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An abandoned fuselage lies in the icy snow, held up only by what had not melted. The makeshift curtains on the windows, made with furious intent from old shirts that nobody used, sway viciously in the whipping wind of the valley. An avalanche from a nearby valley would be deafening for anyone in the fuselage; nobody is there to hear it.
A half-full bottle makes a small sound every time the last of the melted snow drips inside, collecting itself in the used bottle of rum as if someone was there to drink it.
Scattered mindlessly around the wreckage are human bones, their meat stripped to the bone. Those who ate had to condition themselves, force themselves to consume; those who didn't eventually became the flesh and bones that lay at rest in the snow.
-
In a hospital, 150 kilometres away, are sixteen scarred men who appear much older than they are.
One man, Carlitos Paéz, has recently had his nineteenth birthday. He did not celebrate anything except the beyond-human bond that had formed between everyone who was experiencing the same horrors as he was. His knees are tucked into his chin as he rocks back and forth on his bed. It is 2 in the morning and he should be asleep, but if he falls asleep the cold will catch up to him.
The cold, who destroys the nerves in his hands when he must dig up his suffocating friends. The cold, who stabs burns into your back until you can no longer lie, only sit and wait to die. The cold, who will stop your heartbeat and turn off your brain if you try to go to sleep. The cold, who steals so many undeserved lives.
In the hospital bed next to Carlitos, Gustavo Zerbino worriedly checks his rotting leather suitcase for the sixth time in the hour. He has a mental list of every last memoir, every letter, every necklace, every passport, and every photo of the friends that he lost. He wonders if he has forgotten something, someone.
All he wants is for all the angels of the Andes to be remembered. He gently pokes his memory, willing his brain to store every single memory of the bravest people Gustavo has ever known, instead of forgetting. God, he's scared of forgetting.
The first memory that comes to hand is that of Numa Turcatti and Daniel Maspons; the first night in the elements and the second expedition. Gustavo believes that when they survived that night, it was not his doing. It was the work of God, seeing him and his two saviours and deciding that they had too much to die that night. That Numa and Daniel had too much love to give to the dying men that were blessed by their presence, and they must return to the land of the living for at least another night.
Gustavo doesn't understand why God didn't have the same thought process in the avalanche.
Unable to be solitary on the other side of the room, Roberto Canessa moves along his bed to tap Nando Parrado's shoulder lightly. Similar to every other survivor, he is too used to sleeping among others to be confined to a twin sized hospital bed. The curtains gently sway with the breeze, and it reminds him of the curtains that Carlos Paéz made for the inside of the fuselage. Nando is still awake, and gladly welcomes him into the too-soft sheets and pillows that no matter what, could not satisfy him like the cold metal floor of Flight 571.
Roberto wraps his skinny, sunburnt arms around Nando, and seeks comfort in the same person who he treated in a coma for three days. The same person who never gave up, throughout all those 72 days in the mountain. The same person who looked at Roberto with such love and care. The same person who walked with him for ten days.
Nando sighs in relief at the familiarity of his best friend, welcoming his embrace and lightly kissing the top of his head. He feels comfortable with Roberto in his arms. Something about someone understanding him, someone going through exactly the same experiences as him; it gives Nando peace. He knows that if he falls asleep, he will be woken by either a terrible nightmare or the realisation that if his eyes flutter shut, he may never open them again. But right now, in this moment, with Roberto against him and the rest of his society closeby, that he is safe. And he is warm.
Coche Inciarte sits at the window with a blunt pencil. He does not know what to draw, but knows that he must draw something. He doesn't realise that he is drawing the mountains until they are staring him square in the eyes from their page. In the valley, the remains of the fuselage lie as if they were ruining a beautiful view. Coche is grateful.
His hand flies across the page, unable to keep still as he draws. A crowd - no, a group of friends - emerges from the paper, each smiling a wide and natural smile as they embrace eachother in joy and happiness. In the distance, two helicopters can be seen. Salvation is near.
