The Edge
Page 97
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We stopped to make camp when we came to another small clearing. When we stepped into the sunlight, we saw a flock of wild turkeys running through the deep grass to the other side. They disappeared into the forest. It was late in the afternoon, time to stop anyway.
Laura was getting weaker. It required too much energy for her to talk. I gave her more antibiotics, more aspirin, and two more pain pills. There were only four left. She didn't have a fever, and the bandages looked clean, but she was getting weaker.
Sherlock swept our small campsite clean with the thick net. The ground here was nearly dry because of the direct, hot sunlight. She managed to get it completely bare. "It's important that we leave room so lots of oxygen can circulate. Once we build a fire, it will stay brighter and hotter." I collected tinder: low, dead hanging branches, rotted pieces of tree that were dry. We managed to find some birch that Laura said was good for fires. Sherlock began digging a moat around our campsite. She said it would keep the critters out.
Savich used the scissors from the first-aid kit to make several fire sticks. He shaved the sticks with shallow cuts to "feather" them. "My granddaddy taught me how to do this," he said. "It'll make the wood catch fire more quickly."
We mixed birch bark and dried grass. I stood back and watched Sherlock build a teepee of kindling over a pile of tinder. I handed Savich the matches from the first-aid kit and watched him light one of his fire sticks, let it burn brightly, and touch it to the tinder. I couldn't believe it actually worked. It bloomed up bright and hot. It must have been ninety degrees, and there we were, sucking up toil.
"A hot dog might be nice," Sherlock said. "Potato chips, some dill pickles."
"Tortilla chips and hot salsa," Savich said, rubbing his hands together, and grinned. Behind him, a branch shimmied. A brown-spotted gecko poked its head around a tree, looked at us, then pressed itself flat against the bark. I swear it disappeared.
"Maybe some pickle relish on the hot dog," Sherlock said. "Forget the dills." As she spoke, she was looking over at Laura, who lay quietly.
We were trapped in a Hieronymus Bosch painting and we'd managed, for a moment, to superimpose normalcy.
As evening settled in, the beetles began to move around. You could hear them scuttling to and fro. So many of them, all hungry. I smiled over at Laura. "We're geniuses. Just look at that fire."
But Laura wasn't looking at either me or the fire. She was staring to her right, just beyond the perimeter of the campsite, just beyond Sherlock's moat. Her face was whiter than boiled rice. I heard her say my name, her voice just above a croak.
I pulled the Bren Ten out of my waistband and slowly turned.
Chapter Thirty
There, reared up on its hind feet, its claws extended, 1 claws so ragged and huge that one swipe could have taken off my face, was a golden brown armadillo. Not one of those small guys you see as road kill on the west Texas highways, but a giant armadillo. I'd never even seen one in a zoo. I'd only seen pictures of them. It had a long snout and small eyes that never left us. The hoary flesh seemed to retract farther, showing more of its claws.
"It doesn't eat people," Laura whispered. "It eats worms."
"That's a happy thought," I said as I lowered the Bren Ten. Who knew if men were out there to hear the noise? Savich tossed me a rock. I threw it, kicking up leaves and dirt not six inches from where the armadillo stood. It made a strange hissing noise and disappeared back into the undergrowth.
I heard a collective sigh of relief.
It was time to eat. Savich peeled mangoes with the first-aid scissors. A great find, those scissors. Savich assigned me the task of peeling bananas.
I eyed my slice for just an instant before eating it. I didn't think we could get food poisoning or diarrhea from something we had just peeled. We each ate only two mangoes, followed by one banana, and polished it off with one of the precious Baby Ruths.
"It's only eight o'clock," Sherlock said. "Does anyone know what day it is?"
"If it's Friday," Savich said, "you and I would be putting Scan to bed and curling up downstairs with some of my French roast coffee."
Sherlock grinned at the thought, then she scooted over to Laura. She lightly laid her palm on Laura's cheek, then her forehead. "Mac, when did you give her aspirin?"
"Two hours ago."
"She's getting a fever. We've got to dump water down her throat and keep at it. That's what the doctor told me to do with Scan when he had a high fever."
I'd endured long nights before, but this was the longest. At least three dozen different beetles kept up an endless dissonant concert throughout the night. We heard things slithering all around us. I'd swear I heard at least a dozen winged things fluttering over my head. But the noise of those beetles, there was nothing like it.
