Nine

By the time they'd gotten back to the plane their prisoners had gone. The ropes, frayed and burnt through by the flames that roared merrily over the gutted carcass of the plane, lay on the sand beside two sets of footprints that disappeared deeper into the desert. Or out of the desert. They couldn't tell which it was: without the plane they had no dashboard, and no dashboard meant no compass, and no compass meant that nobody knew which way was which. For all Tintin knew, the pilots could be heading deeper in to the desert, while the nearest town was in the opposite direction.

There's an app for that, Tintin thought to himself as he remembered that his iPad had been left in a hotel in Nieuwpoort and his iPhone had been gone when he'd woken up in the bowels of the Karaboudjan. Both had probably been stolen by now. Well, the iPhone had definitely been stolen. He had slightly more faith in the staff of the hotel, but not much. Not that it mattered: they were in the middle of the Sahara Desert with no clue where to go and no compass to guide them. Maybe, when darkness fell, they'd be able to navigate using the stars. They should be: he knew a bit – enough to recognise the North Star and a few of the constellations – but the Captain was, after all, a sailor, and should know more.

Tintin sneaked a look at the man. They were walking aimlessly, having chosen a direction and stuck to it, but the Captain was starting to trudge. He had taken off his thick woollen jumper and was in his undershirt and braces, while Tintin, having shed his jacket before his epic swim, had simply opened all the buttons on his polo shirt and tied his black and white P.L.O. scarf over his head. He wasn't holding up too badly, but the Captain was dehydrated from drinking so much booze and was starting to wear out. Beside them, Snowy had kept a grip on the giant bone he'd liberated from the camel skeleton and was trotting along determinedly. At the start, Tintin had noticed a definite 'kick' to the dog's steps: every few paces Snowy's right back-leg would jump, like a happy little skip. Now, even he was starting to lag. He'd long since stopped skipping and the bone was listing alarmingly to one side.

"Y'know," the Captain said suddenly. Tintin turned his head and looked at him. "If her name hadn't been 'Sandra'," the Captain continued thoughtfully, "I probably would have forgotten her already."

Tintin stopped dead, staring, as the Captain broke down, doubling over and bracing his hands on his knees as a fit of laughter took him. "Get it?" he said through his laughs. "Come on! Sand! Sand-ra! We're in a desert?"

"That's so lame." Tintin turned away as a grin spread across his face.

"Ah, that was funny!" The Captain straightened up, still smiling broadly, and they continued walking. "You just have no sense of humour."

"Knock knock."

"Who's there?"

"Daisy."

"Daisy who?"

"Daisy me rollin'; dey hatin'!" Tintin fist-pumped enthusiastically with the punch-line.

"Oh Christ! That's terrible!" The Captain shook his head in mock disgust. "Thundering typhoons, that was bloody awful!"

"'Thundering typhoons'?" Tintin asked with a hoot of laughter.

"Shut up. What's brown and sticky?"

"Thundering typhoons! I don't know!"

"A stick."

"Ha! Ah, that's a good one! How do you make a Venetian blind?"

"Dunno."

"Poke him in the eyes."

The Captain laughed appreciatively. "Poke him in the eyes! That's good! Hey, how do you make a hormone?"

"I don't know."

"Slap her in the face."

"Oh my lord!"

"What's pink and squishy and belongs to grandma?"

Tintin shook his head, unable to speak through his giggles.

"Granddad."

x

Four hours later they were out of jokes and out of energy. "I'm sorry, I can't go on." The Captain simply keeled over, going down on to his knees before laying flat out, face down on the sand. "Go on without me," he said, his voice muffled. "But carry me with you."

Tintin sat down heavily on the sand beside the Captain. Snowy flopped down in the shade Tintin cast. The bone fell to the sand but the dog simply stared at it, panting loudly, too tired to eat his prize.

"I need a drink," the Captain groaned. "I'm so thirsty."

"We can rest here for a bit," Tintin replied.

"I don't need rest: I need a drink!"

"Try not to think about it."

"Ice cold water… A can of Coke right out of the fridge… poured into a glass with ice cubes… a dash of rum…"

Tintin groaned and struggled back to his feet. He couldn't sit here and listen to the Captain talking about drinks and water and ice: he'd drive himself mad with thirst. He climbed laboriously to the top of the tall sand dune looked out across the sand. From up here, he could see for miles around, and the only thing he could see was more sand, stretching for as far as the eye could see. An empty horizon, broken only by more dunes that towered up higher than the one he was standing on. Not a single indication that there was any town nearby, or even an oasis.

Once it got dark, it would be easier to see if they were near a town: the lights would show up in the night, and night in the desert would be very, very dark.

In the shade of the dune, the Captain cooled down slowly. His throat was burning with thirst. What had started off as an annoying, itchy sensation had built up into an intolerable dryness that tore at his throat with each breath he took. His hands and legs felt heavy, and his knees were killing him. And he was lightheaded. When he closed his eyes he could see white dots dancing on the back of his eyelids. It looked almost pretty.

He opened his eyes and gazed up at the clear, unbroken blue sky and the undercut of the dune above him. That's what the wind did: a small clump of sand would get caught behind a rock in high-winds – because the desert was a dangerous place, and if the sun and heat didn't kill you, the sandstorms would flay the skin from your bones – and over time more and more sand was caught behind the first lot, and it would grow and grow into an enormous, shifting mound. A wave of sand, slowly making its way across the ocean of sand.

There were loads around here. That meant there were loads of sandstorms.

He sat up and looked around. He was so thirsty. Why was he so thirsty? Where's Allan? He should have brought my whisky by now. The Captain got unsteadily to his feet and looked around. He'd have to find his own whisky now. Maybe it's up these stairs. I seem to remember that the holds are on the middle decks. This isn't my room, so I must be down in the engine room. That explains the heat.

