Boucenna's Walk

By EB

©2004

For a moment all he can think is, Not again. Staring at the tiny barrel of the gun, smoke still curling. Not THIS again.

The difference, of course, is that this gun has already been fired. Beside him, Deputy Carson lies panting open-mouthed, his faded blue eyes gazing up at Nick as if expecting him to do something, save him. Call in the cavalry. Blood turns Carson's lips carmine.

"Just in case you think I won't use it," Lloyd says. He grins and shakes his head. "Boy, you are in a pickle now, aren't you? Shot him. What's to stop me from shooting you, too?"

Nick meets his reptilian stare. "Nothing," he says softly. He feels tired all of a sudden. Sleepy. How weird. "I don't guess."

"Got that right." The grin gets wider. "But I don't think I'm gonna. Know what I'm gonna do instead?"

He doesn't want to know. But he'll find out. "What?"

The gun touches Nick's cheek, only a little hotter than the air around them. It's so hot. Christ, it's hotter than it was yesterday, and that's saying something. He closes his eyes.

"Think I'm just gonna leave you here," Lloyd whispers, as he runs the tip of the barrel over Nick's cheekbone, prods his closed eyelid. "How long you think you're gonna last? A day or two?" When Nick doesn't reply, Lloyd nudges his eye, harder. It hurts. "What do you say, boy? How long?"

"Leave us some water," Nick croaks. "Please."

"Now why would I wanna do anything like that? Spoils all the fun."

It's not even a relief to know Lloyd isn't going to kill him outright. The desert will do that for him. No water equals death, and not a pleasant one. Not fast enough, not nearly. Nick fights down a welling of pure despair and shakes his head. "Even with what we got, you know we won't make it far. Do at least that much? You don't need it. You've got the car now. You've got the gun and everything you need. You're gonna get away. Why torture us too?"

Lloyd grins again, baring yellowed teeth. His breath is appalling. "Because torture's fun, pretty boy," he hisses. "You and your gutshot friend here. Lost in the desert. Why, that's just all kinds of fun. Too bad I can't stick around to watch."

"Bastard," Nick whispers hopelessly.

"Yep, that, too." Lloyd laughs, and the gun retreats, stuck back in the waistband of his dirty jeans. "That and more."

"You're gonna pay for this." Nick licks his lips and something inside him quivers at how dry they already are, starting to crack. "When I get out, I'm gonna make sure of that."

Something like a real smile wreathes Lloyd's face, oddly sympathetic. "Son, you ain't gonna get out," he says in an absurdly gentle voice. "You'll figure that out. Nobody around for miles and miles. Might live longer if you stay put, but if you don't move, you won't find anybody. Kinda damned if you do, damned if you don't, huh?"

Nick doesn't say anything to that. No need.

He watches Lloyd grab his gear and sling it in the back seat of the Tahoe. Nick was a Boy Scout, Nick was always prepared. If he could keep the vehicle, he could get Carson out. Even if the truck didn't run, he could unload his stuff, lots of water and supplies, maybe set the truck on fire. Signal someone.

But Lloyd's taking it all. Radios, cell phone. The flares, the tarp Nick always figured he could use for a tent in a worst-case scenario. Food. Water. It's all leaving.

Carson makes a gurgling sound, and Nick looks down to see blood trickling from the corner of the deputy's mouth. He's dying already.

Nick tries not to think how lucky Carson is.

"So, I'd say, see you around. But I won't." Lloyd climbs in behind the wheel, gives Nick a cheery wave. "If I were you, I'd find me some shelter. Gonna be a scorcher today, I guarantee." He beams at him. "Y'all take care now. Thanks for the wheels."

"Fuck you," Nick says harshly, but the window's already rolled up and the wheels are scratching in the sandy gravel. Turning, heading out the way Nick and Carson came, barely daybreak then, following a road so shitty he'd called it a goat track on the way.

He watches Lloyd drive away, truck bouncing over the terrain. It's forty miles that direction to the nearest town. Twenty before you hit pavement. Behind him is nothing but craggy mountains. No idea how far it is in that direction before you hit civilization. Might be closer, might not be. But the trip would kill him long before he had a chance to find out.

"Go," Carson says in his gurgling voice. "Get going. Gotta – find some sh—shade."

Nick draws a long breath and looks down at him again. "You're coming with me."

Carson shakes his head. "No." A bubble of blood forms between his lips, pops and sprays fine droplets of red over his lips. "I'm not."

"Yes, you are," Nick says urgently. "Come on. You can do it. We'll –"

"Remember -- Remember that wash we went through? Back about fifteen miles?" Another bubble, and this time Carson coughs, and the flow of blood strengthens, dribbling over his chin. His blue eyes fix with unbearable energy on Nick's face. Nick nods helplessly. "Used to be – folks. Lived east of there. Freaks, fucking – hippies or something." He makes a cawing sound that Nick takes a moment to realize is a laugh. "Jesus, my belly hurts."