More people appear on the page, each one in peace and in rest, as they talk with their friends with light in their souls. Coche tentatively draws himself in, terrified to ruin the mood with his wasted body and dying emotion. However, he notices himself as content as the rest. He is skinny but he is not dead.
He counts every person on the page. They don't realise that they are about to be saved and reunited with their families for the first time in months.
There are tears in his eyes when he counts more than sixteen survivors.
Javier Methol doesn't know what to do with himself now that he has returned from the mountains. Up there, things were easier; everyone understood his feelings. Everyone felt the same way. He stands outside the room, smoking. His soft, warm bed is almost suffocating and he would rather not think about it.
In the Andes, Liliana was everywhere. He didn't feel like he needed to mourn because his wife was still with them. Liliana made herself known through the way that Vasco and Arturo comforted their friends in times of doubt, through the way that Fito firmly encouraged him to eat his ration, through the meat itself that kept Javier alive throughout the last days of his time at the fuselage.
Now, in a hospital in Santiago, Javier felt like Liliana had been left behind in the snow. Physically, but also her spirit lay in the starvation and immense love of the mountains. The older man feels like he has to finally face the fact that she is gone.
When he looks at his friends, however, he feels hope; they all returned to real life with little pieces of Liliana making up a mismatched heart, and when they are together, it's almost like she's still with them. Still with Javier.
Moncho Sabella sits up in bed. He takes a sip of water, unused to not rationing his hydration. His moustache is grown out and a few droplets of water are stuck to his upper lip. He needs to shave, but his skin has become so delicate and sensitive that it only cuts and scars when a razor goes near it.
The avalanche and the following days were some of the most difficult for Moncho. One person in particular, one of the eight who were ripped away from him, had buried himself so deeply into the small man's heart that when he died, Moncho died too.
Coco Nicolich was one of the first people in the fuselage that Moncho ever spoke to. They didn't talk, at first. On that first night, there were only shouts of pain and fear. Nobody could form a full sentence.
Moncho and Coco slept together on that first night, hugging and hitting eachother until the orange sun rose and they celebrated like they had just won the lottery. Only then did they tell eachother their names, repeating them in reassurance when they felt that they were going insane. After introducing themselves, Moncho Sabella and Coco Nicolich slept within eachothers arms for seventeen nights.
Afterwards, Moncho refused to sleep. He spent lonely nights on the edge of the fuselage, with no Coco to comfort him. He was accompanied by the embers in a cigarette and the battering wind that he still felt as if he was outside with no cover. In the daytime, he would stare mindlessly into the sky. He would wonder if God was still kind, and he would wonder if Coco was in an eternally peaceful Heaven that Moncho would one day join him in. He hoped it would be soon.
Fito rests his head on his cousin's shoulder. They breathe at the same rate. Eduardo is closeby, dozing. Fito knows that Daniel is scared to fall asleep. He is too.
They aren't sure what to do with eachother.
The Strauch cousins haven't properly processed that everything is over; that they can untense their arms and relax their shoulders.
After Marcelo's death, the three almost automatically accepted the new role bestowed upon them of 'leaders'. They felt a responsibility for the group - they not only had to look after themselves, but also the thirteen other tired expeditionaries, injured, and everyone else who were slowly giving up.
Even now, in the safe haven of the hospital room, Fito's mind is whirring at the prospect of someone giving up during the night and him being responsible. He sighs and looks up at Daniel, who is already looking at him.
When Fito looks at his cousins, everything gets easier for a few seconds. The fact that he has two of his best friends - two of his bloodline - looking out for him allows him to relax for a moment.
The fan-heater is turned down to its lowest setting, cooling the room. Eduardo quietly coughs in his half-sleep. Javier lets out his last smoke. The wind dies down. Some of them died too.
For now, the Society of the Snow is okay.