by David Wood
“I knew that. I’m just pissed off that I led us right into it. Who the hell puts quicksand in the middle of the desert, anyway?”
“I’m fairly certain this isn’t our first encounter with the stuff,” Maddock said.
Quicksand was formed when water flowed up from underground and saturated an area of silt, sand, or clay. Consisting of floating particles suspended in water, quicksand yielded easily to any weight or pressure. What made it so easy to stumble into was that, because the water flowed up from underground, it was not unusual for the top layer to dry, forming a thin crust barely distinguishable from the surrounding area. Once stuck in the quicksand, if the person became panicked and started thrashing about, the vigorous movement only served to work the victim deeper into the mire. Most of the time, quicksand pits were shallow and a person touched bottom long before they drowned.
“Have you hit bottom yet?” Maddock asked.
“Knee deep and still sinking,” Bones said calmly.
Even if they did touch bottom, the danger didn’t end there. They would still need to get out. That would be a difficult task, and a tiring one. Drowning deaths in quicksand were unusual. Deaths from dehydration and exposure were much more common. It was all too easy to dislocate a joint or simply tire one’s self out and become stuck.
Maddock looked around. They were too far from the edge to grab hold of anything solid and pull themselves out. This wasn’t going to be easy. Needing to unburden themselves of as much weight as possible, they removed their backpacks, tucked their weapons inside, then heaved the packs back onto dry land.
“You know what we have to do.”
Bones sighed. “I thought we were finished with the mud baths after the adventure race.”
“One does not simply walk out of quicksand,” Maddock said.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about but from your tone of voice I guess it’s something nerdy.”
Moving safely through quicksand was a lot like swimming. Maddock gradually allowed his weight to shift forward. Slowly, gradually, he leaned into the mud. It was a bizarre, almost counterintuitive feeling to put more of one’s body into the deadly muck. Some people only panicked worse when they tried it. But Maddock and Bones knew it was essential to redistribute their body weight over the greatest possible surface so that the quicksand could support them. The thick, paste-like substance enveloped his chest and torso, seeming to draw him forward.
Remain calm. That’s the trick.
“Did I say how much I freaking hate this?” Bones asked. “I feel like I’m voluntarily burying myself in this crap.”
“Think of it as a trust fall,” Maddock said as he stretched out onto the quaking mud surface.
“I hate those, too. Willis let me fall one time.” Bones proceeded to curse their roommate at length as he worked on getting out of the quicksand.
Maddock was now stretched out face first, with his waist bent at a forty-five- degree angle. Now came the tricky part. He began to work his legs up and down and side to side, a little at a time. It wouldn’t do to give a great jerk and attempt to heave his bulk out. That would only pull him in further.
He felt his upper body being pulled down. Tired and battered as he was, a small part of him thought it might not be the worst thing in the world to simply lie here for a while. And if he sank, he sank. His survival instinct kicked in. He was going to get the hell out of here. Forcing himself to remain calm, he raised his head and controlled his breathing. Time slowed to a standstill. Finally, he felt his legs begin to rise. Little by little, like a fulcrum, his body leveled out until he was lying on his stomach with the quicksand supporting his weight.
“How you doing over there?” he asked Bones.
“Race you,” Bones grunted. The big man was inching his way forward, moving his arms as if doing an odd twist on the breaststroke.
“Because hurrying is always a good idea when you’re in quicksand,” Maddock said.
“Never mind. You win.” Bones had gone still.
Maddock saw the reason immediately. A beige and gray snake lay sunning itself mere feet from Bones’ outstretched hand. From the dark diamond pattern on its back and black and white bands on the tail, he recognized it as a Mojave rattlesnake. The deadly viper primarily made its home in the high desert or on mountain slopes, but sometimes resided in low-lying areas among Joshua tree forests or cacti. It was also one of world’s most venomous snakes and one of the most dangerous of all the rattlers.
