"It's not the dying," Craig told her quietly, "but the manner of it." She flared at him angrily. "Keep that literary Hemingway crap to yourself, buster! It's not you that's doing the dying." And then, contrite immediately, "I'm sorry, darling, my head hurts and I liked him so much." The sound of gunfire became fainter as they trotted on, until it was just a whisper like footsteps in dry brush far behind them.
"Craig!" Sally-Anne called, and he turned. She had fallen back twenty paces behind him and her distress was apparent. As soon as he stopped, she sank down and put her head between her knees.
"I'll be all right in a moment. It's just my head." Craig split open a blister pack of pain-killers from the first-aid box. He made her take two of them and swallow them with a mouthful of water from the canteen. The lump on her forehead frightened him. He put his arm around her and held her tightly.
"Oh, that feels good." She stumped against him.
On the silence of the desert dusk came the distant woof of an explosion, muted by distance, and Sally-Anne stiffened.
"What's that?"
"Hand grenade," he told her, and checked his wrist, watch. "It's over, but he gave us a start of fifty, five minutes.
Bless you, Timon, and God speed you."
"We mustn't waste it, "she told him determinedly and pulled herself to her feet. She looked back.
"Poor Timon, she said, and then set off again.
It would take them onTy minutes to discover that there was but one man defending the Land-Rover. They would the outgoing tracks almost immediately, and they would follow. Craig wondered how many Timon had taken out and how many there were left.
"We'll find out soon enough," he told himself, and the night came down with the swiftness of a theatre firecurtain.
New moon three days past, and the only light was from the stars. Orion stood tall on one hand, and the great cross blazed on the other. Through the dry desert air their brilliance was marvelous, and the milky way smeared the heavens like the phosphorescence from a firefly crushed between a child's fingers. The sky was magnificent, but when Craig looked back he saw that it gave enough light to pick out their footprints.
"Rest!" he told Sally-Anne, and she stretched out full length on the ground. With the bayonet from the AK 47 he chopped a bunch of scrub, wired it together and fastened the wire to the back of his belt.
"Lead!" he told her, saving energy with economy of words. She went ahead of him, no longer at a trot, and he dragged the bunch of dry scrub behind him. It swept the earth, and when he checked again, their footprints had dissolved.
Within the first mile the weight of the scrub dragging like an anchor from his belt was beginning to take its toll on his strength. He leaned forward against it. Three times in the next hour Sally-Anne asked for water. He grudged it to her. Never drink on the first thirst, one of the first survival laws. If you do, it will become insatiable, but she was sick and hurting from the head injury, and he did not have the heart to deny her. He did not drink himself.
Tomorrow, if they lived through it, would be a burning hell of thirst. He took the canteen from her, to remove temptation.
A little before midnight, he untied the wire from his belt; the dragging weight of the scrub thorn brush was too much for him, and if the Shana were still on their spoor, it would not serve much further purpose. Instead, he lifted the rucksack from Sally-Anne's back and slung it over his own shoulder.
J can manage it," she protested, although she was reeling likea drunkard. she had not complained once, although her face in the starlight was silver as the salt pan they were crossing.
He tried to think of something to comfort her.
"We must have crossed the border hours ago," he said.
"Does that mean we are saleP she whispered, and he could not bring himself to lie. She shivered.
The night wind cut through their thin clothing. He unfolded the nylon ground sheet and spread it over her shoulders, then he took her weight on his arm and led her on.
A mile further on they reached the far edge of the salt pan and he knew she could go no further that night.
There was a crusty bank eighteen inches high, and then firm ground again.
"We'll stop here." She sagged to the ground and he covered her with the ground sheet.
"Can I have a drink?"
"No. Not until morning." The water canteen was light, sloshing more than half, empty as he lowered the pack.
He cut a pile of scrub to break the wind and keep it off her head, and then pulled off her jogging shoes, massaging her feet and examining them by touch, "Oh, that stings." Her left heel was rubbed raw. He lifted it to his mouth and licked the abrasion clean, saving water. Then he dripped Mercurochrome on it and strapped it with a band-aid from the first, aid kit. He changed her socks from foot to foot, and then laced up her shoes again.
"You're so gentle, "she murmured, as he slipped under the ground sheet and took her in his arms, "and so warm."
"I love you," he said. "Go to sleep." She sighed and snuggled, and he thought she was asleep until she said softly, "Craig, I'm so sorry about King's Lynn." Then, at last, she did sleep, her breathing swelling deeply and evenly against his chest. He eased out from under the ground sheet and left her undisturbed. He went to sit on the low bank with the AK 47 across his knees, keeping the open pan under surveillance, waiting for them to come.
While he kept the watch, he thought about what Sally Anne had said.