When he came off the last of the steps he took a half dozen strides into the middle of the cellar. The stones were cold and clammy against the soles of his bare feet. He turned to his right, then let the beam and his body transcribe a slow circle until he was facing the stairs.
Nothing to see, nothing to hear.
But with the light on the staircase, he realized that part of the wide, dusty area beneath them was invisible from where he stood—a mass of clotted shadow. The vertical boards between the risers kept the beam from reaching all the way under there.
The phrase from when he was a kid repeated itself in his mind: Peekaboo, I see you. Hiding under the stair.
With the gun and the flash extended at arm's length, he went diagonally to his right. The light cut away some of the thick gloom under the staircase, letting him see naked stone draped with more gray webs. He moved closer to the stairs, ducked under them, and put the beam full on the far joining of the walls.
Empty.
For the first time Roper began to relax. Imagination, no doubt about it now. No ghosts or demons, no burglars or lunatics hiding under the stair. A thin smile curved the corners of his mouth. Hell, the only one hiding under the stair was himself—
"Peekaboo," a voice behind him said.
"Thirst" is a variation on one of the classic themes of fantasy/horror fiction. I like to flatter myself that it has a gritty Twilight Zone feel—two men wandering on foot in a trackless, unnamed desert waste, faced with the most basic of all human instincts: survival. As Flake and March plod on beneath the merciless sun, I can imagine Rod Serling stepping out from behind a reddish outcrop and delivering one of his lyrical post-teaser introductions. Any reader who has that same imaginative flash will be paying me the highest of compliments.
Thirst
March said, "We're going to die out here, Flake."
"Don't talk like that."
"I don't want to die this way."
"You're not going to die."
"I don't want to die of thirst, Flake!"
"There are worse ways."
"No, no, there's no worse way."
"Quit thinking about it."
"How much water is left?"
"A couple of swallows apiece, that's all."
"Let me have my share. My throat's on fire!"
Flake stopped slogging forward and squinted at March for a few seconds. He took the last of the canteens from his shoulder, unscrewed the cap, and drank two mouthfuls to make sure he got them. Then he handed the canteen to March.
March took it with nerveless fingers. He sank to his knees in the reddish desert sand, his throat working spasmodically as he drank. When he had licked away the last drop, he cradled the canteen to his chest and knelt there rocking with it.
Flake watched him dispassionately. "Come on, get up."
"What's the use? There's no more water. We're going to die of thirst."
"I told you to shut up about that."
March looked up at him with eyes like a wounded animal's. "You think he made it, Flake?"
"Who, Brennan?"
"Yes, Brennan."
"What do you want to think about him for?"
"He didn't take all the gasoline for the Jeep."
"He had enough."
March whimpered, "Why, Flake? Why'd he do it?"
"Why the hell you think he did it?"
"Those deposits we found are rich, the ore samples proved that—sure. But there's more than enough for all of us."
"Brennan's got the fever. He wants it all."
"But he was our friend, our partner!"
"Forget about him," Flake said. "We'll worry about Brennan when we get out of this desert."
March began to laugh. "That's a good one, by God. That's rich."
"What's the matter with you?"
"When we get out of this desert, you said. When. Oh, that's a funny one—"
Flake slapped him. March grew silent, his dusty fingers moving like reddish spiders on the surface of the canteen. "You're around my neck like a goddamn albatross," Flake said. "You haven't let up for three days now. I don't know why I don't leave you and go on alone."
"No, Flake, please . . ."
"Get up, then."
"I can't. I can't move."
Flake caught March by the shoulders and lifted him to his feet. March stood there swaying. Flake began shuffling forward again, pulling March along by one arm. The reddish sand burned beneath their booted feet. Stillness, heat, nothing moving, hidden eyes watching them, waiting. Time passed, but they were in a state of timelessness.
"Flake."
"What is it now?"
"Can't we rest?"
Flake shaded his eyes to look skyward. The sun was falling now, shot through with blood-colored streaks; it had the look of a maniac's eye.
"It'll be dark in a few hours," he said. "We'll rest then."
To ease the pressure of its weight against his spine, Flake adjusted the canvas knapsack of dry foodstuffs. March seemed to want to cry, watching him, but there was no moisture left in him for tears. He stumbled after Flake.
They had covered another quarter of a mile when Flake came to a sudden standstill. "There's something out there," he said.
"I don't see anything."
"There," Flake said, pointing.
"What is it?"
"I don't know. We're too far away."
They moved closer, eyes straining against swollen, peeling lids. "Flake!" March cried. "Oh Jesus, Flake, it's the Jeep!"
Flake began to run, stumbling, falling once in his haste. The Jeep lay on its side near a shallow dry wash choked with mesquite and smoke trees. Three of its tires had blown out, the windshield was shattered, and its body dented and scored in a dozen places.
Flake staggered up to it and looked inside, looked around it and down into the dry wash. There was no sign of Brennan, no sign of the four canteens Brennan had taken from their camp in the Red Hills.
March came lurching up. "Brennan?"
"Gone."
"On foot, like us?"
"Yeah."
"What happened? How'd he wreck the Jeep?"
"Blowout, probably. He lost control and rolled it over."
"Can we fix it? Make it run?"
"Why not? Christ, Flake!"
"Radiator's busted, three tires blown, engine and steering probably bunged up too. How far you think we'd get if we could get it started?"
"Radiator," March said. "Flake, the radiator . . ."
"I already checked. If there was any water left after the smashup, Brennan got it."
March made another whimpering sound. He sank to his knees, hugging himself, and began the rocking motion again.
"Get up," Flake said.
"It's no good, we're going to die of thirst—"
"You son of a bitch, get up! Brennan's out there somewhere with the canteens. Maybe we can find him."
"How? He could be anywhere . . ."
"Maybe he was banged up in the crash, too. If he's hurt he couldn't have got far. We might still catch him."
"He's had three days on us, Flake. This must have happened the first day out."
Flake said nothing. He turned away from the Jeep and followed the rim of the dry wash to the west. March remained kneeling on the ground, watching him, until Flake was almost out of sight; then he got to his feet and began to lurch spindle-legged after him.