“It doesn’t seem to have noticed we’re here,” Maddock said. “Let’s try and keep it that way.”
“New rule,” Bones said, slowly beginning to inch away from the coiled serpent,
“if you’re going to tell me something I already know, just keep it to yourself.”
The snake chose that moment to finally take notice of the intruders into its realm.
“Easy, buddy,” Bones said. “You and I don’t have a problem.”
The rattler apparently did have a problem because its coils began to shift. It raised its head, drew it back prepared to strike. A distinctive rattling sound filled the air.
“Easy, Bones,” Maddock said. “Don’t make any sudden movements.”
“I’m lying in quicksand, Maddock. How fast do you think I can move?”
The snake continued to rattle out its angry warning, showing no sign of fleeing.
Bones lay just beyond its striking range, but if the snake came his way, he’d never get away in time.
The buzzing sound reached a high pitch.
“Dude, you’ve got to chill,” Bones said to the snake. “I’ve got no beef with you. I’ve got a few cousins who would eat you, but they’re disgusting.”
The snake uncoiled and began to slither forward. Maddock grabbed a handful of thick mud and flung it at the serpent. It struck the rattler hard on the side of the head. Confused, it paused. Maddock grabbed for more mud, but his fingers closed on something solid—a tough old root anchored in firm ground. He gave a desperate pull and, with a sucking sound, his legs broke free of the quicksand. He rose to his knees, snatched up a rock, and flung it at the rattlesnake, which was once again advancing. He found his mark again. Annoyed, the snake veered off in another direction and slithered away.
“Nice throw. Greg Maddux has got nothing on you,” Bones said.
“I still think it’s weird that you’re a Cherokee and you root for the Braves,”
Maddock said as he dragged his friend the last few feet onto solid ground. “Is it really worth it just to annoy your family?”
“Angel is the only one it really annoys, so yeah, totally worth it.” Bones stole a glance at him. Angel was Bones’ sister and Maddock’s ex-fiancée. Maddock realized that for the first time, the mention of her name didn’t bother him. “She doesn’t care for your Washington Redskins fandom, either.”
“Trust me. Supporting the ‘Skins is its own punishment.”
They took a minute to scrape off as much of the sticky mud as possible. At least they’d have a little extra camouflage and sunscreen. Nearby, a shot rang out.
Two more followed in quick succession.
“I’ve been listening to that,” Maddock said, “and I don’t think we were targets.”
“Agreed. We were just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
Maddock nodded. “Which would mean you led us right into quicksand for nothing.”
“What did I tell you about saying things I already know?” Bones gave the front of his shirt one final, two-handed swipe. “In any case, they’re in between us and the ranch. We’ll need to find a different way back.”
“Let’s get our stuff and get the hell out of here.” Maddock turned, taking a moment to get his bearings. And then he froze. “We’ve got another problem.” The packs containing their water, map, weapons, and spare ammunition were gone.
Chapter 28
––––––––
“This freaking sucks,” Bones said. “No topographical map, so no way of
knowing if we’re going the right way. No water. Have I said this sucks?”
“No. You’ve been a dream come true,” Maddock said.
They’d been hiking for an hour, following a path that led away from the sounds of combat, trying to work their way back around toward the ranch. But without their topographical map and no cell coverage, they were experiencing the same sorts of frustrations that had plagued desert travelers throughout history. Whether boxed in by canyon walls or wedged into slots, there was no way to see the broader landscape, to pick out landmarks. And when the desert hiker did find himself on an open vista, the shimmering heat played tricks with distances and the shapes of landmarks.
“I notice you haven’t once boasted about your inerrant sense of direction,” Maddock said.
“I’m an East Coast Indian. Different magnetic pull out here.”
“Well, it looks like it just pulled us into a dead end.”
The arroyo they were following ended in a recessed area beneath a high ledge.
“Time to climb?” Bones asked, looking doubtfully at the surrounding hills.