"Don't talk," Nick croons hopelessly. "God, Carson."

"No. You go back there. Tonight, when it's – cooler. Go east down the wash. Mile or two. Don't -- Don't know if they're still there, but. Houses. Got a well someplace. You'll have – water."

He could make some kind of travois. He scans the area, gnawing on his too-dry lower lip. No fucking trees. Useless desert vegetation, cactus, a little mesquite. Not strong enough. Not nearly.

Carson's fever-hot hand grips Nick's wrist with surprising strength. "You gotta get out of the sun," he says very clearly. "It'll – be 120 again today. Maybe hotter. Go to – ground. Find someplace. Start a fire."

Nick barks a sharp sob. "I'm not just – leaving you," he whispers. His throat aches sharply, and it's not just from thirst.

"Can't do nothing now." Carson's face twists with agony, and he turns his head away. "Go, for fuck's sake. Remember the wash."

Nick swallows, again, grits his teeth. Then he says, "I'll come back for you. I will."

"Good," Carson whispers in his bubbling voice. His hand drops Nick's wrist, scrabbles at the neck of his shirt. He pulls out a medallion and breaks the chain around his neck with a fast yank. "Give this to Patsy."

Nick takes the pendant and sees it's a St. Christopher medallion. He tucks it carefully in his pocket, shoves it down where it won't slip free if he has to climb. "I will," he promises, tears in his eyes. "Don't worry."

Carson doesn't say anything else. He's alive when Nick stands up, but his breathing is Cheyne-Stokes now, loud and stertorous and dying. There isn't anything anyone can do at this point. If they beamed into an ER right this second, Carson would still die. Too much damage.

It's hard to see because he's crying, and he reaches up and wipes his eyes. The thread of dust from his own retreating Tahoe is long gone. It's quiet, even the birds are silent. Only the hiss of the ever-present wind, pushing along dust, whispering through the mesquite.

Behind him, the Cheyne-Stokes stops. Nick doesn't look around.

The goat-track road winds vaguely south, southwest. His watch informs him it's ten-sixteen. Still morning, still vaguely early, but the sun beats down on him like fists already. No idea how hot it already is. At least a hundred. Probably higher.

"You'd better start thinking about shade," Carson tells him. "Like I said."

The voice is so clear Nick actually spins around, expecting to see him standing there. Intestines hanging out in gray-white loops, blood on his lips, dispensing calm, sage advice as if he weren't at the very end of dying.

He's not there. No Carson. No Lloyd, with Nick's car and Nick's things, and let's face it, pretty much Nick's LIFE in his grimy hands. No one. Just the wind, and the dust, not even a goddamn jackrabbit in sight.

He wipes sweat off his forehead and thinks, How long until that stops, too? You know, when you stop sweating, you're not doing so well. So far so good, but you're already so thirsty you'd drink radiator water if you could get it. How far until you'd drink worse? Ten miles? Twenty? A few more hours? Tomorrow?

Shade. That's important. Standing out here in the blazing sun won't do him any favors. He shades his eyes, turns and looks south again. There's not a lot ahead. No trees, not even the few puny mesquites back the mile or two he's already come. It's a valley; mountains around, but more than a day's walk away.

Well, he's felt thirsty before. Majorly thirsty. There was the trip to Big Bend, back when he was in college. Sam was so sure he knew where the goddamn campsite was, except they hadn't been anywhere near where he thought they were starting out. Six extra hours of hiking in desert conditions much like these, and their one remaining canteen of water had been gone long before they finally saw that patch of bright red tent. It had sucked, sure, but it was doable. This would be, too. Had to be.

Except Big Bend hadn't been midsummer. Dry, yes, but not summer. It was spring break, still snow around some places, and he'd sweated like a son of a bitch but it hadn't ever really gotten to him.

This here was like hiking over a well-heated cast-iron skillet. And this wasn't the bad part of the day. This was the good part.

He licks his lips and glances at his burnt forearms. Well, gee, good old Lloyd took the fucking sunscreen with him, too, didn't he? Along with the long-sleeved tee shirt Nick had in the back. So he'd court a little skin cancer down the line. Small potatoes, really.

He draws a deep breath and tries not to hear Mike Carson's mournful dead voice. "Gonna get a lot worse than this, Nicky. You ready for that? Really?"

Come to think of it, Carson sounds an awful lot like Gil Grissom. And Grissom has never steered him wrong. He knows about shit.

Shelter. That's the ticket. And tonight when it cools off, if he hasn't been found first, he'll hit the road again.

