CHAPTER FOUR
"Sand Storm"
The sun woke them. The sun and the wind. Because they were surrounded by abutments, it was past ten before the sun struck Curt in the face. He groaned, wiped a hand across his eyes and reached for his sunglasses. The wind was out of the east playing the crown like a flute. The clefts emitted dissonance as the wind ripped through. Sand flew.
Curt splashed water in his face from the canteen, took a healthy swig and shook Ronnie awake.
"Wha--?"
"Get up. Wind's picking up."
Curt stood and looked over the stones to the east. A roiling brown wall concealed the mountains. It filled the sky until it tapered off in a pale yellow.
"Fuck," Curt said. "Sand storm coming."
"What?" Ronnie said getting to his knees and unsteadily to his feet. He looked over the wall and turned away at once blinking and rubbing his face. "Ow."
"Yeah. It's a sand storm! We'd better get to the bus."
They gathered their things, rolling the sleeping bags sloppily, hanging backpacks and canteens around their necks, and scrambled down the pipe to the desert floor on the west side of the crown where they were shielded from the brunt of the wind. The bus was at six, shielded by the outward leaning sandstone shelf.
Ronnie paused to piss. "Fuck, man I'm still tripping."
Curt stared at the rock. Tiny whorls of gray/green lichen rotated in spiral nebulae. They walked around the base, drew open the side door and threw in their stuff. They got in the van. Ronnie was first to pop the red and white Igloo and pull out a slab of cheddar wrapped in cellophane. Curt found a loaf of California sourdough they'd bought two days ago and tore off a chunk. Next they hit the jerky.
Twenty minutes later the boys belched, satisfied. The wind had picked up and even here behind the crown pinpricks of sand peppered the bus. The push-out vents howled when the wind hit the right resonance. A fine grit entered through the open windows but even in the shade it was hot and neither was eager to close the windows.
Curt grabbed a handful of Arby's napkins and opened his door. "Roll up a doobie. I gotta take a dump."
He let himself out and looked for a place out of the wind. Underneath the shelf was best. He duck-walked back and looked around for a pair of rocks on which to crouch, eyes glossing over a peculiar pattern in the stone. Then back.
Curt couldn't believe it. There were pictographs under the stone. They were hard to make out due to age and shade but when he got close they were plain as day. A cluster of conquistadors in their distinctive peaked caps riding horses. The lead conquistador held a curved saber overhead. Two feet away crouched behind a peculiar rock formation stood an Indian firing an arrow. The Indian seemed like a giant compared to the tiny Spaniards but perhaps that was due to perspective. Yet the Spaniards were drawn as if moving right to left in the middle distance--not coming toward the Indian.
Perhaps it was symbolic.
Midway between them, a wagon wheel.
Curt found a different place then returned to the bus.
He opened the door. "Hey man! Get your camera and follow me. You've got to see this."
Ronnie looked up from his reefer works spread on a shopper, carefully finished the doobie and set it in the ashtray. He grabbed the Nikon.
"What's up?"
Curt led him under the ledge and showed him the pictographs.
"Wow," Ronnie said focusing. He took pictures at a low exposure to take advantage of the limited light. "Surprised they’re not defaced or something."
"Yeah, well you know with the wind around here man, the sand could have covered them up."
"It's gonna cover us up if we don't get back in the bus."
The desert plowed through them. Sand began to accumulate beneath the ledge due to back draft. They got in the bus. Ronnie pulled the doobie from the ashtray and lit up. Soon they were mellow.
"What about that old woman, man?" Ronnie said. "I hope she isn't out in this."
"For all we know she lives nearby. Walked there."
"Lives nearby where? There's nothing on the map."
"Ronnie. You're not going to obsess about that old woman, are you? Look outside. It's fucking opaque."
Visibility was maybe ten feet. The desert was moving west. A choking cloud of dust enveloped the crown leaving a bubble of slightly dense air in its lee. Sand flew into the bus through the open windows and at last the boys cranked them closed leaving only the rear flaps open. Their gear was covered in grit.
