Chapter 12

Starsky staggered outside, looking around him for some cover. He saw the mile after mile of pale golden sand, strewn with rocks, the occasional scrubby bush and very little else amongst the hillocks and hollows of the desert floor. He squinted up at the milky sky, estimating that it was probably no later than 10:00am. That meant that if he really exerted himself he could cover the few miles to the co-ordinates Traff had given him by mid afternoon. If he'd have been fit, and he wasn't stuck somewhere in the middle of the Mojave, he'd probably have been able to jog the distance in a couple of hours, but such was not the case. He was weak, thirsty and injured.

Even at that relatively early time, with the sun still climbing into the sky, the temperature was baking. He estimated it was probably way over 80 degrees at that moment, and while he was used to the heat, it did pose one or two other problems.

If he was to set out and walk through the midday heat, he was likely to get himself sunstroke and a helluva burn with no shirt to cover his already burned shoulder and body. He could already feel the sun stinging at the acid burns on his right shoulder and down his arm. He'd had nothing to drink to speak of, for at least 24 hours and he could now feel the thickness of the saliva in his mouth and the dryness of his tongue. He really needed water, and to set out into the baking wilderness without it was asking for trouble.

On the other hand, he'd just escaped from a set of goons who were intent on making nuclear bombs, and, as an aside, killing him in the process. He weighed it up in his head. The heat of the desert as he escaped versus the prospect of a little more torture. And he still had to try and get Traff out of there.

Starsky started to walk, fatalistically out into no mans land, hoping he was going in the right direction. He seemed to be able to see, far away on the horizon something that looked like a cluster of buildings. Was that his destination? He doubted it very much, but made it his target in any event. At least if he got to some shelter he could wait out the heat of the day and set out again in the late afternoon. And darkness would cover his escape, if he could avoid Miguel and his cronies long enough.

The desert was not quiet. He'd always thought that the wilderness would be deathly still, but now he realised it was, in fact, a noisy, if desolate place. He could hear birds calling, far off and the incredible sound of the insects who were making the most of the relative cool before the heat of midday. There was a low, persistent hum also and it took him minutes to work out that the sand was singing, the grains rubbing against each other as they were blown across the arid plain.

As he started to walk, the sand scrunched beneath his bare feet. At the moment it felt warm. A little too warm, but he'd deal with that later. But the hard packed earth dug like blunt knives into the sole of his injured left foot and he was forced to walk either on the very tips of his toes, or hop, in order to make any sort of progress. Each hopping step, each lurch forward, brought spiking pains through his back and he grunted, trying to stay focussed on his goal of getting to the horizon and, hopefully, some shade.

Starsky was desperate to put as much distance as he could between him and the bunker and so he pressed on as fast as he could, limping, hopping, staggering and sometimes falling in his haste to escape. Within half an hour, however, his breathing was coming in ragged gasping pants and his heart was hammering in his chest, echoing the throb of the steel band he felt that someone had placed around his forehead. Sweat trickled down his face and dripped from his chin and eyelashes, prickling down his back and chest. His body temperature seemed to have risen a hundred degrees since he'd started out and the brunet knew that he needed to find shelter. At the rate he was loosing fluid from sweating he'd be completely dehydrated within hours.

Starsky looked back the way he'd come. In the distance he thought he could still see the looming dome of the bunker, but it was difficult to make out because the roof blended into the sandy colour of it's surroundings. He looked ahead of him.

He'd always thought of a desert as being sand, sand and more sand, but the area he was in now resembled a flat, scrubby field almost. There were tussocky sprouts of vegetation with sandy walkways between them, making the going even more difficult for a one footed man. He could get no rhythm to his stride and sometimes the areas between the vegetation were too small to allow for both feet. He looked around to see if there was anything he could use as a crutch or walking stick, but the highest vegetation was no more then 2'. The low bushes were desiccated, dry looking and pathetic and from his army field lessons he dimly recalled the creosote bush, its tiny, blackened leaves and acrid perfume making it stand out from the other small plants. Although there was vegetation around him, none looked as though he'd be able to squeeze any water out of it, and he swilled his dry tongue around dry lips, trying to ignore the thirst raging in his throat.

The brunet scanned the horizon, the bright mid morning sun making his eyes hurt. The buildings he thought were there seemed to have moved now, and he started to doubt they'd ever truly seen them in the first place. But in this desolate, flat wilderness, there was no landmark for him to aim at, no one fixed point to walk to, and he was rapidly getting to the stage where he couldn't walk much more in any event. The sand covered ground had heated up more now and each footstep felt as though he was stepping onto a griddle pan. The further he walked, the hotter the ground became and he knew that if he didn't do something to protect his bare feet soon, he would be blistered and unable to go on.

Starsky reluctantly sat down, as close to one of the tallest bushes as he could get, hunkering down to get the best of the poor shade it offered. The sun was getting high in the sky now and his shoulders, chest and, he presumed, his back had all taken on a vicious red hue. He wiped his hand over his face and was dismayed to feel that there was little sweat there now. Not good. Definitely not good!

