Boucenna's Walk
By EB
©2004
Up close the cliff isn't much to look at. Crumbling sandstone, mostly, a few tenacious mesquites grabbing with long rooty claws for purchase. His feet slip on the scree, and his hands are already bleeding from so many stumbles, barely catching himself in time to keep from sliding all the way down again. But there's a dark oval up ahead. He thinks it's a cave. Probably not a true cave, probably just some kind of open spot. But it's shelter, and he's focused on it with all remaining clarity.
It's getting dark outside. His watch says it's only four, and the sun doesn't set until around nine-thirty. But it's growing dim.
It's important to reach that cave place soon. He thinks maybe, just maybe, this is as far as he'll get. He keeps remembering the cat his sisters owned, the tabby they named Isabel, who wouldn't have anything to do with Nick or Cabe but who purred so loudly around the girls that she sounded like an outboard motor. Isabel had been very sick right around the time of Nick's twelfth birthday, and he'd been startled to find her in his closet when he came running inside to change out of his grotty jeans into something nicer for going out for dinner. She hissed at him when he reached for her, but there wasn't much spirit in it. He sat down and said, "What's the matter, Izzy?" And he'd seen that the membrane was up around her eyes. She looked sick. He sat for a while, watching the cat, talking to her, and when he paused he heard her loud purr.
Pretty soon his mom had yelled that they needed to leave, and he finished changing clothes and pelted downstairs. He didn't say anything about Isabel to anyone – he'd actually forgotten all about it by the time they all trooped home, full of pizza and ice cream, still chattering about the movie they'd gone to see – but he found her late that night, stiff and dead, still lying in the back of his closet on top of one of his old tee shirts. Old age, maybe, he never found out what killed her.
But now, forcing his trembling legs to climb, his vision graying out and his senses of taste and smell utterly gone, he thinks he knows why Isabel chose a closet for her death chamber. It didn't have to be his; probably only because his door was open and others weren't. But the urge to crawl away, to lie dying in a dark and peaceful place, lying on soft things – that he understands. Death is a private matter, ultimately. And when one's time has come, as he knows in some bone-deep way his has, it compels him to do the same as Isabel. To seek out some out-of-the-way place, where he can burrow in, hidden from prying animal eyes and noses, at least until it's done.
After that, it won't much matter. But right now, he has to do it.
Clawing for purchase, one of his fingernails peels back slowly, exactly like one of those postage stamps, the self-sticking kind. It doesn't really hurt. And it doesn't bleed much. He eyes the wound without much interest, and goes back to pushing himself forward. Not too much farther now. And then he can lie down. No soft old tee shirts to make a nest out of here, but that's okay. It'll be enough to just crash for a while. He's so very, very tired.
Tabor's taken Catherine's idea and run with it. The big group is split into four now, each with a couple of dogs and about twenty people. No one wants to commit to one single direction – putting all their rescue eggs into one basket, as it were – and so they scatter, splitting supplies and each taking one or two of the medics.
Gil's worked with a couple of these dogs before. He trusts dogs; they're not likely to second-guess themselves, and they're eager to go. These two are straining west-southwest, and a part of him cringes at the idea. Why would Nick go this direction? Should have headed to the foothills to the northeast, where there was shade, and if no obvious water, at least a more protected environment. But the dogs whine and edge south.
The truck's been loaded with what he hopes they'll need: Dean Wheelis, an EMT Gil also knows; Dean's supplies, including IV equipment, several bags of Ringer's lactate, bottles of electrolyte-replacing liquids. Catherine's along for the ride, and Warrick. Sara and Greg have split off with the group heading southeast, and Brass is back with Tabor, overseeing things.
It's nearly five before they get going. Time is pressing; Gil feels it like a huge weight shoving him down, making his lungs tight, his ears ring. Forty-eight hours and Nick's chances of survival will be just about nil. They have until sundown before searching becomes at best an academic exercise. That's a precious four, maybe five hours, that's all. That will make the difference.
The dogs chuff and wriggle at the ends of leashes held by two deputies on foot.
"We could ride in the truck," Catherine says doubtfully.
"We might miss something." Gil meets one of the deputies' eyes and nods. "Ready?"
"Let's go," the man agrees. Gil doesn't know his name.
One of the dogs utters a strangled bark, and nearly yanks its human companion to his knees in its eagerness to move.
"This isn't so bad." Grissom surveys the little cave. "This ought to do just fine."
