THE MAN WHO HUNTED HIMSELF

by Lex Lander

  I straightened. ‘You okay, Lindy?’

  The girl raised her head and nodded. Frightened but functional.

  ‘Yes.’ she said, and burst into tears. Releasing her tension, if kids did that sort of thing.

  ‘Maura?’ I queried, getting rid of my belt and leaning over the front passenger seat. She was lolling against the side window. For a second I thought she was unconscious or worse. Then she stirred, groaned, and slowly sat upright, massaging her neck.

  ‘Are you hurt?’

  ‘I think so. My leg ... my ankle ...’

  The next priority was to get out. Despite the absence of burning smells, I knew that you should never hang about in a crashed aircraft.

  Lindy first. The rear door was on her side, so I uncoupled her and helped her out onto the sand. As I left the protection of the plane, I immediately became aware of the heat of the sun on my back.

  ‘Go over there.’ I pointed to the top of the dune we were on, about twenty yards away. ‘I’ll bring Mommy.’

  I expected some resistance, but in the aftermath of the crash she was meek and compliant.

  ‘Ignition’s off,’ Maura told me, when I returned to her side, via the front passenger door. She was already out of her belt and flipping switches, so her mind was clear enough. I dragged her towards the door. She sat on the edge of the seat, feeling her left ankle which looked swollen.

  ‘Ow. I’m sure it’s broken. I felt it go and the pain has started in.’

  ‘Did we hit something?’

  ‘A rock maybe.’

  She couldn’t bear her weight on it, so I carried her to where Lindy was sitting, cuddling Basset, who was unperturbed by all the excitement. Notwithstanding her own pain, she took time out to hug her daughter and murmur a few soothing words. I glanced back at the Seneca. It was canted over, having settled on a hump in the sand. The tips of some of the prop blades were bent backwards, otherwise it looked pristine to me. Not an insurance write-off by any means.

  No expert on broken bones, never having suffered one, I tentatively probed Maura’s ankle. She flinched when I touched the projecting bone on the inside of her leg.

  ‘That’s the fibula, I think,’ she said.

  ‘How come you know so much?’

  ‘Retentive memory? I studied for an MD at Columbia for a few months, during my period of wanting to save the world. Until I discovered that I couldn’t bear cutting into people.’

  ‘Speaking of medical matters, where’s the first aid kit?’

  She told me and I went and retrieved it from the baggage section behind the third pair of seats. Neither of us was sure about splinting an ankle break, so I settled for binding it very tightly and fed her a couple of Paracetamol for the pain. She swallowed them without water.

  While I was doing my medical bit, Lindy kept up a barrage of questions about the crash, about our location, about going home, and so on. It was around midday and the sun was belting out a furnace-level of heat. We needed to move into the shade, and the only shade around was that provided by the plane’s wings.

  ‘Can we risk it yet?’ I asked Maura.

  ‘Either that, or we fry to death on this dune.’

  Put like that, it was an easy decision. No trace of smoke any more, but to be on the safe side I retrieved the fire extinguisher from the cabin. The plane was canted to the right, and we were just about able to sit upright under the port wing. It was a relief. It was also a reminder that our woes were far from over.

  ‘Won’t they send out a search party when we don’t show in Vegas?’ I said.

  ‘It doesn’t work like that when you fly VFR. You don’t have to log a flight plan or state a destination. It’s more like setting out in a car, nobody has to know where you’re heading.’

  ‘Even so. Somebody will report us missing.’

  ‘Who? The Heider family? They expect us to be missing, remember.’

  ‘Your colleagues at the casino?’

  ‘I’m supposed to be on a week’s vacation, Drew.’ She folded her arms and stared at the desert. ‘No, I can’t think of anyone who’ll miss us, certainly not for a few days.’

  By then, she didn’t say, it would be too late.

  ‘Somebody might have seen us go down,’ I ventured.

  ‘They might. But how will we know?’

  I gave up the wishful thinking and channelled my intellect toward practical issues.

  ‘You said there was some water on board.’

  ‘Yes, maybe a couple of small bottles. They’ll be in the back, where the medical kit was.’