Maddock looked around. Something in the eroded area beneath the overhang caught his eye. A single stone slab that appeared just slightly out of place. It was just a shade darker red than the surrounding stone, its edge just a bit too smooth.
And it was just the perfect size to conceal a man-sized opening. “Maybe not. Check this out.” He knelt to inspect the stone. If it was hiding something, it had been a long time since it had last been moved. Maddock brushed aside the detritus that covered it.
“You’re right. It does look weird,” Bones said. “But unless there’s a bottle of water under there, I’m going to have a hard time getting worked up over it.”
“I don’t need you to get worked up; I need you to help me move it.”
“Salty,” Bones said.
“The quicksand has dried and now it’s crumbling down into my... let’s just say I was already miserable from the bumps and bruises.”
“Grandpa, what’s the worst injury you ever suffered?” Bones affected the voice of a mesmerized child. “Was it in the SEALs?
“No, child,” he croaked in a fair imitation of an old man, “I rolled down a hill.”
“Screw you, Bones. Help me with this.”
They gave it a heave, the effort seeming to tear at Maddock’s muscles, and the stone shifted to reveal open space beneath. Maddock peered down to see a smooth, sloping passageway descending at a steep angle.
“See anything?” Bones asked.
“I see daylight. This leads somewhere.”
“But is it somewhere I want to go?”
“Somebody went to the trouble of making this stone just to cover up this passage. That’s almost always the kind of place you and I want to go.”
Maddock scooted feet-first down the passageway and found himself in a tiny cave. He could just see the way out in the distance.
Bones slid down behind him and landed in a crouch. He tilted his head and sniffed twice. “What are you doing, Smeagol?”
“I smell water. Come on.” Bones scrambled forward until he came to a halt about ten feet from the cave entrance. Here, a tiny flow of water oozed down the cave wall and collected in a small depression.
“A seep spring!” Maddock said. “Bones, you’re a genius.”
“Wait until I tell your future brother-in-law that you drank raw water.”
Maddock rolled his eyes and took a tiny sip. It was like nectar of the gods in his parched mouth. They took turns taking small swallows until they were, if not quite refreshed, at least less desperate than they had been minutes before. After they’d rested for a few minutes, they decided to see what was outside the cave.
Down below lay a steep-sided canyon. Its sun-blasted surface was smooth and regular.
“This was once part of the lake,” Maddock said, pointing at some shells baked into the sand.
“Cool, but is it the way back to the ranch?”
Maddock took in the breadth of the canyon. His eyes searched for a way out.
And then he saw it. He closed his eyes, gave his head a shake, then blinked twice and looked again. It was still there.
A dark hulk lay in late evening shadows. It was sheltered by the steep cliffs, impossible to spot from the sky.
“Look over there and tell me if you see what I’m seeing,” Maddock said to Bones.
Bones’ eyes went wide.
“Holy freaking crap. It’s a ship. The lost ship of the desert is real.”
––––––––
It must have been an hour, maybe more, before Segar returned to full awareness. He had failed utterly. The spirits were out there, but none would speak to him. He had not yet earned their trust. He’d have to try again tomorrow.
“At least the cameras weren’t here to see me fail.”
He stood, stretched, and breathed in the cool night air. The sky was a delicate shade of purple, the land around him only visible in shades of gray. He looked around for a safe way down, turning slowly.
And then he saw it! Five rock piles were spaced evenly around the boulder on which he stood.
“It’s shaped like a turtle!” He understood! The spirits had spoken to his subconscious when he made what he thought was a false map to mislead Gold. The turtle was real, only he’d been too blinded by this contest to receive the message clearly. Now he understood everything.
“Sorry, Nugget. I found it first.” It was no surprise. Terry Gold was no match for him.
He slipped and skidded back to the desert floor and headed back to camp. As he walked, he thought about how to proceed from here.
