Boucenna's Walk
By EB
©2004
About three seconds after he wakes up the next time, he realizes he has never felt thirsty before in his life. He's thought he knows what it feels like. But he's never had a clue.
This, now. This is thirsty.
He moans a little, but all that emerges between his cracked lips is a little hiss of air. His head is pounding, and he has no sense of taste at all. His tongue feels like a foreign object inside his mouth, dry and alien, like he should spit it out. As if he had any spit to start with. There's nothing there.
It's dark, and his fire's still going. That's good, right? Even the wind has died down a little, although fitful little spasms of breeze kick up occasionally.
He pushes himself to his feet, and sways back against the rock he's been hiding under while he fights down a surge of dizziness. Got up too fast, that's all. Got a head rush. Slow and easy, Stokes, don't fucking fall over.
God, it's still hot. How can that be? It has to cool off. He looks at his watch, blinking several times before his foggy eyes will make out the numerals. Nearly ten. Daytime heat hasn't had time to dissipate yet, not completely. At least the sun is beating down on his head.
It's time to get moving. He's going to make it to that farm tonight. He has to.
"When you get back, first three beers on me." Warrick grins at him, teeth glinting in the firelight. "Whaddaya say?"
"Sounds good," Nick says, although it's mostly air. "Gonna remember that."
"Come on. Let's get outta here."
Warrick walks with him for a while. There's moonlight, enough that Nick doesn't trip too often. His jeans are braceleted around his ankles with stickers after a while, thanks to the few plants he lumbers through, but he can see to avoid big obstacles. The idea of falling, maybe breaking something, sends a spike of terror stabbing down his spine. He's got enough trouble already; a broken ankle would mean death.
"I don't wanna die," he whispers, and his eyes burn without any tears to wet them. "I'm not ready to die. Not yet."
At his side Warrick sighs. "You ain't gonna die," he says, hands in his pockets. "Trust me."
"Are you looking for me?"
"Course we are."
"Why haven't you found me yet?"
Warrick wavers, shivering like a mirage. Nick reaches out, and his fingers waft through Warrick's arm, touching nothing at all. He's not there. He wasn't ever there.
"Come back," Nick rasps. He coughs a dry sob, shaking his head. "Don't leave me here."
There's no reply. There never was one. He's hallucinating, something.
The moon hangs motionless and fat in the east. He gets his bearings again, trudges forward.
How many miles has it been? The moon is past overhead, giving off a decent amount of light, but he can't get his eyes to cooperate and focus on his watch. Must be maybe two? Feels as if he's been walking for days. Well, nights.
If he had his GPS he could make sure he's going in the right direction. Lately he's used that puppy a lot, handy little fucker. And it would really be useful now, because he really should be coming to the wash soon, the one Carson told him about. East at the wash. Only a mile or two. There'll be a well. Water. Maybe people, and a phone, but water's the thing that sounds good right now. Good, like oxygen. Good, like not dying.
A coyote cries out off to his right. Nick flinches, but it's miles away. And there's another one, answering, and maybe two more. Like a freaking coyote choir. Pretty dissonant, but in a weird way it makes him feel less lonely. There are living things out here. It's not as deserted as he feels it is.
A few minutes later he trips on a stone, and falls flat on his belly. Knocks the air clean out of him, and he lies there wheezing, breath pushing up a little puff of dirt.
"Aw, get up, you fucking faggot."
Nick jerks, rolls to the side. Knows that voice, oh yeah, that's a real familiar tone.
Brian Ledbetter rolls his eyes. His uniform is so clean it glows in the moonlight. The number twelve is plain on his chest. "Still a pussy," he croons, and makes that hee-haw snorting laugh. "You'll never change. Haven't got it in you."
Nick's face is hot with humiliation. What a dick, Ledbetter was always a prick, always watching him, waiting for him to fumble, trip, fall. Which he only seemed to do when Ledbetter was around. Nick was a good quarterback, maybe a little light for the job but he was fast, real fast when he wanted to be. Brian looms over him while he scrambles to his feet, wipes his hand over his face.
