Desert Life Insurance - A short story (PG)

The small airplane wreckage lay among the crumbled boulders. Metal propeller blades wrapped backward around the cowl and the riveted aluminum wings had shredded like cardboard. The tail angled up at the sky with bold, white call letters emblazoned against blue paint. Wisps of smoke dissipated into the still desert air.

About a hundred yards away, the amber morning light washed over a broken man, lying unconscious on his back in the coarse sand, arms and legs splayed at odd angles. A gash sliced his forehead. Dried blood caked his face, and splashed down the front of his white polo shirt. His right ankle was badly swollen.

A tall man sat on a rock close by, gazing into the rising sun with hard gray eyes and cradling his left arm. Blood had spattered across his wiry arms, torn tee-shirt, and gray sweatpants. He had untidy dark hair and a long nose that might have broken and healed more than once--though not recently. A black Beretta semiautomatic lay on the rock beside him.

His unconscious companion moaned, eyes fluttering open. He looked around wildly, unfocused, then pushed himself into a half-sitting position and retched. Vomit splattered down the front of his bloody shirt.

The man retched again, spraying his pants. He stared at his hands for a moment, as though to focus his eyes.

"Oh God," he groaned. After a few moments, he began to look around. He stared at the wrecked airplane. Then he noticed Byron sitting on the rock.

"Damn," he said. "You survived."

Byron turned to look at Collins, but did not immediately speak. He looked back toward the sunrise.

Finally, he asked quietly, "So, where are we?"

Collins wiped the vomit from his face. "I don't know. Northern Mojave I think. How did I get out of the plane?"

"Dragged you," said Byron.

"Anything salvageable?" Collins asked as he reexamined his swollen ankle.

"No," said Byron. "Everything burned."

Both men were quiet for a time. Byron scratched his stubble.

"I'm no boy scout," said Collins after a time, "but I say if there is any water, we're more likely to find it on lower ground.

"Better get going," said Byron. He stood up. "Sun's going to get hot quick."

"Small problem," said Collins, pointing at his injured leg.

But Byron stooped next to him, and before Collins knew what was happening, he had pulled him over his shoulders like a sack of grain.

Collins began to grunt a string of obscenities, but was interrupted when Byron demanded, "Which way?"

With his upper torso draped over the other man's shoulder, Collins turned his head up to study the ground. Once upon a time the ripples in the sand had mirrored the waves of a splashing stream flowing over them. Struggling to speak with Byron's shoulder pressing into his gut, he said, "Follow the drainage. Go right."

Byron started to walk eastward toward the sun, carrying his human burden. Collins bounced to the rhythm of his steps. Sand crunched under Byron's tattered All-Stars. His breaths came in short gasps.

Faint wisps of cirrus clouds brushed the brilliant blue sky. The sand now grew white hot as the sun rose toward its zenith, forcing both men to squint. Collins' scalp and back were on fire. Beads of sweat trickled down Byron's neck and chest. The desert air sat dead still.

At times, Byron lowered Collins to the ground, and Collins hobbled slowly on his good leg, leaning on Byron’s shoulder for balance. When Byron recovered his strength, he’d sling the other man over his shoulders again and continue as well as he could.

The banks of the riverbed began to rear up on either side of them--walls cut from cakes of silt, embedded with layers of loose rocks. Where possible, they hiked in the narrow shade of the south canyon wall.

As they trudged on through the sandy canyon, Collins searched in vain for signs of water. The floor of the canyon bred a few dry grasses that seemed to have no remaining life. Farther up the walls, the remnants of a few bushes clung desperately to the sides, but these too showed no signs of moisture.

At one point, they stopped for a few moments of rest in the canyon’s shade. Collins had found a large rock that he thought might make a good seat, and he sat down.

Suddenly, he heard a burst of a rattling sound near his right foot. It was a juvenile rattlesnake, coiled and ready to strike.

Collins reacted instantly, throwing himself away from the snake, half crawling, half running toward Byron, swearing profusely. Byron snickered. Collins muttered something under his breath that Byron couldn’t quite hear, and they continued their journey down the canyon making a wide circle around the venomous Mojave green.

Finally, having traveled through the canyon for what seemed like an eternity, the walls began to fall away. It opened up onto an alluvial fan of sand and gravel, stretching out as far as they could see, punctuated only by broken boulders, dry grasses, and a few hardy acacia trees.

The desert sun renewed its ruthless attack on the two men who had now lost the protection of the canyon. Then, for the first time on their journey, Byron stumbled. He recovered his balance and continued as before. But then his missteps grew more frequent. With his hand on Byron’s arm for support, Collins could see that sweat poured down the other man’s body no longer.

Neither man had spoken since the rattlesnake encounter. Collins broke the silence.

"You need water now, or we're both dead."

Byron's voice came back, labored and raspy. "You think I don't know that?"

He began to struggle visibly. He was holding his mouth open, and his thin lips were cracked and dry. Still, he forced one foot in front of the other, supporting his crippled companion step by arduous step.

Collins heard it first: the swelling throb of a small airplane, somewhere to the southwest. Now Byron heard it. He stopped dead in his tracks and swiveled toward the sound.

"They can't see us," said Collins.

"How do you know?" wheezed Byron.

"They have a thirty-foot wing, and we can't see them. We're two microscopic specks three thousand feet down. They sure as hell can’t see us."

Byron wasn't so easily mollified.

"Why are they here?" he demanded.

