Sorry for the length. This is a story I wrote a few years ago. I've added some cigar elements to the ending so it differs a bit from the original. It's not great literature, but what they hey!
BAD DIRECTIONS
The wind was like the breath of an oven as it blew lazily across the sun-scorched sand. A solitary rattlesnake whisped slowly across the dusty baked road. From the air, the lonely blacktop was a scar that cut harshly across the desert for miles in both directions. The cracked road vibrated with the approach of a solitary automobile and the rattler moved away from the hum of tires and sought shelter from the day’s heat.
The car topped a slight rise and sputtered on into the midst of the desert. The driver cursed and prayed as the car shuddered again, its engine struggling fiercely against the heat which pounded it from the outside -- and against the driver, which pounded it from the inside. The driver, sticky with sweat and ignoring the protests coming from beneath the hood, turned the air conditioning switch to maximum and plowed on. The heat waves floated up from the road ahead but were steadily moved aside by the vehicle's passage. The driver was lost, but like many “civilized” men in this day and age, refused to believe it. He had followed the directions the gas station attendant had given him an hour and a half before to the letter, of that he was certain. The next turn has to be just ahead, he thought.
"Gotta be just ahead." The man wiped the perspiration from his brow and slammed his fist on the dash.
"Damn car! Shit!" He swore he would get the air conditioning checked at the next station, regardless of the cost. "Should have got it checked at the last one, Ted," he muttered, then giggled nervously at the fact that he was miserable enough to be talking to himself. At that moment, as if refusing to take any more abuse, the air conditioning died completely. It went with a last gasp of cool fresh air, a loud rattle and a thump...then nothing but hot air being blown by the fan.
"Aw, shit!" Another fist banged the dash in anger, then again, but Ted knew it was no use. The AC was dead. Reluctantly, but knowing it had to be done, he rolled the window down. The weight of the desert’s heat slammed into him like a right hook from a heavyweight champion and he gasped a lungful of the hot air.
"Shit! Where's that fucking turn off?" The car, a rusted brown 1982 Toyota Corolla, answered the question with an anguished groan which sent a cool shiver of fear along Ted's spine.
"No. No! NO!" he shouted, refusing to believe that the car would dare to even think of giving up on him here in the middle of no-fucking-where. Each 'no' was punctuated by a slam of his right fist on the cracked vinyl of the dashboard and, as if the dying of the car and the blows to the dash were connected, the car slowed more with each strike of the fist. Ted realized the fact and, hoping -- more like praying really -- that it would have some affect on the car, he stopped hitting the dash at once. But the steel and vinyl had obviously endured enough abuse and, even with a quick rub of affection and a bout of gentle coaxing from Ted, died a noiser death than the air conditioning. The car rolled silently along the bleached, cracked roadway and Ted rolled with it as far as he could.
Ten minutes later, Ted sat quietly in the driver's seat, still disbelieving. Finally, tired of sitting still in the intense heat of the car, he began walking.
He plodded ahead slowly, wondering how he had come to be in such a fix. The heat from the earth around him quickly swamped his mind and body, dragged him down into a bottomless pit of arid quicksand. He found it hard to think about his situation and what to do next, so he carried on along the road, searching for the next turn off to the left. He patted the canteen of water that hung around his neck, thankful that he had come prepared for just such an emergency. He had another canteen in the car, but decided against carrying it, opting instead to travel light. The turn off couldn't be more than a mile or two ahead and, according to the gas station's attendant, there was a country store about four or five miles farther down that road.
Thinking of the store and the cold drinks that would be there suddenly made Ted thirsty and he took a pull from the canteen. "Pssshhh...shitl" He spit the water to the ground, unprepared for its unsavory warmth and tinny flavor. "Man, that tastes like shit!” He recapped the canteen and decided to wait for a drink from the store.
An hour later, he still had yet to see any man made object except for the road, which now occupied his entire field of vision. His head felt like a solid lead weight and he found it difficult to do more than look at his feet and keep walking. Against his will, or in spite of it, he looked at his watch...one-thirty! He shook his head in disgust and held the watch to his ear. He heard nothing and decided it must be broken. He covered his eyes against the harsh glare and looked for the sun overhead. It was still high in the blue, cloudless sky and he listened to his watch again. Then he remembered...his watch was battery operated and made no sound. It still worked, it was his mind that was slipping.