He tottered up the steel steps, his heavy boots clattering loudly in the confines of the small ship's corridor. At the top of the stairs was another large room. Behind him, the noise of the engine room faded a little, and became a familiar background hum.

This doesn't look familiar. He frowned as he looked around the new room. It was much bigger than it should be. It should have brought him to a new corridor, with doors to the various holds off each side. The whisky would be in one of the smaller ones that held the ship's provisions. The rest of the holds would have held the cargo. He shook his head and sighed. He must have taken a wrong turn.

He turned to go back down the stairs when he spotted something.

Aaah! A bottle of champagne! A bloody big one, too! Gosh, it had to be at least five foot tall. Excellent! Not quite Loch Lomond, but it would have to do. He rubbed his hands in anticipation before reaching around the large neck of the bottle and tried to twist the cork out.

Hmm. Bit stuck, to be sure. I'd better really squeeze and twist…

Tintin hadn't been expecting it. He'd been standing, his back turned to the Captain, watching the horizon and trying to forget his thirst, when something closed around his neck and started to choke him. He fought back at once, and in the struggle lost his footing in the loose sand. He slid, dragging whatever was attacking him down as they slithered to the bottom of the dune, tumbling and flailing. He landed on his back, and the Captain landed on top of him.

"Cap-Captain!" he gasped, winded. He tried to push the heavier man off him.

"Bloody corks," the Captain mumbled. He straddled Tintin and wrapped his hands around his neck again. "Can never get them out when you need to. Where's that damned corkscrew?"

Tintin tore at the Captain's arms and hands, trying to loosen the man's grip, but it was no use. The Captain was bigger and stronger: barrel chested and with an iron grip. He was muscular in the way labourers and farmers were; untrained but used to doing heavy lifting and hard work. Reaching for the Captain's face, Tintin tried to force the man away.

Snowy knew a Thing was happening. The Tall-Human-Man was on top of Tintin, and Tintin didn't look happy. Not like when Snowy sat on Tintin and licked him first thing in the morning. That made Tintin happy, and the shouting was only an expression of how happy Snowy made Tintin. This time, Tintin was making strange noises that Snowy didn't like. It was up to Snowy to stop the Tall-Human-Man from doing a Thing. He grabbed the bone – he wasn't sure what he was going to do, but he wasn't leaving his bone behind to do it: a cat might steal it – and thought for a bit.

Eating the bone sounded like a good idea, but that wouldn't stop the Tall-Human-Man from doing a Thing.

He could give the bones to the Tall-Human-Man, but that would mean that Snowy wouldn't get to eat it. That wouldn't be good…

Snowy didn't know what to do. His head spinning and starting to get hurty, he decided to give the bone to Tintin and let him decide. He pushed the bone into the Tall-Human-Man's face, roughly bashing him in the Big Nose.

Captain Haddock recoiled at the sudden pain in his nose, his eyes watering, and swatted at the dog. "Get on, Snowy! Stop that! Can't you see I'm" – What? What am I doing? He moved over as Tintin pushed him off, collapsing to the side as he wondered what the hell he'd been doing. It was something important. What was it?

Gasping for air, Tintin rolled away. His throat felt raw, and it hurt when he swallowed. "What the hell were you thinking?" he demanded, his voice hoarse. "Captain, what are you doing?"

"I don't believe it." The Captain had gone perfectly still and was staring off into the distance. Cautiously, wary of taking his attention off the man that had just tried to strangle him, Tintin glanced towards what the Captain was staring at, but saw only sand.

"There's nothing there, Captain," he said.

"Look!" The Captain pointed. Again, Tintin risked a glance, but could only see the same desert landscape that had always been there. "A lake!" The Captain jumped up. "Water! At last!"

"What? Captain there's no – Captain! Come back!"

The Captain had taken off, running at a shambling gait that picked up speed with every step. Barking, Snowy rushed after him, wondering what all the fuss was about. It was the cardinal rule of Being a Dog: if something or somebody runs; chase them and see what they were running for. After all, it might be a game and games are fun.

The Captain's braces, lost in the struggle, trailed behind him. Snowy decided that they were what the Tall-Human-Man was running from. They had to be stopped. They had scared the Tall-Human-Man in some way and Snowy must save him and defeat the Trailing Things before they turned on Tintin. He lunged and grabbed them before digging his feet into the sand and trying to pull the Captain back. He was growling, secretly enjoying vanquishing the Things.

The dog was dragged quite a distance, with Tintin futilely trying to call him off, before the braces snapped and both dog and man went flying. The Captain went forward in a sort of dive, landing face-first in the sand, while Snowy shot into a backwards roll. Dazed, Snowy lay completely still for a second as Tintin shot passed on his way to help the Captain up. Then, assured that he was still alive, the dog picked up the braces and ran away with them.

"Captain, there's no lake," Tintin said as he helped the man to his feet.

"But I saw it, clear as day!"

"Just a mirage."

"A what? Do they still exist?"

"Yes. Believe me, Captain, there's nothing there."

"Oh God. I'm so thirsty."

"Don't start that again. And try not to strangle me again."

The Captain dusted himself down and looked sheepish. "Sorry. Don't know what I was thinking. Is my nose bleeding?"

"No." Tintin rubbed at his throat. If anything, he was thirstier now. "We have to go on," he said regretfully. "We can't stop here. We must keep walking until nightfall."

"When is that?"

Tintin looked around at the sky. It was still the same shade of rich blue as it always had been, and the sun was still high in the sky. "I don't know," he said honestly. "I just don't know."

x

The Captain lasted another four hours before collapsing again, and this time he didn't get back up. Without any other options, and loathe to leave the man to die alone, Tintin sat down and waited.