"Don't know. Could be coincidence, or maybe somebody's picked up the emergency locator beacon from the plane," admitted Collins.

"You never said anything about a beacon," growled Byron. "When did you send it?"

“It's automatic."

Byron drew the pistol and placed the muzzle at Collins' temple.

"When did you send the signal?!" Byron screamed.

Collins tensed eyes wide as the gun barrel pressed against his face. He paused before answering.

"The ELT is triggered by a crash so search-and-rescue aircraft can find the downed plane."

"Why didn't you mention this before?"

“I forgot," said Collins acidly. “Someone made me crash and I got a concussion.”

Slowly, Byron withdrew the Beretta from Collins’ head, clicked the safety, and shoved it back into his waistband.

"How long until they find the plane?" asked Byron.

"God knows," said Collins. "It took them a month to find Steve Fossett in the Sierras."

Collins saw Byron's shoulders slump slightly in resignation. Slowly, he began walking eastward again, and Collins followed as fast has his limp allowed.

The terrain began to change. There were no more plants. Instead of loose sand and gravel, a layer of white salt caked the uneven ground. Collins’ shoes broke through the crust with each step to the soft ground underneath. Heat waves danced in the distance, creating mirages of crystal pure water. Both men were beginning to stumble badly now, breaths coming in ragged gasps.

The sound of an airplane came again, a little north of where they had heard it last. Collins strained to see it, but again could not make it out. This time Byron didn't bother to look. After a time, the sound faded away.

Far ahead, the salty ground began to curve downward. A dark object appeared over the ridge. Both men stared at it without comprehension.

Suddenly, they realized that they were looking at palm fronds. It made no sense. Everywhere else they looked, the ground leveled out into a perfectly level, utterly sterile salt flat. But here on the shore of the dry lake was a stand of palms.

"Water!" rasped Byron. Summoning all his reserves, he began to hike--almost running--toward the impossibly small oasis. Collins hobbled behind.

Fifteen minutes later, they had reached it. About thirty dwarf palms stood clustered together tightly. Byron began to circle the twenty-foot diameter stand of trees to find its invisible source of water. Collins ignored his excruciating pain and limped the other way around the cluster, grasping the thin trunks for support. After a few minutes he spotted a glimmer of silver between two larger trunks. They were spaced just wide enough that he could get his hand through to reach the tiny trickle.

The water splashed over his hand, gloriously cool. He cupped his hand and brought a swallow back to his lips. He slurped noisily. Again, he reached as far as the trees allowed, and joyously scooped more water to his mouth.

"I found some!" he shouted, exultant.

Byron came quickly, eyes wide with animal desperation. He pushed Collins out of the way and began to scoop water to his mouth.

"Not so much!" said Collins, regaining his balance.

Byron looked at him, uncomprehending, and continued to drink.

Collins gripped a trunk with one hand, and shoved Byron in the chest with his other. Byron fell backward, landing hard on his rump. His face was contorted with rage.

"Stop drinking!" yelled Collins. "Unless you want to die!"

Byron reached for his gun.

"Don't shoot me, you idiot!" yelled Collins. "You're too dehydrated to have any more."

Byron had dropped his gun, but came crawling on all fours toward the notch in the trees. Collins moved to bar the way, dropping to his hands and knees and yelping with pain.

"Move!" snarled the dark-haired man.

"No," said Collin, gritting his teeth. "You're my only ride out of here. I need you alive!"

Byron reared and made to swing at Collins, but he was too weak. Collins caught his fist and shoved him backward again, away from the water.

"Rest in the shade for an hour. Then I'll let you have as much as you want," said Collins, breathing heavily.

The fight seemed to drain out of Byron’s eyes. He retrieved his pistol and crawled to the shade of the palms. He fell asleep, while Collins posted guard at the water hole.

Collins waited until the sun had arced westward a ways before waking Byron. He lost no time scrambling to the gap in the trees and drinking handful after handful for a very long time. When his thirst was finally satisfied, he splashed water over his head and upper torso, laughing madly.

With his matted hair dripping down his face, Byron turned to Collins, smiling.

"Thanks, man."

Collins just nodded.

Byron became quiet. He was looking up at the sky to the north. The plane had returned. This time, they could see it.

"I'm pretty sure it's the same one as before," said Collins. "They're flying a grid pattern, Probably Civil Air Patrol."

Byron's face hardened. "Why aren't they honing in on our plane?"

"God knows," said Collins. "Maybe the beacon stopped working. Rentals aren't maintained worth a damn.”

"But why here?"

“I’m sure my wife filed a missing person's report, and the flying club has a missing plane. I was the last one to schedule it. TRACON would have had us on radar most of the way up."

"Why didn't you tell me this last night?"

"Damn, Byron, I wanted them to track us. I wasn't going to volunteer any info you didn't ask me directly. Hostages are expendable."

Byron looked at Collins. "You might be all that stands between me and a sniper bullet. Why do you think I keep you alive?"

They were silent for a time, watching the lone plane as it gave up its search for the day, turned south and faded into the distance. The sun was setting the western hills ablaze in oranges and purples. Two bright points of light appeared in the darkening blue-gray sky overhead--probably planets--followed one by one by a few of the brighter stars.

"Nice sunset," said Byron.

"Too bad I have to share it with an escaped con in the middle of the friggin' desert."

Byron smirked. "When this is all over, you'll get to watch sunsets with your wife again. I promise."