“Where's that fucking road? I'm gonna kill that fucking attendant when I see him, too. Fuckin' prick!” Still, he walked.
Almost reluctantly, but afraid not to drink regardless of the taste, Ted pulled the cap from the canteen and took a small sip. To his surprise, the water, though still tinny, did not seem as warm. In fact, it was amazingly cool compared to everything else in the world. Before he knew it, he had guzzled half the contents in his fervor and relish of the liquid. He burped up a small bubble of air and forced himself to put the cap back on the container. “Got to conserve," he muttered.
He almost regretted not bringing the other canteen when he had the chance, but shrugged it off. He would be at the store soon enough, no sweat.
He was thinking about the drinks he would buy when he reached the store when the idea came to him. He knew the road turned to the left up ahead and that the store was about four miles down that, so why not cut across? Yeah, sure. He was surprised he had not thought of it before and passed it off to the effects of the heat. It would be easy enough to take a shortcut across the desert and then turn left when he crossed the road. He could cut off miles! The brilliance of his plan gave him renewed strength and with a determined stride, he cut over to the far side of the road and onto the hard-packed earth beyond. Within minutes, the cracked blacktop was well behind him.
At first, the traveling was easy, much easier than the hard road had been. Soon however, the hardened dirt gave way to softer soil and then to even softer sand. An hour after he left the roadway, Ted found himself fighting for every step as the deep sand shifted beneath his canvas tennis shoes. He stopped regularly to empty the sand from the low top sneakers but they filled up again after only a few steps. Eventually, he gave up on the task and pushed on with his shoes full of hot sand.
Twice he paused to drink from the canteen, each time taking more than he should have. The water was three quarters gone now and he began to get worried, but quickly waved his fear away. He would reach the other road soon now, very soon. He glanced at his watch as he did every five minutes and groaned. It was only four-fifteen but it seemed as though he had been walking forever. He licked his lips and noticed that they had begun to crack in the heat. He quickly took inventory of the rest of his body and was alarmed at the redness of his exposed forearms and the heat on his unconverd face and forehead. He would have one hell of a sunburn by the time this was over. Hell, I've got one hell of a sunburn right now, he thought. He was glad for the jeans which covered his legs and the three quarter length sleeves of his Los Angeles Dodger's baseball jersey. At least he would not be a complete wreck. He spared a little of the remaining water to wet his lips and then moved on. Now, he fully regretted not bringing the second canteen.
At seven-twenty he knew he was lost. He was amazed, in a sudden burst of clarity that it had taken him so long to realize that simple fact. It should have been obvious hours before but he was too determined to find the other road and the store that it contained to consider the possibility.
He cursed himself for his stupidity and shook the nearly empty canteen in horror. For the first time, he realized how truly desperate his situation had become. He was wandering around in the middle of some fucking desert with no idea of where to go or what to do. Shit, people died like this all the time in the movies!
"But it ain't supposed to happen in real life," he whispered. This time, he did not giggle for talking to himself. He felt lonely and scared and he needed to hear a voice. It did not matter that it was his own. "Well, Ted, what now?" The sound of his words was pleasing to his ears but his throat cried out in parched anguish so he shut up.
He looked around for a clue. What next? He could keep going the way he was going now (and probably end up dead), or he could turn around and head back the way he had come. He debated for a few minutes, but in the end he turned around and began retracing his footprints through the sand. He dreaded the journey for he knew what it entailed, but the knowledge of another canteen waiting in the car was too much reality to dismiss. To have continued looking for a ghost road that may or may not have lied ahead would have placed too much faith in the words of a gas attendant who probably never journeyed more than two miles from where he was born, Ted decided. He really owed that attendant a pop in the eye.
