cigarettes, pharmacy shelves swept clean. She wished they had had the foresight to snatch some high factor sun cream.
She took out the life raft. Rip cord. Gas-roar. Tight-packed polyurethane plumped and unkinked as buoyancy chambers filled with CO 2 .
A black one-person raft with a low tent canopy.
Frost dragged the raft to the crest of a dune, oriented it to catch the near-imperceptible breeze, then climbed inside, glad to be out of direct sunlight.
She drowsed in the shade, choosing to conserve sweat until the noonday heat began to abate.
She closed her eyes and breathed slow, worked to induce sleep. No sound but the oceanic diastole/systole surge of pulsing blood vessels in her ear canal.
She felt the raft buoyed by swells. She heard waves lap the side of the boat.
She slept, and dreamed she was adrift on a vast, moonlit sea.
6
Adrift on a storm-lashed ocean. The blackest night. Driving rain. The raft rode thunderous, titanic swells. She gripped the side of the boat, tried to stabilise the roll, braced for the inevitable capsize.
She jolted awake and shook off heart-pounding delirium. She wiped sweat from her eyes, licked parched lips.
She pulled back the raft canopy.
Mute desert. Cruel, unrelenting light.
She tried the radio. Hendrix and the Emergency Broadcast announcement.
She pictured the deserted streets of Barstow.
Crow-pecked bodies and burned out cars. A dead neon pole sign:
Classic Rock FM.
An edge-of-town office with a sixty-foot mast.
The abandoned studio running on back-up power. Scattered papers and toppled chairs.
An unmanned production desk: preset sliders and twitching output needles.
An empty sound booth.
‘
… We have suspended our normal programming at this time as part of the National Emergency Broadcast System. Please stay tuned for important updates …’
The looped transmission would run until power failed, console lights flickered dark, and Jimi was abruptly silenced.
Selector to BEACON. She set the radio aside.
She flexed her leg. Intense jolt, like a high-voltage shock.
‘Jesus fuck.’
She lay back, waiting for the agony to subside. Pulsing pain, like someone driving a nail into her flesh.
A second morphine shot. Stab. Press.
She closed her eyes and rode a warm rush of well-being. Slow, shivering exhalation.
She tossed the hypo in the sand.
She tore the corner of a water sachet and sucked it dry. She had left her survival vest outside the tented raft. The sachets had cooked in the sun. Hot like fresh brewed coffee.
She ripped open the empty pack and licked residual drops of moisture from the plastic.
The sun had moved from its zenith. Shadows lengthened and coagulated in the depressions between dunes.
She wanted to hear the heavy beat of chopper blades. She wanted to look up and see the belly of a descending Chinook fill the sky.
She reached down and unlaced. A swollen foot prised from her boot. Gym sock peeled away, fraction at a time, teeth clenched against the pain.
She gently rolled the right leg of her flight suit. Her foot and calf were swollen, skin livid and stretched tight. She caressed her shin, traced her tibia with the tip of an index finger, gently probed for some kind of subcutaneous ridge that might indicate splintered bone. Nothing. Maybe her leg had suffered a hairline fracture rather than an emphatic break. Or maybe her leg was intact. Maybe she had suffered some kind of catastrophic sprain that would subside in a couple of days.
She gripped her ankle and checked for a tibial pulse. She flexed her toes. Still got circulation. Still got feeling.
She eased the sock back over her foot. She slid her foot into the boot, barked with pain as she pulled laces taut.
A plastic oar. She broke it over her good knee, and tossed the paddle.
She snapped the shaft in two.
Nylon cord ran around the lip of the raft. A handhold to help a downed airman pull himself into the boat.
She sliced the cord with her knife.
An improvised splint: oar sections
She took out the life raft. Rip cord. Gas-roar. Tight-packed polyurethane plumped and unkinked as buoyancy chambers filled with CO 2 .
A black one-person raft with a low tent canopy.
Frost dragged the raft to the crest of a dune, oriented it to catch the near-imperceptible breeze, then climbed inside, glad to be out of direct sunlight.
She drowsed in the shade, choosing to conserve sweat until the noonday heat began to abate.
She closed her eyes and breathed slow, worked to induce sleep. No sound but the oceanic diastole/systole surge of pulsing blood vessels in her ear canal.
She felt the raft buoyed by swells. She heard waves lap the side of the boat.
She slept, and dreamed she was adrift on a vast, moonlit sea.
6
Adrift on a storm-lashed ocean. The blackest night. Driving rain. The raft rode thunderous, titanic swells. She gripped the side of the boat, tried to stabilise the roll, braced for the inevitable capsize.
She jolted awake and shook off heart-pounding delirium. She wiped sweat from her eyes, licked parched lips.
She pulled back the raft canopy.
Mute desert. Cruel, unrelenting light.
She tried the radio. Hendrix and the Emergency Broadcast announcement.
She pictured the deserted streets of Barstow.
Crow-pecked bodies and burned out cars. A dead neon pole sign:
Classic Rock FM.
An edge-of-town office with a sixty-foot mast.
The abandoned studio running on back-up power. Scattered papers and toppled chairs.
An unmanned production desk: preset sliders and twitching output needles.
An empty sound booth.
‘
… We have suspended our normal programming at this time as part of the National Emergency Broadcast System. Please stay tuned for important updates …’
The looped transmission would run until power failed, console lights flickered dark, and Jimi was abruptly silenced.
Selector to BEACON. She set the radio aside.
She flexed her leg. Intense jolt, like a high-voltage shock.
‘Jesus fuck.’
She lay back, waiting for the agony to subside. Pulsing pain, like someone driving a nail into her flesh.
A second morphine shot. Stab. Press.
She closed her eyes and rode a warm rush of well-being. Slow, shivering exhalation.
She tossed the hypo in the sand.
She tore the corner of a water sachet and sucked it dry. She had left her survival vest outside the tented raft. The sachets had cooked in the sun. Hot like fresh brewed coffee.
She ripped open the empty pack and licked residual drops of moisture from the plastic.
The sun had moved from its zenith. Shadows lengthened and coagulated in the depressions between dunes.
She wanted to hear the heavy beat of chopper blades. She wanted to look up and see the belly of a descending Chinook fill the sky.
She reached down and unlaced. A swollen foot prised from her boot. Gym sock peeled away, fraction at a time, teeth clenched against the pain.
She gently rolled the right leg of her flight suit. Her foot and calf were swollen, skin livid and stretched tight. She caressed her shin, traced her tibia with the tip of an index finger, gently probed for some kind of subcutaneous ridge that might indicate splintered bone. Nothing. Maybe her leg had suffered a hairline fracture rather than an emphatic break. Or maybe her leg was intact. Maybe she had suffered some kind of catastrophic sprain that would subside in a couple of days.
She gripped her ankle and checked for a tibial pulse. She flexed her toes. Still got circulation. Still got feeling.
She eased the sock back over her foot. She slid her foot into the boot, barked with pain as she pulled laces taut.
A plastic oar. She broke it over her good knee, and tossed the paddle.
She snapped the shaft in two.
Nylon cord ran around the lip of the raft. A handhold to help a downed airman pull himself into the boat.
She sliced the cord with her knife.
An improvised splint: oar sections
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