Nick doesn't nod. In the past hour he's begun to feel very odd. He can't swallow, for one thing. Never much thought about swallowing, but now that he can no longer do it he wants to all the time. Every once in a while he gets the shakes, except they're not just trembling, not anything he's ever felt before. More like a dog coming out of the water and shaking himself all over. When those happen he has to just lie down, right where he is, and let them run their course. They hurt.
The cave is tiny, and littered with various kinds of crap. There are little animal skeletons, and when he sits down his flailing hand mashes a tiny skull, maybe a bird, or rodent, explodes into powder under his fingers. It's slightly cooler in here, out of the sun, protected from the ever-present wind. Much, much better.
Grissom is standing outside the cave, which doesn't make sense. It's a pretty good incline, and yet he looks like he's standing on level ground.
"Come on, take a load off." Catherine's sitting next to him, immaculate and fresh in her cotton shirt and jeans. She pats her thighs. "You just need some rest, that's all."
Nick leans over and presses his hot cheek against her leg. She's right. Much better now. His stomach clenches, but after a long painful moment it lets go, doesn't hurt long.
He wonders if bats live in ultra-tiny caves like this, and then he closes his eyes.
An hour after they set out, it's clear that the dogs believe Nick's around here someplace. They set a stiff pace, and much of the time Gil isn't quite keeping up, letting them go on ahead while he trot-walks behind. They've come almost ten miles, and he's drunk three bottles of water. And he still feels vaguely thirsty.
They crossed into California a few miles ago, and since then they've had additional escorts. CHIP has lent a hand, and there's actually a geologist from the area, a woman with short blond hair and an unsmiling, sun-browned face who explains the topology of the Death Valley borderlands, suggests areas that might offer shelter for a wanderer. But the dogs zoom forward, strictly southwest, and the geologist just shrugs.
"How long did you say he's been out here?" she asks.
Gil shrugs. "Since early yesterday morning. Roughly."
"No water at all? Nothing?"
Gil shakes his head.
"I'm sorry," she says, squinting against the slanting sun.
She drives away in a battered red pickup truck. Gil opens another bottle of water and follows the dogs.
He's burning up. He hasn't gotten out in time, and the house is burning, burning. Flames lick at his arms, and he cries out, soundless over the roar of the fire.
"Shhh," someone breathes. "It's okay. It'll all be okay."
The paint on the bedroom wall ripples, runs, evaporates into smoke and then excited yellow flame.
"He cut north here," the deputy calls. Roger, his name is Roger. His face is red with the exertion of keeping up with the panting dog he's holding.
Warrick looks more tired than the deputy. Gil's actually a little worried about Warrick. "Go sit in the truck," he tells him, shaking his head. "Catch your breath."
"So damn hot," Warrick says thickly. "God almighty."
"I know. Go."
Warrick goes to the truck, where Catherine already is. Gil's tired enough and dry enough to follow them, but he can't. Not yet.
If they feel this way now, with plenty of water, how does Nick feel? Does Nick feel anything any longer?
He plods over the hardpacked ground and keeps his eyes on the dogs.
"I'll get you some 7-Up," his mother says soothingly. "That'll help."
"Mom, I feel so bad," Nick tries to say. But his mouth doesn't work anymore. Nothing seems to work. All he can do is lie in bed and wish it would stop. All of it.
His mother smells like perfume and cookies. Her hand is cool, stroking his cheek. "Be still, sugar," she murmurs. "Would you like me to sing to you?"
Yes, please, he thinks.
"Hush-a-bye, don't you cry, go to sleep-y, little baby."
He listens, and his lips crack open when he smiles.
"Christ," Roger wheezes. "Bet he's holed up yonder. How in the fuck did he get this far?"
Gil doesn't know. The sun is canting lower in the sky, swooping down. He's exhausted, and the slope ahead looks treacherous. He's not completely sure he can scale it. Not without a breather, without something. He chews a tasteless protein bar and chases it with spit-warm water.
One of the dogs utters a sharp bark.
"Mom, make it stop," he cries, and she pauses in the middle of rocking him, going stiff and cautious.
"The doctor will be here soon," she whispers.
He gives a weary nod, and after a moment she sings, "When you wake, you shall have all the pretty little horses."
They're all climbing together. Grabbing each other for purchase, sending skirls of dust and tiny clittering rocks down the slope.
Above, the first dog howls. It sounds like triumph, and Gil surges forward.
"Blacks and bays, dapples and grays. Coach and six white horses."