He followed his footsteps until his water was gone and it became too dark to see. He stopped walking for the first time in hours and dropped to the ground like a stone. The desert chill was just beginning to creep into the air but the sand was still hot beneath him and he found himself enjoying the sensation. The relief from the blinding sun of day was more welcome than he could have imagined had he not experienced it. He happened to glance upward and marveled at the beauty that waited there. The stars were brighter and more numerous than he had ever seen them and he stared at them, unblinking, until he fell asleep. He slept the sleep of the battle weary and dreamed of boiling heat, blindingly white sand, cool water and millions of stars. It was as much a terrible nightmare as it was a wonderful fantasy.
He awoke later with the full chill of the desert night in his bones and he wondered how such a place could exist that went from one extreme to the other in the span of a few hours. He recalled the pleasant hour or so between the heat of day and the chill of night with longing and wished he could return to it. He took note of the time and saw that it was nearly one in the morning. The cold refused him any rest and he stood up, ready to begin the journey once again. He scanned the ground and saw his footsteps clearly in the moonlight. Good, he thought, and began walking.
An hour later, he contemplated tossing the empty canteen to the side but decided against the act. He refused to make the same mistake twice. If he came upon a water source he would need the container to carry the water. It was an unlikely occurrence but one he would not be caught unprepared for. He was not the man he was yesterday. Not that he was wise from his walk in the desert but he had learned a few simple facts of survival that could not be overlooked if he wanted to live through this ordeal. Mentally, he kicked himself again for not bringing the second canteen when he had the chance.
He stopped twice to rest before the sun came back up. There was another hour or so when the air was neither too hot nor too cold, but he did not enjoy the time much for he was in desperate need of water. Instead he just walked ahead, his head bowed, his eyes on the footprints he had made yesterday.
There was a quick moment of fear in his soul when he lost the tracks in the sand and he ran ahead several steps before realizing that the ground was harder here than just a few feet before. He knew then that the road was only a half-hour or so away and trudged onward, his determination unwavering. His body, however, was not so resolute and he found himself having to mentally force his feet to move forward. Several times, he fell to the ground, once banging his head hard enough to open a cut on his brow. It did not bleed much and he thanked God for that because he needed all the fluids his body held.
He found the road and rejoiced in doing so. With any luck a car would pass by and he would flag it down, stop it with his body if he had to. It was unlikely, but he held onto the possibility like a drowning man to life raft. He knew he could not last much longer without water but ignored the knowledge as unapplicable to the task at hand.
He walked...and walked...and wa-
He ran headlong into an invisible wall. He had a moment to wonder where the wall had come from before inhaling a mouthful of dust. The dirt inside his already dry mouth made him open his eyes and he recognized the familiar pattern of the roadside only centimeters away. He tried to get up but his body ignored the command. Instead, it lay where it landed and he rested...
He came to with a sound in his head and a pain in his cheek. He forced his eyes open and saw a small black eye not two inches from his own. The eye moved away but was replaced by a beak and another jab of pain as the bird pecked at Ted's eye. The pain and the realization of what was happening caused him to scream and the buzzards retreated a few steps. They did not flyaway, too intent on the meal in front of them to give up so easily.
With every ounce of energy he could summon, Ted moved his hands beneath his body and pushed himself up from the ground. He could not regain his feet immediately, but opened his eyes. The left eye was a ball of pain and he reached up to it, testing for damage the buzzard may have caused. The hand came away with blood and Ted cursed. The birds, five in all, sat about ten feet away, flapping their large wings and eyeing Ted for his worth as a food source. Apparently, he looked bad, Ted decided, for the five birds did not show any indication of leaving soon.
"Well fuck you." Ted tried to shout but the words came out as a hoarse rasp. Oh great, he thought, I probably just encouraged the sonsabitches. He looked around briefly, picked up a handful of sand and tossed it at the watchers. The sand had little effect but Ted was pleased to see them take note of his efforts. "I'm not food yet, my friends." With that, he forced himself to stand and before he knew it, he was walking along the road again. He glanced backward and saw the buzzards take to the sky.
He staggered on, sure with every step that it would be his last, but he kept going, unwilling to stop. If he could just make it to the car and the canteen he could hole up for part of the night and then try to make it back to the gas station. And that fucking attendant.