  A couple was exactly right. For the three of us we had just one litre of water. We had discussed how we might eke it out, but that was when the three of us had expected to be together. Maura’s broken ankle meant that I would have to set out alone, and leave them here. The longer we delayed, the more dehydrated we would become.

  I let Maura in on my decision.

  ‘You go, and we stay? Is that what you’re proposing?’

  ‘You can’t walk, except at a shuffle. I could carry you a mile or so, but not twenty. And Lindy would need a ride. Speed’s the thing.’

  ‘You’ll have to take all the water, and even at that you may not make it.’

  I made a chopping motion with my hand. ‘Forget that, love. You two need the water. I’ll survive on what I’m carrying inside me.’

  ‘It’s impossible.’ Her face crumpled. ‘You’ll die out there.’

  ‘If I don’t do anything, we’ll all die here.’

  ‘Take the water, God damn it!’

  I leaned towards her and kissed her softly on her sweet mouth.

  ‘No, honey, I won’t, and you can’t make me, and you can’t stop me either.’

  I looked down at Lindy and winked. She was staring up at us, her mouth open, her eyes round as marbles.

  ‘That okay with you, Lindy? I’m going to get help, and you and Mommy and Basset can sit around and play “I Spy”.

  Something beginning with “S” was going to be popular.

  Prolonging the goodbyes would have made it harder. A single kiss was all I allowed us. Plus one on the cheek for Lindy.

  ‘Drew ... no,’ Maura moaned. ‘You can’t do it.’

  But I could, and I had to, and she knew it.

  ‘Don’t spoil my chance for a bit of nobility,’ I said lightly. ‘It’s long overdue.’

  ‘Okay, okay. Head south-east. You see that mountain with what looks like two peaks – that’s roughly due east of here. The sun will rise behind it. Fix another point at ninety degrees to it, then bisect the two points. That’s your route. Even if you miss Fort Irwin you’ll hit a road. Take the map from the plane.’

  From my valise I retrieved the Dodgers baseball cap and a T-shirt to wear under it and keep the sun off my neck. Night would be almost as serious a problem, with plunging temperatures, so I decided to take a windbreaker. I would keep going for as long as my legs would support me, day and night.

  Maura held out a bottle, beseeching me with her eyes to take it.

  ‘It’s not enough to make a difference.’ I backed away, waved a farewell. ‘Bye Maura, bye Lindy.’

  They waved back, including Basset – with assistance from Lindy. Maura was blinking back tears, Lindy merely solemn, as if she understood that my departure was a big deal and that the survival of all three of us depended on a successful outcome.

  Then I orientated myself, selected a spot between the horned mountain and a peak with a flattened top. And started walking.

  This then was my penance. The sacrifice I was compelled to make in recompense for the years of Godlessness. To put myself in mortal danger with no thought of self. Unless trying to save the person you love counts as egotistical. How should I know?

  Walk or jog? I opted to jog. I would cover fifty per cent more miles in exchange for a possible twenty-five per cent more energy. It seemed like a smart trade. As I jogged, I did sums in my head. Assuming Maura’s twenty mile estimate to Fort Erin was reasonably a
ccurate, in favourable conditions – flat terrain moderate temperature, a supply of nourishment and liquid – I would be able to cover it on foot in seven hours, at a leisurely three miles per hour. Almost a walkover. Jogging over twenty miles without break would take four hours, maximum five. A jogover then.

  In favourable conditions.

  I was a shade overdressed for the occasion, in my chinos, with my sweater and windbreaker tied by their sleeves around my waist. The T-shirt I was wearing was dark blue, the one protecting my neck black, great for heat absorption, lousy for heat reflection. Couldn’t be helped. When I selected my wardrobe the prospect of a canter across Death Valley hadn’t been on the agenda.

  The terrain was far from flat. It was uphill, downhill, it was sand and rocky slopes. The temperature was not excessive, but without water it would soon dehydrate me. So double the estimated journey time to ten hours. Say ten o’clock tonight. Except that I wouldn’t be able to continue in the dark, with no visible aiming points.

  These calculations also depended on my not losing my way, or go walking around in circles the way people are said to do in the desert. That shouldn’t happen. This desert wasn’t featureless, and I had two mountains to guide me.