"Fuck! What if we get covered with a fucking dune or something?" Ronnie said.
"We got shovels, dude. Remember? For digging up shards and shit?"
Ronnie thought about Terry, his svelte blond girlfriend. She'd wanted him to go to Playa del Carmen this summer. He closed his eyes and pictured turquoise pools beneath swaying palm trees, surf rolling in off the Caribbean. He'd never been to Mexico. They would have been a mere day trip from the pyramids and Tulum, the fabled Mayan outpost on the sea.
The bus began to rock on its springs.
"Man that wind is strooong!" Curt said. "Grab me one of those sodas, wouldja?"
Ronnie turned in his seat and stretched for the cooler. A three inch scorpion the color of discarded skin dropped on his wrist.
"YAHHH!" Ronnie jerked his back so hard it struck the windshield. Curt twisted in his seat, a spear of anxiety rising from his shades.
"What?"
"A fucking scorpion just dropped on my hand!"
Curt half-turned and put one knee on the seat. "What? Where?"
Fearfully they surveyed the jumble of rubble that filled the bus' interior. No way would they know if the scorpion were inside. The junk could be hiding a dozen scorpions.
"Fuck," Curt said. "What do we do?"
"We gotta get it outta here, man, or we can't stay in here."
"Aren't they supposed to be frightened of people? Maybe it'll just hide and leave us alone."
Ronnie looked up hopefully. A scorpion crawled from between the folds of a sleeping bag and climbed to the top raising its tail in victory. Sir Edmund Hillary. This one was orange.
"That's not the same scorpion," Ronnie said.
"Fuck."
"Yeah."
Now there was no question. They had to clear the bus of scorpions or they were fucked.
"Get that Off! out of the glove compartment," Curt said.
Ronnie retrieved the orange and blue aerosol can. He read the directions. It said nothing about scorpions. It wasn't a poison--it was a repellant. But he couldn't think of a better idea.
Curt picked up a pair of two foot barbecue prongs. "Okay. I'll lift the shit with these and shake it out. You blast it with the Off!"
Ronnie aimed the aerosol at the red scorp, still posing on its hill, and let fly. The scorpion scrambled off the mound, tried to make the seams but Ronnie was right there dousing it. It struggled feebly against the side door. Ronnie opened the door and used his foot to shove the arachnid out. He followed it out. It would be easier to avoid them out here than in there.
Curt followed. They faced the interior. Curt used the barbecue tongs to drag his sleeping bag from the bus. It was light--made of nylon and filled with down. He whisked it away.
"Fuck it. We'll just leave 'em."
He extracted Ronnie's and did likewise. The interior was still filled with fast food wrappers, magazines, maps, zip-locs, backpacks, shoes and other bric-brac but at least they could clear a space to stand.
Something heavy hit the windshield with a crack. Both boys heads swiveled in unison.
"What the fuck was that?" Ronnie said.
Curt got down on his haunches and peered beneath the bus. Sand had built up around the perimeter and he couldn't make anything out.
Another report, this one unmistakable.
"That's a fucking rock!" Curt declared.
"Come on, man. No way the wind is hurling rocks."
Curt looked at Ronnie with an expression close to panic. "There's somebody out there," he said so softly his voice was drowned by the wind.
Ronnie caught the vibe. They leaped back into the bus and shut the door. Curt went for his White Stag bowie. Ronnie picked up the tire iron, which floated around the back with everything else.
Curt had wanted to bring guns but Ronnie talked him out of it. They froze, waiting for the next rock. The wind turned the crown into a madman's pipe organ. The bus howled and whistled. Ronnie thought about shutting the back vents but was afraid to move. For long minutes nothing happened.
Could they have been mistaken? Could it have been something else?
"Maybe they fell off the ledge," Curt said.
A shadow fell across the windshield. A mailed fist punched through the glass and uncoiled. Each finger was a scorpion's tail. The hand extended and seized Curt by the throat.
***