Elisha's Bones - Don Hoesel [99]
“Looking for a warm spot?”
Even though I know that it’s impossible for a lizard to manufacture a plaintive expression, the slight curl of the animal’s mouth produces a close facsimile.
The windows of the truck are all shut, and there’s no way the creature could have gained entrance via the ventilation system, so it’s either the Harry Houdini of lizard-kind, or it gained entry earlier when the doors were opened. With the latter being the most likely case, this boy is a long way from home.
I look past my captive to take in the vista beyond the curved window of the Ford. When we dumped the Lexus in favor of a more nondescript vehicle—F-250, with a busted taillight and a bumper sticker that reads, Maybe a dingo ate your baby—we removed any doubt about the sort of larceny that would appear on our rap sheets. It gives me some small pleasure to imagine the moods of the men who will find—or have already found— the luxury SUV.
A hint of red is only now drawing a crayon line in the distance, but it’s lightened enough so that I can see the entire desert spreading out in front of me. During the dark early morning hours, when I was driving through it, it was easy to give this place no more thought than I would the plains of Kansas. But the dawn reveals an entirely different animal.
Two hours’ sleep doesn’t come close to preparing me for the day. I yawn and open the door, and air with a respectable bite rushes into the truck. To my right, Espy stirs. I force my sore legs onto the uneven surface outside and stand—an exercise complicated by the fact that my right leg is numb from where it was pressed up against the console, and that I’m still holding my bunk buddy. I shut the door and then crouch and release the animal. As soon as its feet hit the ground it’s gone, scrabbling across the rocky landscape and darting behind a group of large rocks.
My muscles protest as I stand. I slip my hands into my jacket pockets and breathe in a long draught of air laden with microscopic icicles. As it tickles my nose, I consider that the comparison to Kansas was inaccurate. I’m now getting a definite Montana feel. It’s certainly remote enough to qualify as Montana, and since my cell phone and wallet are gone I might as well be on a desert island. The logistics of what I need to do—what I concluded as we drove through the darkness like exiles—are daunting under the best of circumstances, let alone cut off from my resources.
I decide to test my knee on the rugged terrain by walking slowly up the slope behind the Ford. The knee feels stiff and I take measured, careful steps. I grimace against the pain, knowing that if I don’t work it out now, it’ll only get worse, especially as we spend a good portion of our time driving.
By my estimate, it will take most of the day to reach our destination, and that’s taking into account having to make our own road in some places. I almost wish we’d kept the Lexus, only because the GPS would plot for us a passable route. Now I’m forced to rely on a paper map and whatever survival skills I’ve collected during my time in the field, and most of those pale in comparison to those that come naturally to the average Boy Scout. On a positive note, the Ford has two full gas tanks and a good set of tires, and the bed holds plenty of firewood, a tarp, a fishing pole, and a toolbox. With a little luck, we should have enough to keep us healthy and moving forward while we’re out here.
Out here is the Great Victoria Desert, via the Gunbarrel Highway. It’s one of the most inhospitable places in all of Australia, and a place where only a fool would travel without extensive preparation.