right ingredients. That meant sharing the same trails as the hikers, and led to surprises when one of them poked you in the back on the way past.

King and Slater had been told the rules.

When you see them coming, step to the inside of the trail. Enough people have died after being knocked off the trail by a wandering mule to justify being cautious.

So they went through the motions. They stepped to the inside of the trail. The mules stumbled on past, snorting and bumping into each other. The gas bottles attached to their harnesses clanked and clanged against each other. One of them sauntered a little too close for comfort, so Slater put a hand on its side and guided it back into the midst of the group. They were placid animals. Slater didn’t want to think about it, but the recklessness had probably been beaten out of them.

Then the guide came past, bringing up the rear. He shouted and screamed and barked commands intermittently at the pack, trying to keep the mules at the front on the right trajectory. It was simple enough for one of the animals to take a wrong turn and saunter away, never to be found again. It required constant due diligence.

But the guides were friendly enough to passing tourists.

Slater met the man’s gaze and said, ‘Namaste.’

The guide half-nodded, a sweat-soaked rag held low in his left hand, and he opened his mouth to respond.

Then he paused, and looked over at King.

Then back at Slater.

Then he was lunging like a wild dog, and the knife was suddenly in his right hand, and his teeth were bared, and he was determined to kill.

It took Slater by such surprise that he didn’t have time to get out of the way.

36

King saw the knife materialise in the man’s palm.

He wondered if he was seeing things.

Then the guy seemed to teleport across the trail, leaping over rocks like they weren’t even there, and then the blade was scything downward and Slater was pulling back but it was too late—

The tip of the knife drew a line down Slater’s forearm, slashing it wide open.

King watched him reel away, mouth agape in shock, his good hand flying to the wound. The