The desert stretched. It must have stretched. The man had only a few miles to walk to get from one camp to the next, but he’d been traveling for three days. Conclusion? The desert had stretched.
“Water!” the man’s voice rasped, as he stumbled across a few feet of dune. But the sand moved under him like water flowing beneath a bridge, streaming down the land into the pool the man had seen.
Into where the pool should have been.
Into where there was actually just more sand, with no more water than the second puddle Scott spotted another twenty yards away. He didn’t pause to take in the reality of the mirage, and half crawled and half limped to the shining, life-saving liquid.
Which wasn’t there either, as per usual when one is in the desert for days on end, dehydrated and incredibly lost.
He stopped walking then, limply falling to the earth, soaking up the sun and heat and sand and dust.
He lay there for over an hour, long enough that a single bird flew across the desert sky, circled once, and left the horizon. He should have been horribly weak, Scott realized. No water for two days, no food, no shelter, but he was still going. Where was he going?
He was going to the pond less than fifty yards off, where there were also people. No mirage this time because mirages don’t turn and talk to each other and wear bright-colored and dust-covered clothing.
Scott was moving, and moving fast. It was there, and it was still there, and it was still . . . a mirage.
He fell. He mentally revised all that about weakness. He was weak, and so was the man lying in the sand a few arm lengths away.
Scott couldn’t be shocked by the presence of a human being. He was seeing him only out of the corner of his eye, and he had mostly given up on everything, including being shocked.
The man was wearing the same garb as the people Scott had seen from far away, his dusty clothing fluttering as his breath rattled in and out of his body. He was moving just as much as Scott, which is to say practically not at all.
Scott imagined how this would look to anyone watching from above. Two men, one in the remains of shorts and a long-sleeved shirt, and one in colorful garments that were foreign to Scott’s eyes, lying on their backs staring at the sky in the middle of a desert. Probably with two camps not over a day’s travel away.
The thought of a passing helicopter or the like stirred Scott’s resolve back into existence, and he leaped as well as he could to his feet. He stuck out a hand to help the other man, walking towards where he lay. “Come on, there’s two of us now,” Scott said.
The man wasn’t there. Scott looked around frantically. He may not have been fazed by the man’s presence, but his sudden disappearance sent a quiver through all of Scott’s bones. He knew the man was here, so he dropped to his knees to try to brush off any sand that might have been hiding him.
His fingers brushed cloth. Scott swept his arm over to the side, getting rid of the last layer of grains.
A skull grinned up into the sunlight, skin stretched taut over the ridges, and eyes shrunk to hard little nothings.
Scott screamed, the sound ripping his dry throat in its effort to leave his body. He fell backward, scrambling to keep himself as far from the dead man as possible. There was a crack. In his attempt, he smashed his foot through the rib cage, lurching the skeleton along as he crab-walked it away from its initial resting place.
Finally, his mind came back into enough focus that with a sudden jerk he freed his foot, falling all the way to the ground as he did so.
He lay there next to the tattered skeleton, not bothering to move farther away. The mirage would follow him, as it had for days.
He lay there.
An age later, Scott heard something dragging its way through the sand. A loud thump, and a moment after, Scott saw out of the corner of his eye a man who seemed just as lost in the desert. Neither man said a word — they just lay there breathing. Finally, the new man stood and offered a hand to Scott. He spoke a foreign language, but Scott assumed it meant, “take my hand.”
Scott was unable to answer. He couldn’t move his body at all. The man looked at Scott fully for the first time and screamed. He scrambled backward, but fell down and slammed his heel into Scott. There was a crack.
And Scott just lay there, dragged along by the man with his foot in his rib cage.
The two men jerked apart, both collapsing back to the sand.
The bird flew back over, and the scene beneath it was of a smashed and sun-bleached skeleton, a heap of bones covered in drying flesh, and a traveler who had just uttered his last breath. The vulture started its winding descent to dinner.
“Water!” the man’s voice rasped, as he stumbled across a few feet of dune. But the sand moved under him like water flowing beneath a bridge, streaming down the land into the pool the man had seen.
Into where the pool should have been.
Into where there was actually just more sand, with no more water than the second puddle Scott spotted another twenty yards away. He didn’t pause to take in the reality of the mirage, and half crawled and half limped to the shining, life-saving liquid.
Which wasn’t there either, as per usual when one is in the desert for days on end, dehydrated and incredibly lost.
He stopped walking then, limply falling to the earth, soaking up the sun and heat and sand and dust.
He lay there for over an hour, long enough that a single bird flew across the desert sky, circled once, and left the horizon. He should have been horribly weak, Scott realized. No water for two days, no food, no shelter, but he was still going. Where was he going?
He was going to the pond less than fifty yards off, where there were also people. No mirage this time because mirages don’t turn and talk to each other and wear bright-colored and dust-covered clothing.
Scott was moving, and moving fast. It was there, and it was still there, and it was still . . . a mirage.
He fell. He mentally revised all that about weakness. He was weak, and so was the man lying in the sand a few arm lengths away.
Scott couldn’t be shocked by the presence of a human being. He was seeing him only out of the corner of his eye, and he had mostly given up on everything, including being shocked.
The man was wearing the same garb as the people Scott had seen from far away, his dusty clothing fluttering as his breath rattled in and out of his body. He was moving just as much as Scott, which is to say practically not at all.
Scott imagined how this would look to anyone watching from above. Two men, one in the remains of shorts and a long-sleeved shirt, and one in colorful garments that were foreign to Scott’s eyes, lying on their backs staring at the sky in the middle of a desert. Probably with two camps not over a day’s travel away.
The thought of a passing helicopter or the like stirred Scott’s resolve back into existence, and he leaped as well as he could to his feet. He stuck out a hand to help the other man, walking towards where he lay. “Come on, there’s two of us now,” Scott said.
The man wasn’t there. Scott looked around frantically. He may not have been fazed by the man’s presence, but his sudden disappearance sent a quiver through all of Scott’s bones. He knew the man was here, so he dropped to his knees to try to brush off any sand that might have been hiding him.
His fingers brushed cloth. Scott swept his arm over to the side, getting rid of the last layer of grains.
A skull grinned up into the sunlight, skin stretched taut over the ridges, and eyes shrunk to hard little nothings.
Scott screamed, the sound ripping his dry throat in its effort to leave his body. He fell backward, scrambling to keep himself as far from the dead man as possible. There was a crack. In his attempt, he smashed his foot through the rib cage, lurching the skeleton along as he crab-walked it away from its initial resting place.
Finally, his mind came back into enough focus that with a sudden jerk he freed his foot, falling all the way to the ground as he did so.
He lay there next to the tattered skeleton, not bothering to move farther away. The mirage would follow him, as it had for days.
He lay there.
An age later, Scott heard something dragging its way through the sand. A loud thump, and a moment after, Scott saw out of the corner of his eye a man who seemed just as lost in the desert. Neither man said a word — they just lay there breathing. Finally, the new man stood and offered a hand to Scott. He spoke a foreign language, but Scott assumed it meant, “take my hand.”
Scott was unable to answer. He couldn’t move his body at all. The man looked at Scott fully for the first time and screamed. He scrambled backward, but fell down and slammed his heel into Scott. There was a crack.
And Scott just lay there, dragged along by the man with his foot in his rib cage.
The two men jerked apart, both collapsing back to the sand.
The bird flew back over, and the scene beneath it was of a smashed and sun-bleached skeleton, a heap of bones covered in drying flesh, and a traveler who had just uttered his last breath. The vulture started its winding descent to dinner.