CHAPTER 6

With long, sure strides, Burt Gummer's ground-eating pace took him some distance from his truck. He didn't once turn to look back to see where his companion was. The panting and occasional cuss words drifting up from behind him, told Burt that Twitchell was both safe, if not physically comfortable, and still tagging along.

"Gummer, wait up, will ya?" Twitchell managed in between breathes. "What's your rush?"

Burt heard the sound of thumping footfalls and realized that the DOI agent was making an effort to close the gap. Worried that the clearly overweight and out-of-shape guy might have a heart attack on him, Burt did indeed stop his forward progress. He turned to watch the man lumbering up the slight incline.

When Twitchell finally got there, he bent over at the waist, hands on his upper thighs, gasping for breath.

Burt exhaled impatiently, glanced quickly at his watch, and without bothering to hide the sarcasm in his tone, stated, "You know, 'Twitch', you might consider spending your next vacation at my Survival School. Give me a couple of…months…and I'd whip you into shape. Build muscle, lose weight…increase stamina."

That got Twitchell bestowing a truly hateful look on him. "There's nothing wrong…with my stamina…thank you…very much." After a few more deep breaths, he stood up. "In fact, my 'stamina' was doing just fine until you started showing up on my doorstep."

"Excuses. Excuses." Burt said with a smug grin. "Think about it, I'll even cut you a break on my fee, just for the pleasure of having your 'company'.

"The day I decide to commit suicide is the day I'll say yes to your proposal and not a minute before."

"Suit yourself. Time to get moving." Without looking back, he moved out in more northern course, planning on walking a big square around where the injured Mixmastered scorpion had met its demise. But this time, thinking of the distance they'd have to travel, he slowed down his pace to one that was more suitable to Twitchell's shorter stride.

More frequent rest and water breaks slowed things down. They had a quick lunch of MREs which suited Burt just fine, but had Twitchell casting a jaundiced eye at the meal. "No wonder you always look like a war refugee," Twitchell muttered, tentatively tasting the fare provided.

"Do you really want me to prove these have kept me healthy, Twitchell," Burt questioned with a hard stare at the smaller, wider man.

"No. No." Twitchell said, raising one palm in surrender. "I believe you."

"Glad to see there is no argument because I was prepared to leave you in the dust again."

Twitchell only sighed and silently finished the meager meal, if only because he had no idea when the next one would come.

As the sun climbed high overhead, and the heat was reaching its zenith, Burt was growing irritable himself. Not from the oppressive rays of the sun so much as their lack of success with finding the creatures. Nothing was breaking the monotony of their adventure, not even the presence of El Blanco, who, for unexplained reasons, had been prowling around the northern end of the valley rather than where they currently were. By this point, Burt would have welcomed the graboid's presence if only because he seriously wanted to shoot something other than the thing truly annoying him…his reluctant and constantly complaining partner.

Flushed, sweating, and miserable, Twitchell had slogged on just behind Burt. The more his shirt plastered itself to his body, the more he kept wondering how the survivalist managed to remain so cool and comfortable. Shortly thereafter, Twitchell yanked off his silk tie, and tossed it aside. It remained forgotten, already resting beneath a lizard. Eventually, his Izod shirt, long since unbuttoned, was ditched, left to bake on a rock, leaving only his white t-shirt, which he yanked out of his dress slacks and left hanging down to his hips.

"That's not the best course of action." Burt told him, trying to sound reasonable. In the couple of years Twitchell had been showing up to manage the valley and the wildlife therein, Burt had never seen the man show up casually dressed during daylight hours, with one notable exception. That had been the day they had gone to look for the bacteria that had rolled forth from the underground lab months ago. And on that day he'd still had a light windbreaker on. "The longer sleeves would have kept you from getting a serious burn."

A fine mist of perspiration already covered Twitchell's forearms and he glanced at it a few seconds, frowning. He'd played golf for hours on end and had finally built up a decent tan but after looking at the slight reddening just beginning to show through the blond hairs, he began to wonder if Gummer, who was rarely wrong, didn't have a valid point. There were times when the days were 'crazy hot', days when he declined to go golfing if it meant taking him too far from the pleasantly temperature controlled clubhouse. Today was such a day. He looked back over his shoulder, realizing he didn't have the energy to back track. He wondered if Lisa still had that bottle of aloe vera gel in the refrigerator because he suspected he was going to need it by the time he got home.

For the first time that morning, he shot Gummer a pleading look, which the survivalist interpreted correctly.

"Okay, let's head back to my power wagon. I think I may have a light shirt in there you can use. Besides, I can tell that your canteen is almost empty. We'll need to refill before we get started again.

That last comment elicited a low, hoarse groan from Twitchell's parched throat. Not even 1:30 yet, and he was already feeling like it was long past the time to return home. Images of his pool calling his name flooded his mind. The thought of another 5 or 6 hours of tramping around out in this hell was more than he could bear. He didn't, however, give voice to his concerns. His own pride simply wouldn't let him admit that he wasn't much more than a liability to the tall, lanky survivalist.

Silently, Twitchell backed away from the rock he was leaning against, and took his place at Burt's side.