The only thing he had that could possibly cover his feet and enable him to carry on walking was the material of his jeans and he silently thanked Traff once more for making sure he had some clothing with which to make his escape bid. He looked at the thick denim material. He didn't want to leave himself with no cover at all, so he contemplated trying to cut them off above the knee. But how could he separate the tough material with no knife? He looked at the bush behind him, it's woody stems sturdy, but short. Fatalistically he shuffled out of his jeans and started to rub the leg of the pants on the knobbly stem of the plant, working hard until he'd managed to wear a small hole in it. He seized the material and ripped it open, but was stopped by the thick double stitched seam. Again he worked it on the plant's stem. It abraded some of the fabric, but the jeans remained stubbornly sewed together. He examined the seam and started to pick at the threads, loosening them one by one until one seam opened. One down, three to go.

Over an hour later, with all four seams unpicked, Starsky had a pair of cut off shorts, which he struggled back into, and two stout pieces of material to wrap around his feet. The work had been hard and now, in the midday sun he could feel his shoulders burning and as he looked at the acid burn, he saw the blisters had popped and the skin was crisping obscenely at the edges of the raw, red wounds. His head felt as though it were in a vice and it pounded a rhythm in time with his heartbeat and his right hand, after the manual dexterity needed for his work on his jeans was now stiff, swollen and useless.

On top of everything, the thirst raged through his body, blotting out almost all other thoughts. His tongue was beginning to swell in his mouth now and he could feel his lips cracking and splitting. He wrapped the denim around each foot and tried to stand. But the hour or more in the noonday sun had sapped his energy. He felt sick and dizzy and light headed.

For a moment, Starsky contemplated just staying where he was, and trying to hunker down into the shade of the small bush until it was cooler, but the thoughts of what Horse, Miguel and their friends might do to him, and possibly Traff, drove him on. He made a titanic effort to pull himself to his feet, where he stood swaying and trying to stop his vision from dancing about.

Weakly he started to walk again, the pain in his foot lancing into his leg and hip with each stride. The denim worked reasonable well at insulating his feet from the heat, but the clumsy, makeshift shoes caught at the sand and twice he tripped, the second time hitting the side of his head against a rock. He gasped and pushed himself back up, feeling at the cut across his cheek. But instead of the free flowing blood he'd expected, his fingers came away bloody. But it seemed thick and sticky.

Starsky recognised the signs of dehydration, but he daren't stop, pushing himself through the vicious heat of the afternoon until he started to see visions tunnelling up through the heat.

In the distance, he saw a shimmering pool of blue water, its shores shallow and inviting. His heart raced at the thought of slaking his thirst and throwing the cool water over his burning shoulders, back and chest. In his desperation he broke into a shambling run, ignoring the pains in his foot in his eagerness to get to the cool fluid. The brunet had run perhaps 50 agonising yards when he stopped and looked for his target again. But the heat was playing cruel games with him and the mirage had disappeared.

Starsky dropped to his knees, his breath ragged in his throat as he sought to suck in air past his swollen tongue. He had no idea how long he'd been walking. His head felt as though it would explode, his body was on fire and he was so hot that he seemed to be viewing the world through a crimson haze. He stayed where he dropped, his head hanging down between his arms as he fought for breath, then he rolled over onto his back and stared up at the bright white sun in the cloudless sky.

Starsky fought to keep his eyes from closing. He was desperately tired and his body craved rest, but he knew that to stop here, in the shadeless desert meant certain death, and so with a pitiful groan, he pushed his aching, burning body up and tried to get to his feet.

'What're ya doing there Gordo? Ya want a drink?' Hutch held out a cold bottle of beer, the outside frosted with condensation.

Starsky reached for the bottle, his heart racing at the thought of the ice cold fluid flowing down his sandpapered throat. He pulled himself up onto his knees and reached out his hand, grasping at the cold bottle…..and the fingers closed on air.

The brunet fell forward, his left, uninjured hand clawing at the sand as he whimpered into the dry earth, but no tears flowed. His body was too dry to give up valuable fluid, but he sucked in sobbing breaths, the air drying his already dry airways.

Starsky was close to the end of his physical reactions. His body was closing down as he lay on the baking hot earth beneath the scorching sun. With a last, superhuman effort, he pushed himself up and stood unsteadily.

'Just ten more strides Starsk. Only ten more and you'll be ok' Hutch told him, the golden face shining at him through his red sea of misery.

Starsky lurched forward, screaming as his tortured foot touched the ground. One…two…he counted out the strides reaching for his partner

'Just another ten Gordo. You can do it. Just follow me' the velvety voice urged him.

And again, the brunet obeyed, ten steps by each ten steps as Hutch lead him through the wilderness.

Starsky was a walking dream, or more accurately a nightmare. His brain no longer functioned on a higher level, his feet lurching his body forward as he unconsciously screamed with each contact his foot made on the hard earth. He wound his way around the vegetation, stubbing his toes, falling, pulling himself up and all the time following the golden body that was always just out of reach.

'Utch' he croaked, reaching out a hand to his partner. 'Wait….tired….can't go on' he sunk to his knees again and once again the flaxen haired cop's voice sounded, a little way ahead.

'I know its hard, Starsk. But not much further. C'mon buddy, you can do it. For me? Huh?'

Starsky moaned and pushed himself to his feet again. He was burned across his shoulders and down his chest and back, grimy from his falls in the dust and weak from lack of water. And with each step he groaned, calling out for Hutch to wait until he caught up, a mechanism set to walk.

And that was just how Horse and Miguel found him at 8:00 that evening in the rapidly darkening desert, a mile from the bunker after he'd struggled to drag himself in almost a perfect circle back to the poinr from where he'd set off.