Laura was getting weaker. It required too much energy for her to talk. I gave her more antibiotics, more aspirin, and two more pain pills. There were only four left. She didn't have a fever, and the bandages looked clean, but she was getting weaker.
Sherlock swept our small campsite clean with the thick net. The ground here was nearly dry because of the direct, hot sunlight. She managed to get it completely bare. "It's important that we leave room so lots of oxygen can circulate. Once we build a fire, it will stay brighter and hotter." I collected tinder: low, dead hanging branches, rotted pieces of tree that were dry. We managed to find some birch that Laura said was good for fires. Sherlock began digging a moat around our campsite. She said it would keep the critters out.
Savich used the scissors from the first-aid kit to make several fire sticks. He shaved the sticks with shallow cuts to "feather" them. "My granddaddy taught me how to do this," he said. "It'll make the wood catch fire more quickly."
We mixed birch bark and dried grass. I stood back and watched Sherlock build a teepee of kindling over a pile of tinder. I handed Savich the matches from the first-aid kit and watched him light one of his fire sticks, let it burn brightly, and touch it to the tinder. I couldn't believe it actually worked. It bloomed up bright and hot. It must have been ninety degrees, and there we were, sucking up toil.
"A hot dog might be nice," Sherlock said. "Potato chips, some dill pickles."
"Tortilla chips and hot salsa," Savich said, rubbing his hands together, and grinned. Behind him, a branch shimmied. A brown-spotted gecko poked its head around a tree, looked at us, then pressed itself flat against the bark. I swear it disappeared.
"Maybe some pickle relish on the hot dog," Sherlock said. "Forget the dills." As she spoke, she was looking over at Laura, who lay quietly.
We were trapped in a Hieronymus Bosch painting and we'd managed, for a moment, to superimpose normalcy.
As evening settled in, the beetles began to move around. You could hear them scuttling to and fro. So many of them, all hungry. I smiled over at Laura. "We're geniuses. Just look at that fire."
But Laura wasn't looking at either me or the fire. She was staring to her right, just beyond the perimeter of the campsite, just beyond Sherlock's moat. Her face was whiter than boiled rice. I heard her say my name, her voice just above a croak.
I pulled the Bren Ten out of my waistband and slowly turned.
Chapter Thirty
There, reared up on its hind feet, its claws extended, 1 claws so ragged and huge that one swipe could have taken off my face, was a golden brown armadillo. Not one of those small guys you see as road kill on the west Texas highways, but a giant armadillo. I'd never even seen one in a zoo. I'd only seen pictures of them. It had a long snout and small eyes that never left us. The hoary flesh seemed to retract farther, showing more of its claws.
"It doesn't eat people," Laura whispered. "It eats worms."
"That's a happy thought," I said as I lowered the Bren Ten. Who knew if men were out there to hear the noise? Savich tossed me a rock. I threw it, kicking up leaves and dirt not six inches from where the armadillo stood. It made a strange hissing noise and disappeared back into the undergrowth.
I heard a collective sigh of relief.
It was time to eat. Savich peeled mangoes with the first-aid scissors. A great find, those scissors. Savich assigned me the task of peeling bananas.
I eyed my slice for just an instant before eating it. I didn't think we could get food poisoning or diarrhea from something we had just peeled. We each ate only two mangoes, followed by one banana, and polished it off with one of the precious Baby Ruths.
"It's only eight o'clock," Sherlock said. "Does anyone know what day it is?"
"If it's Friday," Savich said, "you and I would be putting Scan to bed and curling up downstairs with some of my French roast coffee."
Sherlock grinned at the thought, then she scooted over to Laura. She lightly laid her palm on Laura's cheek, then her forehead. "Mac, when did you give her aspirin?"
"Two hours ago."
"She's getting a fever. We've got to dump water down her throat and keep at it. That's what the doctor told me to do with Scan when he had a high fever."
I'd endured long nights before, but this was the longest. At least three dozen different beetles kept up an endless dissonant concert throughout the night. We heard things slithering all around us. I'd swear I heard at least a dozen winged things fluttering over my head. But the noise of those beetles, there was nothing like it.