At about four o’clock Ted gave up. He could not take another step and dropped to the ground. His will, his strength and his desire were gone. He had given it his best shot, but it had not been good enough. He was going to die. It was that simple: He had tried and failed. The punishment for failure was death and the desert had won the right to execute its final punishment.
Ted's final act as he gave up his life was to look up the road a final time. When he did, he could not believe his eyes! There, not two hundred yards away, sat a rusted brown Toyota Corolla. With a busted air conditioner, Ted added silently. All I've got to do is make it and I'll live.
I'll live!
He tried to stand but couldn't, his legs refused to work and his arms were quickly failing him also. To make matters worse. Ted glanced up and saw the buzzards circling overhead. Shit. You fuckers ain't gonna get me. He began dragging himself along the roadway toward the car. It was slow going but he made progress.
If my legs won't work, I'll use my arms. He inched along the roadside, the rocks and gravel he crossed gouged his chest, stomach and legs till blood flowed through his clothing but he kept going, refusing to stop when so close. Only a hundred more yards, now. He saw the car through a hazy film that covered his eyes and thought it looked odd. His left eye was nearly blind from the peck he had received and he hoped the buzzard had enjoyed his snack because it was the only one he was going to get. Ted looked up bravely and smiled at the black winged creatures daring them to come any closer.
He pulled again and again, coming ever closer. The car sat like an oasis and it occupied his entire being. He just had to reach the car and all would be well. He looked at it and longed to be there and with each pull of his tired arms, he came closer. At fifty yards, the car seemed wrong, somehow out of place in this dry desert and Ted wondered why he should even think such thoughts. The car was his salvation. Never again would he hit the dash, curse the air conditioning or neglect a service. The car was his life.
But it looked wrong. At twenty-five yards Ted stopped looking at the car and concentrated instead on covering the last bit of distance between him and his salvation. He pulled himself forward, paused...pulled himself forward, paused... On and on, the pattern seemed to go on forever, but after a lifetime, he bumped his head on metal and, without looking reached out a hand...and touched the car.
He sighed the sigh of a man receiving a pardon just as the noose has been tightened around his neck and thanked God for allowing him to reach his goal. Ted raised his head from the hot road and saw his hand as it rested on the car's front bumper. This puzzled him greatly for he was prone and he should not have been able to reach the bumper from his position.
He pulled himself around to the side of the car and saw the problem; the Toyota's wheels were missing. It took him a few seconds to realize what that had to mean--that someone had taken them. Shit! What else did they--
--- NO!
Ted had a sudden notion that whoever had taken the wheels might also have taken the water. They could'nt have, they would'nt have, he pleaded. With a final burst of energy born out of anger at what might have happened, Ted stood up and leaned against the car. He suddenly took in the fact that more than just the wheels had been taken. The hood and car doors were open wide and the engine and both front bucket seats were missing. The winshield had been smashed as had all the other windows. But he did not care. He only cared about one thing -- the canteen in the back seat. Was it still there? Using the car to keep him on his feet, he made his way to the passenger's door and fell into the car. The shade provided by the car's roof was an immediate comfort but not a life saving one and Ted fought his way into the back.
The vandals had left the interior of the car a mess and there was ripped vinyl and papers strewn all over the back seat. He found the small travel humidor that held a few cigars and his lighter, but not the water. Ted sorted through the remaining mess with a prayer on his lips, but knew within seconds that it was useless. The canteen was gone.
Determined to make the best of his situation, Ted pulled the humidor from the back seat and fell down in the shade next to the car. He struggled to open the box and considered which cigar would be his last. He paused over a Consuegra #9 and a Punch Rothchild before finally settling on the Cohiba Lancero he had been saving for a special occasion. He laughed at the thought that his own death would be the most special of all occasions and roughly bit the end off the cigar. He lit it with the last remnants of energy and took a long puff of Cuban smoke.
The band of buzzards landed near the car and watched as Ted took another weak puff. They did not recognize the smile of contentment that appeared on his face but they knew they would not have long to wait.
THE END