  After thirty minutes, cresting an expanse of rock, I took a breather. I had covered maybe three kilometres; after so many years resident in Continental Europe I often calculated in metric out of force of habit. Three kilometres, say two miles. Eighteen to go. The plane was no longer visible, being screened by dunes. Nothing stirred except a high flying airliner, bisecting the blue with its ruler-straight contrails. The heat, which had not felt excessive at the start, was more debilitating than I had expected. Still, it would cool as the afternoon progressed and by five would be just about right.

  Bit by bit the mountains crept towards me, or I crept towards them. Still jogging, sweating lightly, losing moisture I wouldn’t be able to replace. I had taken that into account when making the decision to jog; covering ground faster against tiring myself more quickly. The equation didn’t include thirst. Lack of water wasn’t bothering me too much yet. I could have used a drink, yes, but it wasn’t impacting on my pace or my stamina. Just making my throat dry.

  The ground was more level now, dotted with the odd shrub – brown, dead looking, clearly in hibernation. Somehow, the sight of vegetation in the midst of limitless beige cheered me. This wasn’t an entirely lifeless world then.

  An hour into my run I paused for another break. Bent forward, my hands resting just above my knees, breathing regularly. My regular exercise regime meant I was in good shape for a forty-year old. Even without liquids, it shouldn’t have been beyond me. It mustn’t be beyond me. Three lives depended on it, of which my own was by far the least important.

  Onward I went, pace steady, breathing regular. My sunglasses were steaming up. I removed them, wiped the lenses on my T-shirt. Still my movements were coordinated, fluid, my feet pounding on sand, occasionally rock, regular as a ticking metronome. It was easy.

  Ninety minutes gone. Rest and relax. Stay upright. When you sit, you stiffen up fast and make it all the harder to get back into a rhythm. Not that I didn’t feel like sitting, or even lying. But I was a long way from succumbing to my feelings.

  When I resumed my jog, I noticed that the flat topped mountain had shifted to the left, meaning I had drifted from my trajectory. I swerved left until the two mountains that served as my compass were equidistant. It proved how easy it would be to wander off track if I didn’t concentrate.

  ‘Come on, Warner,’ I said to myself. ‘Get a grip.’

  The contrails were long gone, replaced by a circling bird. Some sort of bird of prey, judging by its wingspan and the feathers at the tips that resembled spread fingers. Buzzard? Vulture? Always vigilant and ready to stoop on the flagging. Did that include people?

  ‘Does that include people?’ I asked aloud, my voice sounding flat and somehow dead in this expanse of deadness.

  Nobody answered. Naturally they didn’t, I was alone in Death Valley. That would make a great title for a book. Thirst was becoming an issue. Not yet a problem, but it was crowding into my other thoughts, shoving them aside. What was the distance? Twenty miles. No, kilometres. No, miles. Maura had told me, and as an American she always talked miles. How many miles had I travelled so far? Five, at a guess. Or was it kilometres? In a way, it didn’t matter. Keeping going was all that mattered. Until I reached the town, Fort something-or-other, or a road. Either would do. Town better, but the road would be a life saver.

  Life saver. Focus on that, Warner. You are running this race against thirst to save lives. Hold on a minute, this was no race. I was all alone here. Just me and the buzzard-vulture. Sweat was running down my forehead and getting in my eyes. Sweat. It was important for some reason, not to sweat too much. I consulted my watch – one hour fifty minutes since I set out. Ten minutes to my next break. It was too long, I needed it now. I stopped dead. Again I bent, hands above knees, wheezing. This wasn’t good. I was fit, I shouldn’t be blown after a few kilometres. Miles. Kilometres.

  My feathered companion was still up there gliding the thermals. The sun was still up there too, irradiating me, as if it had taken a personal dislike to me, and was trying to put me out of business. My throat was not merely dry, it now hurt to swallow. I tried to generate saliva with only partial success. It was thick and viscous in my mouth, sticking to my palate. This wasn’t possible. Less than two hours without a drink and I was already bellyaching for one. For Christ’s sake, I had anything from four to six hours more to go. How was I going to last six more hours if two hours left me gagging?

