It was almost dusk when Flake found the first canteen.
He had been following a trail that had become visible not far from the wrecked Jeep. At that point there had been broken clumps of mesquite, other signs to indicate Brennan was hurt and crawling more than he was walking. The trail led through the arroyo, where it hooked sharply to the south, then continued into the sun-baked wastes due west—toward the town of Sandoval, the starting point of their mining expedition two months earlier.
The canteen lay in the shadow of a clump of rabbit-brush. Flake picked it up, shook it. Empty. He glanced over his shoulder, saw March a hundred yards away shambling like a drunk, and then struck out again at a quickened pace.
Five minutes later he found the second canteen, empty, and his urgency grew and soared. He summoned reserves of strength and plunged onward in a loose trot.
He had gone less than a hundred and fifty yards when he saw the third canteen—and then, some distance beyond it, the vulture. The bird had glided down through the graying sky, was about to settle near something in the shade of a natural stone bridge. Flake ran faster, waving his arms, shouting hoarsely in his burning throat. The vulture slapped the air with its heavy wings and lifted off again. But it stayed nearby, circling slowly, as Flake reached the motionless figure beneath the bridge and dropped down beside it.
Brennan was still alive, but by the look of him and by the faint irregularity of his pulse, he wouldn't be alive for long. His right leg was twisted at a grotesque angle. As badly hurt as he was, he had managed to crawl the better part of a mile in three days.
The fourth canteen was gripped in Brennan's fingers. Flake pried it loose, upended it over his mouth. Empty. He cast it away and shook Brennan savagely by the shoulders, but the bastard had already gone into a coma. Flake released him, worked the straps on the knapsack on Brennan's back. Inside were the ore samples and nothing else.
Flake struggled to his feet when he heard March approaching, but he didn't turn. He kept staring down at Brennan from between the blistered slits of his eyes.
"Flake! You found Brennan!"
"Yeah, I found him."
"Is he dead?"
"Almost."
"What about water? Is there—?"
"No. Not a drop."
"Oh, God, Flake!"
"Shut up and let me think."
"That's it, we're finished, there's no hope now . . ."
"Goddamn you, quit your whining."
"We're going to end up like him March said.
"We're going to die, Flake, die of thirst—"
Flake backhanded him viciously, knocked him to his knees. "No, we're not," he said. "Do you hear me? We're not."
"We are, we are, we are . . ."
"We're not going to die," Flake said.
They came out of the desert four days later—burnt, shriveled, caked head to foot with red dust like human figures molded from soft stone.
Their appearance and the subsequent story of their ordeal caused considerable excitement in Sandoval, much more so than the rich ore samples in Flake's knapsack. They received the best of care. They were celebrities as well as rich men; they had survived the plains of hell, and that set them apart, in the eyes of the people of Sandoval, from ordinary mortals.
It took more than a week before their burns and infirmities had healed enough so that they could resume normal activity. In all that time March was strangely uncommunicative. At first the doctors had been afraid that he might have to be committed to an asylum; his eyes glittered in an unnatural way and he made sounds deep in his throat that were not human sounds. But then he began to get better, even if he still didn't have much to say. Flake thought that March would be his old self again in time. When you were a rich man, all your problems were solved in time.
Flake spent his first full day out of bed in renting them a fancy hacienda and organizing mining operations on their claim in the Red Hills. That night, when he returned to their temporary quarters, he found March sitting in the darkened kitchen. He told him all about the arrangements, but March didn't seem to be interested. Shrugging, Flake got down a bottle of tequila and poured himself a drink.
Behind him March said, "I've been thinking, Flake."
"Good for you. What about?"
"About Brennan."
Flake licked the back of his hand, salted it, licked off the salt, and drank the shot of tequila. "You'd better forget about Brennan," he said.
"I can't forget about him," March said. His eyes were bright. "What do you suppose people would say if we told them the whole story? Everything that happened out there in the desert."
"Don't be a damned fool."
March smiled. "We were thirsty, weren't we? So thirsty."
"That's right. And we did what we had to do to survive."
"Yes," March said. "We did what we had to do."
He stood up slowly and lifted a folded square of linen from the table. Under it was a long, thin carving knife. March picked up the knife and held it in his hand. Sweat shone on his skin; his eyes glittered now like bits of phosphorous. He took a step toward Flake.
Flake felt sudden fear. He opened his mouth to tell March to put the knife down, to ask him what the hell he thought he was doing. But the words caught in his throat.
"You know what we are, Flake? You know what we—what I—became out there the night we cut Brennan open and drained his blood into those four big canteens?"
Flake knew, then, and he tried desperately to run—too late. March tripped him and knocked him down and straddled him, the knife held high.
"I'm still thirsty," March said.
Ah, marriage. Some people consider it a perfectly natural state, one of contentment if not actual bliss. It's also called an institution, others note, and who wants to be locked up in an institution? More than a few find it so unbearable, after a while, that they yearn desperately to be free of their spouses. But if divorce isn't a viable option, then what? One of the darker forms of "Wishful Thinking," perhaps . . .
Wishful Thinking
When I got home from work, a little after six as usual, Jerry Macklin was sitting slumped on his front porch. Head down, long arms hanging loose between his knees. Uh-oh, I thought. I put the car in the garage and walked back down the driveway and across the lawn strip onto the Macklins' property.
"Hi there, Jerry."
He looked up. "Oh, hello, Frank."
"Hot enough for you?"
"Hot," he said. "Yes, it's hot."
"Only June and already in the nineties every day. Looks like we're in for another blistering summer."
"I guess we are."
"How about coming over for a beer before supper?"
He waggled his head. He's long and loose, Jerry, with about twice as much neck as anybody else. When he shakes his big head, it's like watching a bulbous flower bob at the end of a stalk. As always these days, his expression was morose. He used to smile a lot, but not much since his accident. About a year ago he fell off a roof while on his job as a building inspector, damaged some nerves and vertebrae in his back, and was now on permanent disability.