The turtle was a signpost on the way to the treasure, but which way should they go next? He tried to picture in his mind the map he’d scraped into the rock. What other shapes had there been? Where did the dotted line go? He couldn’t remember. Yoshi! Yoshi would have gotten it on camera.
With that problem settled, his thoughts turned to the following day’s filming.
They would begin at the turtle, the sight of his triumph. He’d need a suitable topic of discussion to go along with it. The spiritual significance of turtles, perhaps. The turtle spirit symbolized determination, persistence, and emotional strength. He could use that! His own determination had led him to this place. And the turtle also symbolized ancient wisdom.
“The wise turtle guides us to the treasure,” he whispered. It was perfect!
He was so busy planning his dialog that it was far too late when he finally noticed he’d stepped right off a ledge.
He let out a cry and hit the ground an instant later. His ankle turned beneath him, and he felt more than heard the pop as it dislocated. Needles of pain jabbed into him as he rolled over onto his back and let out a low groan. He rolled over, sat up, and examined his foot in the scant remnants of daylight.
He winced at the sight of his foot askew. He had no choice but to pop it back into place. He grabbed hold, pulled, and twisted. Pain lanced through him and he let out a low groan as he reset it. He made his unsteady way to his feet. His ankle hurt like hell, but he could walk on it.
He had gone about twenty feet when someone stuck a gun in his face. He reacted instinctively, batting the weapon aside and driving a knee into his assailant’s groin.
At least, that had been the plan.
His ankle betrayed him, buckling beneath his weight as he attempted the knee strike. That’s the problem with instinct, he thought as he fell. It takes no account of injuries.
He felt a knee on the small of his back, the cold muzzle of a gun against the base of his neck.
––––––––
As he and Bones half walked, half stumbled toward the old ship, Maddock couldn’t help but marvel at the sight. It was a caravel, one of the small, highly maneuverable sailing ships used by the Portuguese and Spanish during the so-called Age of Discovery. The sturdy ship with its wide, round, hull, had come to rest in the sand near the base of the cliff. It lay alm
ost level, with only a slight downhill slant. Its masts lay broken, remnants of the rigging still clinging to them, protected by the arid desert climate. Its sterncastle was buried in a massive sand dune, but the forecastle was fully exposed.
“She’s a three-master, with a square-rigged foremast,” Maddock said. “I put her at about sixty feet in length, beam about eighteen feet. She’s a big one.”
“The bowsprit’s unusual,” Bones said.
“I’ve never seen its like.” The spar that extended forward from the ship’s bow was intact, but unlike its more functional counterparts, this one had been carved to resemble a sea serpent. Wear and tear of the ropes had worn it down in spots, but it was still a magnificent piece.
“One of the native legends called the desert ship a ‘serpent-necked canoe.’ I can see why,” Bones said.
“And the legends of a Viking sailing ship being found in the desert?” Maddock said. To someone who didn’t know much about old sailing vessels, the sea-serpent carving might have resembled the dragon figurehead of a Viking sailing ship.
Maddock took out his phone and began snapping photographs while Bones took out his own phone and began recording a video.
“What’s up? This is Bones Bonebrake. The little guy is my assistant, Maddock. I’m here to tell you that we’ve just discovered the lost ship of the desert. Check this crap out!” He kept up the voice-over as he took video of the incredible find. “All you guys thought it was just a legend, but we proved you wrong. So, all you experts can suck it.”
“Very professional,” Maddock said.
“I enjoy being right,” Bones said. “I’m not going to put this online or anything.
It’s just for me. And proof that we found it first.”
“I don’t know how you have the energy for this,” Maddock said. “Besides, don’t you want to look inside?”
“That I do.”
They crawled through a hole in the port side of the hull near the bow then slid down loose sand to what had once been the crew’s quarters. The tattered remains of hammocks dangled from hooks. Maddock looked across the open space to a closed door. Scant light filtered through the cracked hull, illuminating the large space. The floor was broken in places, revealing a cargo hold below, its floor covered in sand.