"When I get back," Nick whispers, blinking sweat out of his eyes. "I'm gonna start smoking again." He draws a quick breath, and ignores the ache of his tired hands. "That way -- I'm always gonna have -- a lighter. In my goddamn -- POCKET."

It's taken for-fucking-ever to find flint around here. And dragging together enough crap to light on fire has put him well into the afternoon.

"Cigarette – would just make me – thirstier. Right?" The sparks are so goddamn small, and it's so windy. "Just CATCH!" he roars suddenly, but it doesn't, and he barely stops himself before he flings the stupid useless rocks as far away from himself as he can get them.

He sits back on his heels and closes his eyes briefly. First order of business: shelter. He's sort of got that part done. It's just a rock, a shallow overhang, but it's out of direct sunlight, and now, at close to two in the afternoon, shade is everything. Can't fucking believe how hot it is out here.

Second order of business: light a fire. That's what he remembers from those scouting trips all those years ago. Actually he thinks a fire is supposed to be the first thing, not the second, but in this heat he cares more about shade than anything else.

Fire's for warmth, which is a fucking joke, ha ha, like he will ever want to be warm again. But it's also to create smoke, and light. They have to be looking for them now. Him and Carson. Carson, who is probably the reason he saw buzzards circling back the way he's come. Bodies go bad fast in this heat. Those pale blue eyes are probably gone by now. Snap, snap, yummy.

A surge of bile burns the back of his parched throat.

"The fire, Nicky," Grissom says gently. Calmly. "Start the fire."

God, the man's voice is like water. Cold, clean water. Nick swallows acid and nods. "Okay," he whispers. "Okay, man. Keep your pants on. Don't happen to have a match on you, do you? No? Figures."

He picks up the flint again.

When he wakes up he thinks the fire has gotten out of control. It's so hot, how'd it get so close? He was careful, wasn't he?

He sits up and sees the flames, still going, but not out of control, no, just a pretty decent blaze, whipped a little by the wind. No, it's just this hot. It's five-twenty in the afternoon, and it's hotter than yesterday. It's hotter than he thinks maybe he's ever felt before. What was yesterday's high? It's hotter out here than in the city. He's west, way west. 115? 120?

And he's so thirsty. Hungry, too, but he's so thirsty. His mouth tastes foul, and his lips are cracked worse now. Bad enough to hurt. His heart's pattering along inside his chest, far faster than his normal resting pulse.

He shrinks back against the rock. It's hot, too, but he wants as far away as he can get from that crucifying sunshine. Like a vampire, he thinks, gonna burn me up.

"Sleep," Catherine says, and pats the sandy ground. "Go to sleep, Nicky. You'll wake up when it gets dark. Then you can find that farm Carson was talking about. Water. There'll be water there. A well."

Nick smiles and leans over. The ground isn't that bad. Kind of soft, actually. It's almost possible to pretend that Catherine's cool hand touches his forehead, right before he closes his eyes.

Not much happens while Nick is asleep. The vultures have been busy, that much is true, and Mike Carson, who loved the rodeo and had a horse named Eldon, damn fine roping horse, won him just about all the trophies in his den, and whose wife is just about ready to dinner for their three kids and herself, roast chicken and corn on the cob and her good canned green beans, and wondering just how long Mike's damn job was going to keep him tonight, no longer looks much like Mike Carson. When they find his body the next afternoon, it isn't immediately clear whose it is. It takes checking the shield in his pocket for that.

The real action's in Vegas, but no surprise there. Sin City, right? Lots of people sin during Nick's nap. And a few do other things. Gil Grissom, for one, who goes to sleep quite a bit earlier than Nick, only to have that nice sleep rudely interrupted by a phone call from their police colleague, Jim Brass. What he has to say jolts Gil out of bed so fast he trips on a discarded shoe and then rams his toe against the leg of the bed, hard enough to split the toenail right down the middle. He's limping when he gets to the lab half an hour later, and it takes a little bit of surgery a week later to fix that mutilated nail.

But other than the busy buzzards and a few soporific insects, there's not a lot going on right where Nick is, but the wind. Nick has walked nearly five miles before his nap. Not that far, but like his friend Sam back in college, he hadn't started where he thought he had. Instead of the center of Nye County, he and Carson had been way west, farther than either had known. Almost exactly five hundred yards behind him lies the state line dividing Nevada and California. Carson's hippies, who moved out en masse seven months ago after one of their group was diagnosed with cancer and required chemotherapy back in their native San Diego, lived nearly seventeen miles north and east of where Nick currently lies, sleeping restlessly with his face pushed against his arm. In his current direction, he'll reach China before he gets to that little plot of land that popped up volunteer corn and beans and some pretty decent weed this past spring.

On his current heading, he'll reach Death Valley a long time before China.

TBC. EB