"Never gonna be Cabe," Ledbetter pronounces, with a scornful up-and-down look. "He could play. Go back to baseball, Stokes. That's where pussies like you belong."
"Fuck you." Except all that comes out is "fuh-yuh."
Brian keeps laughing while Nick walks away. A little like the coyotes, that same barking high giggle. More like a hyena. Nipping at his underbelly. Hates Ledbetter. God, hope you're dead of a coronary by now, you fat brainless motherfucker.
The coyotes sing, and Nick walks.
There is no wash. He's pretty sure of that now. And that means something, something important. He has to figure out what that is. Pretty soon.
And he has to piss. How crazy is that? His mouth is so dry he can't even feel his tongue anymore, and still his bladder is complaining, stridently. He's gotta take a leak, let WATER out. That's jacked up.
He faces southwest, and thinks about Brian back with the coyotes, glad that shithead can't make fun of the size of Nick's dick or something. Not that he has anything to be ashamed of, nossir, but guys like Brian always had to make you feel small and shitty about something. What better than the package?
It hurts to piss. Like his body changed its mind at the last moment, decided it wants to keep it instead. He makes a face, listens to the slow droplets hitting the hard-packed ground. Oh God almighty, he's so thirsty. Water's like a goddamn wet dream now, literally, he dreams about it, fantasizes about it. Different kinds of water. A sweaty 20-ounce bottle, fresh from the fridge. A lake, shimmering in the distance. A sprinkler with rainbows flickering in the spray. Waterfalls, a pier on Possum Kingdom Lake. His shower at home.
He has a drop of urine on his hand. Rubs it against his tongue. Christ, salty, disgusting. He'd never stoop that low. But maybe he will. Maybe he'll have to.
"It's sterile," Grissom says philosophically, next to him. He's pissing, too, getting a pretty good arc there, Griss. Gonna write your name? "It might not be so bad."
Too late anyway; Nick's bladder is empty, although it pulses hotly in the wake of elimination, pissed off and sullen. He zips his jeans and rubs his cold hands together.
At his side, Grissom's ready, too. "Well, let's go."
"I think I'm going the wrong way."
Grissom purses his lips, gazes off southeast. "Didn't you have directions?"
"Yes, but."
"Do you have any better ideas?"
Nick shakes his head slowly. "I want to sit down for a second."
Grissom's gaze is level, and kind. "Do you think that's really wise?" he asks softly.
"Just for a minute. Please?"
"Okay."
"If I go to sleep, will you wake me up?"
"Of course I will."
"An hour, tops. Okay? No longer."
Gil taps his wristwatch. "I'll make sure."
Nick nods and sits down hard, right where he is. He rubs his hot arms with his cold hands and closes his eyes.
The real Gil Grissom's not all that far away. If Nick knew how close, he'd be more than surprised. About forty miles, as the crow flies. Or the buzzard, if you will.
Of course, under the circumstances, Grissom might as well be prospecting on Mars, for all the good he can do. He sips from his bottle of water and thinks about Nick out there someplace. It was easy, picking up Chuck Lloyd. Nick's vehicle, and a sharp-eyed state trooper outside Beatty, voila. If he didn't sing like a bird, at least he coughed up where he left them.
It's about an hour to sunrise. Not too late. No, it won't be too late.
Jim Brass, who hasn't figured in Nick's fever-and-thirst-borne hallucinations yet but who will make his debut fairly soon, looks over at Grissom. "Nearly 24 hours out here in this hellhole? You think he's okay?"
Grissom doesn't glance at him. Waiting for the sun to come up. Give them some light. His toe throbs. "Okay, no. Alive, yes."
"Can't have gotten far. We'll have men crawling all over this area in a couple of hours. We'll find him."
That makes Grissom look at him. "Nick knows better than to wander," he says. "That's a cardinal rule. Stay where you are. Let yourself be found."
Brass shrugs. "If where they were was as bad as Lloyd said? He better not have stayed put."
"If he didn't –" Grissom halted, considering. "If he didn't, we're looking at a much tougher search."
Brass doesn't say anything. Just nods.
Grissom drinks his water and resumes gazing east. Waiting for the sun.
TBC. EB