  ‘It’s an interesting question,’ I said, my speech hoarse, more of a whisper.

  Without being aware of stopping, I found myself sitting on a rock, the first time I had taken the weight off my feet. A few feet away, on an almost identical rock, a lizard was flopped, its sides palpitating. See? Even the lizards were hot. But surely this kind of heat was no big deal in Death Valley?

  Standing up was tough. I managed it though, and prepared to move off, swaying a little like a drunk. But I couldn’t be drunk, I hadn’t drank, drunk, anything. Not even water. Water. Don’t think about it. You don’t need water, you fool, you need stamina. Will power. Mind over matter. Just keep the legs going and eventually you’ll get there. Wherever there was. Therever where was.

  What?

  My course, hitherto as straight as obstacles would allow, was becoming distinctly wavy. The pronged mountain to my left and the flat top to my right were still in position, only now they were less defined, as if cloaked in a mist. I wiped the back of my hand across my eyes, clearing some of the sweat from my face. More would soon be produced to replace it. Until the means of production dried up. Literally.

  When I fell, I didn’t immediately understand why I was staring at the ground, inches from my nose instead of watching the two mountains. One second I was chugging away, arms dangling instead of pumping, but otherwise in reasonable shape; the next I was on my belly, not hurt, in fact just glad of the chance to put my feet up. I deserved it. I needed to sleep. Maura would understand.

  Maura would ...

  Maura ...

  Everything jerked back into focus, my mind clearing as if it had been immersed in a bucket of water. Water, that was it! The key to life on Earth. What was that about water, cool, clear water? Bring a little water, Sylvie. Bring a lot of water, Sylvie. I moistened my lips with the limited amount of moisture at my disposal. They felt like hessian.

  Without my being aware of it, I was up and jogging. More slowly now, barely more than a walk. Not a fast walk at that. The sun shone on, giving no quarter. It was a contest between sun and me, and I wasn’t going to surrender. The sky wasn’t blue any more, but white, bleached by the heat. How hot was it supposed to get here in the summer? A hundred and twenty? How could anything survive those sort of temperatures? The question was irrelevant. This was winter, what was I complaining about? It would get cold soon en
ough, once the sun went behind the mountains to the west.

  The buzzard-vulture was still soaring directly overhead, like a kite on a piece of string. He was a wise old bird. Or was it an owl that was wise? Wise enough to keep me in sight, until I fell and stayed down. Maybe knocking myself out. Then he would descend in a series of spirals, like a helter-skelter slide, to land beside me. Would he try to eat me if I were breathing? Suppose he did, and suppose I didn’t have the strength to stop him.

  The two mountains had moved again, well to the left. For some reason this was a grave matter, a matter to be addressed without delay. Trouble was I couldn’t remember why, or how. Dead ahead and quite close was what looked like a mountain range in miniature. Brown grooved slopes, pointy peaks, no obvious path through, which meant sticking to the valleys and hoping for the best. Underfoot was becoming rocky: rocks the size of oranges, grapefruit, footballs, and bigger. Easy to trip, break a leg, knock yourself out if you fell. A broken leg would put an end to my valiant efforts to bring help and succour to ...

  Who was I helping?

  I shook my head, and sweat flew. My eyes stung with it. Now, as I entered the valley, I was reduced to a walk. Jogging was over and done with. The idea of water had become an abstract, no longer connected with me. I couldn’t even visualise it, let alone imagine its taste. My tongue was glued to the roof of my mouth. My lips were cracking like old parchment.

  Then I fell again. And this time I stayed down. And slept.

  When I came to the sun was no longer burning. The air was even borderline chilly. I tried to drink it in as if it were liquid. Away to my right the sun was low in the sky, almost sitting atop a mountain peak. The sky was no longer blue or white but purple and pink, with clouds radiating from it like the old Japanese flag. The roof of my mouth felt like coarse-grained sandpaper.

  ‘Get up,’ I commanded myself in a feeble croak that would have embarrassed a frog. ‘Get up.’

  God knows how, but my body obeyed. I tried to pee, though I knew I should try and retain such bodily fluids as were left inside me. The effort produced a thin dribble and an ache in my groin.