Earle’s knee. In that manner they picked him up. Shirley’s face pinched with concentration as she held the: two sections of the broken leg, trying to maintain the separation and distance of the break so that the jagged bone ends wouldn’t grate or penetrate the flesh. Internal bleeding had already taken place; the injured leg was bruise-black from knee to heel and swollen half again the thickness of the right leg.
A sharp stone jabbed Mackenzie’s heel when he put his foot down but he couldn’t shift it without breaking the rhythm of their walk. He put his weight on it and went on.
They lowered him with infinite patience into the trench, climbing down one at a time with him.
It was when they put him down that something happened, a twist or pull that shot pain through Earle explosively: he cried out in a bellow that climbed to a scream.
There was instantly: the stink of excrement.
Earle blinked at them, heat-flushed, panting with agony and weakness and disoriented terror. “What-?”
Shirley touched his forehead with her palm. “Take it easy, Earle. Try not to move. Try to relax.”
“You’re burying me!”
“It’s to keep the sun off. Keep you cool.”
“Duggai-”
She said, “You two go on. I’ll talk to him.”
Mackenzie climbed out of the hole. He stood facing Jay across the open grave. Two grown men standing bare-ass naked with their privates dangling ludicrously. “Get under cover, Jay. Stay there until late afternoon. Sleep if you can.”
“And then?”
“Then we’ll find something to drink.”
“I’m already parched beyond belief.”
“You’ll make it.”
“Jay’s mouth twisted. “Sure. Hang in there. Keep on truckin’. Stiff upper lip. Act like a man. Mackenzie, aren’t you even just a little bit terrified?”
Mackenzie walked back to pick up the machine-gun shells. He took them to the farthest trench. He hadn’t finished scooping it out; he picked up his digging stone. The sun, early yet, prickled against his back.
He made himself dig with slow measured movements until it was deep enough. He had husbanded his energy; all the same he was panting in short bursts and oiled with sweat.
He lay down in the pit with the brass cartridge cases and the digging stone. He dug a plate-sized rock out of the wall: it would do for an anvil. He had no idea if it was going to work but it had to be tried because otherwise they’d be trying to chop open spiny cactus with bare hands and pulling Shirley’s hair out by the roots.
Lying back in the trench he squinted at the blazing sky. His tongue and eyelids were gritty. They had at best the chance of a snowball in hell, he thought, but he was a prisoner of his morality. Wonder stabbed him: his grandfather had taught him too well. I
Leaning up on one elbow he began to work the brass.
9
He had only read about such things and the pit amazed him as the sun climbed. If anything, he felt chilled against the dark moist clay.
He knew it would be best to lie quiet until evening but there was too much that had to be done.
The brass was something he could do without leaving the trench.
The large rock served as his anvil. He stood one.30-caliber shell upright on its base. He upended the second shell and held it on top of the first one with the necks overlapping, slightly askew. He lifted the second rock and pounded it down.
The brass lips crumpled a bit. He hadn’t hit very hard; hadn’t wanted to chance ruining it.
He struck again. The lower rim crumpled more, bending in on itself, but the upper shell began to split and that was what he was after.
He pulled at the split with his fingernails but the metal was too hard for him. He placed the shells muzzle- to-muzzle again and hammered away, stopping after each blow to inspect the work. The split worked its way up the length of the shell, the second shell acting as a wedge driving deeper with each blow.
Each shell was about four inches long. When the split had traveled two-thirds the length of its casing he stopped hammering and tried to pull the two casings apart but they were wedged together and he had to think about that for a long sluggish time before he saw that he was going to need a third shell to finish the job.
He sat up slowly. The molten sun exploded in his face. What time? Nine o’clock? Couldn’t be much later than nine yet. Possibly only half past nine; hard to tell by the angle of the sun-his celestial navigation was rudimentary.
Worth a few minutes’ risk, he decided. He left the hole and went down the slope, remembering where he’d seen the other casings. He gathered three of them before he made his ginger way back onto the slope. In these few minutes the skin of his back had already begun to cook.
Approaching the trench he heard a groan higher along the slope. Earle.
Mackenzie went that way and crouched at the rim of Earle’s pit. The stench of excrement came up out of the hole. Earle was revolted by the fact that he had fouled himself; he wouldn’t look Mackenzie in the face.
Mackenzie climbed down, wedging himself into the narrow trench. “Roll over on your left side just a little, can you? I’ll get this out of here.”
Wordlessly Earle lifted himself on his right elbow until a wince of pain crossed his face.
“That’s high enough. Just hold it there a minute.”
He used the handful of shells as a digging tool to scrape around the moist pool of human manure. He dug in an arc and lifted the crumbling half-ball of earth, sliding it out from under Earle’s upraised knee, lifting it to the rim of the trench and setting it down there. It had taken several minutes and Earle sagged back in exhaustion.
“Take it easy now. We’ll get you splinted up tonight when it’s cool enough to move around. You’re going to be all right.”
“Any damn fool knows a man needs water to survive.” The clarity of Dana’s voice surprised him.
“We’ll get water. Where things grow there’s always water. Get some sleep.” And he left because he couldn’t stand talking to the man. He carried the earthen tray of excrement away and threw it up the slope and limped back to his trench and lay absolutely still until his pulse slowed and his breathing lengthened and the sweat cooled on his body.
He used one of the new shells to pry the split cartridge apart far enough to remove the case that had been wedged into it. Then he began to work with the split case. He hooked a new shell over it and worked it slowly back and forth. He lay back to do this work and expended his effort with miserly sloth. After a long time metal fatigue set in and the bent side broke off.
He laid the split shell on the anvil rock and began to hammer, using the second shell as a punch, flattening the long side of the split shell. He kept working until he was satisfied, not hurrying. In the end he had a knife.
Now he began to hone the blade against the rock.
He made three knives before he ran out of material-the fourth and fifth shells had been crumpled beyond repair in the workings. When he was satisfied with their sharpness he put them aside and looked up over the edge of the pit.
Far away to the north he saw the thin streamer of a high jet contrail. A small cactus wren flitted from shrub to shrub down on the flats. They would have to set out some sort of signals to attract aircraft. They could watch what the birds ate and eat it too; he knew of nothing in the desert that a bird could digest that would harm a man.
And the bird itself was food if you could catch it.
By the sun it was early afternoon. He lay back in his cool shelter and closed his eyes against the brightness of the sky; he tried to blank his mind because he needed to sleep but anxiety overcame him and he went pawing frantically around in his memories trying to find clues to survival.
