The path narrowed. The jagged crags raced by, inches from his tires. Steel-hard salt-and-mud rocks littered the trail, making the going rougher and rougher and increasingly treacherous. Violently he bounced in his seat. It seemed to him he'd been pitching over the bumpy path for an eternity. He knew it had been only seconds.
Ahead of him the trail made a sharp turn — the jagged spikes closed in across his view.
He took his foot from the accelerator and shifted it to the brake to slow down.
Suddenly he screamed. But the sound was knocked from his throat by the jarring impact as the jeep slammed into the misshapen crags.
The trail did not turn.
It ceased to exist.
Wilson was thrown from his seat. Its brake released, the jeep leaped forward out over the knife-edged crags. It bucked violently.
Wilson was hurled from the vehicle. His foot was caught and wedged between the seat and the metal skirt. In the split second before he hit the crags, he knew. He hung out over the side of the bucking jeep, dragged and raked across the razor-sharp salt-and-mud spikes baked steel-hard by the sun.
Almost at once the lancet peaks sliced into the heavy-duty tires, cutting them to ribbons. The four explosive blow-outs rang out as one. The vehicle's momentum carried it, caroming crazily, some twenty feet into the monstrous rock-salt mass.
Wedged among the spikes, it stalled — nose tilted, up grotesquely, one wheel spinning, the mutilated rubber slapping a buckled fender.
Paul was the first to reach the mangled jeep. Ashen-faced, he stared at the grisly sight that met his eyes.
Wilson lay on the jagged salt crags, stretched out full length from the vehicle, his arms flung above his head, one foot wedged tightly at the driver's seat, his leg bent at an unnatural angle. His arms and face were horribly lacerated by the sharp spike and still oozing blood — one hand impaled on a stiletto-pain spur. Bunched around his shoulders, pushed upward as he was raked across the rock peaks, his shirt — soggy with blood — looked strangely bloated.
Paul swallowed. Hard. He stared at Wilson's exposed chest. The bone of the ribs gleamed pallidly through the blood and the gashed and torn flesh. It was not just the boy's shirt bunched up high on his body. It was his skin — slashed and flayed from him as he was dragged along the path of death.
Ward came up to stand beside Paul. The two men did not look at one another. In silence Ward bent down to the maimed young man. Slowly he straightened up. There was no need for words.
Paul forced himself to look away. Without seeing, he gazed upon the men huddled together in shaken silence. His eyes met those of Sergeant Hays. The man's face was sickly gray.
Paul made his way slowly back toward the ill-fated trail. The path across the crusted salt ridges bespoke the violence of the plunge; crushed and broken spikes and pinnacles, chunks of mud-and-salt rocks marked the path of the runaway jeep. And closely paralleling it a gruesome trail of blood, bits of clothing and gore.
He stopped. He looked closer at the terrible trail. He bent down and picked up a small notebook lying hidden in the gory crags.
He turned it over in his hands. It was a cheap little date book, the kind that was available in any PX.
But it was torn and bloody.
He opened it. On the flyleaf a name had been hand-printed. He read it:
For a moment he stood staring at it, a slight frown on his face.
Then he put it in his pocket.
Resolutely he stalked toward his scout.
The search operation through Death Valley had exacted its second life…
6
The tortuous ordeal of the salt-and-mud flats had been left behind — but not the injuries and exhaustion it had inflicted. As she slowly and painfully followed her husband up into the foothills, Randi glanced down at her boots.
All of a sudden she felt an overwhelming gratitude toward them. They had saved her life! They were her friends. Old friends with whom she had shared many a hiking trip. And now she owed them her survival. She loved them… Her fatigue-hazed mind allowed itself its euphorious extravagances of emotion.
Her thoughts grew bleak again. She stared dully at the boots as she agonizingly placed one before the other… one before the other. Reality returned.
They were badly scratched and cut by the sharp salt crags, and her feet were tender and sore from walking across the treacherous, uneven surface. On one knee a tear through her slacks exposed a blood-caked cut, suffered when she had brushed against a razor spike, and her right hand was gashed when she'd tripped and steadied herself on a spiny pinnacle to keep from falling. She had licked it clean.
Every step was agony for her.
But the worst agony was her thirst.
It burned in her. It robbed her of her strength. It seared her lips, her mouth, her throat — and parched her swollen tongue.
Had it not been for the deep blue-gray shadows cast by the late afternoon sun, she knew she could not have gone on.
Through sun-scorched eyes she peered at her husband laboriously making his way up into the craggy hills a little ahead of her. She knew he was as exhausted and thirst-ridden as she. She knew his fears were driving him on.
Perhaps to destruction.
And she knew she had no way of allaying those fears.
She twisted her foot on a loose rock and fell to one knee. Suddenly she had no more energy. No more will. She let herself collapse. She could go on no more. No more…
Through a haze of utter fatigue she saw Tom stop and turn toward her as she lay on the ground. For a moment he stood gazing back at her. He seemed confused, hesitant. Unconsciously he touched the spot high on his head where the dried, caked blood formed a blackish cap. Slowly he walked back down to her. He grabbed her by the arms and raised her to her feet. She had no strength or will to resist. He urged her to go on, pushing her gently.
Spent, battered, without a will of her own, she walked on.
They crawled around a rock outcropping and came upon a little hollow in the mountainside. Suddenly Tom stiffened. He let go of Randi and half ran, half stumbled toward the cliffside across the hollow.
Out from the rock wall the water from a little spring, not much more than a trickle, ran down the stone to a small pool. It flowed a few feet, glistening in the last rays of the sun, running in a narrow stream to disappear into the ground.
Tom fell to his knees beside the little waterhole. He stared at the water. He put his hand into it and licked his fingers. He fell prostrate on the ground and buried his face in the water, drinking greedily.
Randi crawled up to him and he made room for her. Together they quenched their thirst.
Randi leaned back against the rocks and rested. She let every aching muscle relax. She was bone tired, but the cool water had refreshed her and restored some of her strength. She regarded her husband. The water had rinsed away the grime from his stubbled face and soothed his dehydrated lips. He, too, looked refreshed.
He returned her gaze. Then, abruptly, he broke off the eye contact and shifted to a spot from which he could look out over the salt flats below. He sat with his back to Randi, watching in wary silence, making sure the monsters had not followed.
Randi still felt hot. Her shirt was soaked with perspiration and clung uncomfortably to her skin. She pulled a handkerchief from her pocket, dipped it in the water and wiped her burning face. It felt good. The quickly evaporating wetness cooled her.