"Won't this damn thing go any faster?" Sonny asked for the tenth time in an hour.
Jessie didn't answer. He kept his eyes on the road and tried not to think about the "Hot" light which had burned on the old Plymouth's instrument panel for the last twenty minutes. Sonny knew that the car wouldn't go faster than eighty: It was only nerves.
"Do you think that cop recognized the car?" asked Sonny.
"Stay cool man!" Jessie said. "I keep tellin' you, I slowed down in time! It's been over an hour an' we ain't seen any more." Sonny turned to look out the rear window again. "Well why the hell couldn't you pick a better car to hotwire?" he demanded.
"Hey dude, if you would've killed that damn watchdog before he started barkin' I would have!" Jessie snapped. "We're just lucky nobody was around!"
"Yeah well, I fixed that damn dog though." Sonny relished the memory of the dog's neck crunching under his hands. The prison doctors had labeled Sonny a sadist and potential psychopath.
Sonny had told his fellow inmates that he had been convicted of homicide, although in fact his crime had been aggravated assault. That was due to Sonny's need to be feared and respected, the reason he had been sent to prison: For a history of extorting money from children and senior citizens with threats of violence, culminating in serious injury to a twelve-year-old boy.
"Aw, shit!" said Jessie.
"What was that!" Sonny sounded panicky.
The car gave another lurch, then settled down to a steady knocking.
"Probably threw a rod."
"We're not gonna make it!" Sonny cried. "I don't want to walk through fifty miles of rocks and cactus! This was a stupid plan anyway!"
"Maintain!" Jessie told him. "We'll make it! We only got about fifty miles to the border. If the car quits we can walk. Then we'll be home free: Nothin' to do but lay around in the sun and play with those pretty little senoritas! Just like King said."
Jessie was not a leader; he had depended on King to make the decisions and tell him what to do. King had planned all the jobs that he and Jessie had pulled, and there had never been any trouble. It hadn't been King's fault that they had been caught. There was no way he could have known that there was a man with a shotgun in the back room of the liquor store.
"Yeah, sure. And where's King now?" said Sonny. "Still in the joint, only now he's got a bullet hole in him."
"Just shut up!" Jessie replied. "We'd still be on the road gang if King hadn't coldcocked that guard. We'll make it, so you just shut up!"
Jessie wished that King was with him instead of Sonny. Jessie had little faith in Sonny, but he needed to have a leader no matter how inadequate.
The car had slowed to fifty now, even though Jessie still had the gas pedal jammed against the firewall. Steam was starting to seep around the hood and flap against the windshield.
"We'll make it." Jessie repeated: "We'll make it!"
It didn't really matter, the uranium prospecting was mostly a hobby for Pete. An excuse to get out in the New Mexico desert and relax for one weekend a month.
Pete looked back into the distance, past his truck and the coffee pot on the propane stove, toward the road from town. His partner in the claim was supposed to join him this weekend.
"Probably had another drunk-and-disorderly call at the bar." Pete said to himself, and moved on to the next identical pile of rock.
Pete swung the pick a few times, digging out small rocks and sandy soil. He paused for a few deep breaths -- some aspects of prospecting had not changed. Pete unclipped the Geiger counter's handpiece and waved it around the pile of dirt and into the excavation. The counter gave off only a few occasional clicks. "'Nother dry hole." Pete muttered. He snapped the handpiece back into place and started to move on. Then he straightened up and looked around. Was that a voice?
"See man? I told you there was a pickup!" Pete heard. He stepped out from behind the rockpile and saw two ragged men wearily picking their way among the boulders.
"Howdy fellas!" Pete called. "Hello!"
The men looked up, and one of them waved. "Howdy yourself!" the man called.
Pete waited a few minutes for the pair to make their way to where he stood. "What brings you young fellas but here on this fine morning?" he asked.
The men glanced at each other, then looked around at the lifeless rocks and the waves of heat shimmering in the distance. "Uh, our car broke down." said one.
"Yep," said Pete, sticking out his hand, "I figured. My name's Bryce, Pete Bryce."
"Mine's Jessie," said the first man, "this here's Sonny."
"Glad to know you, boys. I guess you could probably do with some water."
"Damn right!" said Sonny.
"Well, come on, I've got some in the truck. Food too, if you like this new freeze-dried stuff."
The two men followed Pete over to the pickup, and gulped greedily at his canteen. After they had satisfied their thirsts and were munching tentatively at some dried apples, Jessie asked: "What are you doin' out here anyway?"
"Foolin' around mostly, prospecting." Pete replied.
"For gold?" Sonny asked.
"Pitchblende. I even find some, now and again."
"What's that?" Sonny wanted to know.
"Uranium ore. This claim's been pretty worthless so far, but high-grade ore is worth a nice bit."
"Mostly this is just a hobby for my partner and me." Pete added.
Jessie and Sonny glanced at each other.
"Well, I can give you boys a ride into town." Pete continued. "It's lucky you ran into me: You were headed the wrong direction. Town's off to the north there."
"Oh, uh yeah, I guess so." said Jessie. "I guess we would have been in Mexico in another few miles, huh?"
"Yep, we're only about twelve miles from the border here." Pete said. "When the wind's right you can practically smell the enchiladas."
Sonny stood up. "That's all I need to hear!" he said. "We want the keys to your truck old man!"
"What in hell?" Pete jumped to his feet. "What are you talking about!"
That's right, Pete." said Jessie. "We need to borrow your pickup. Your partner will probably show up pretty soon, and we'll leave you the rest of the water."
"Hell, let's take his water too!" said Sonny.
"You can't do that!" Pete shouted. "I'm not going to let you!" He grabbed for the .38.
Sonny jumped at Pete and knocked him to the dirt. Then he slowly ground the old man's hand and the gun butt into the rocks with his heel. Pete screamed with pain, and Sonny grinned a twisted smirk and kicked him in the ribs. "Whatchya gonna do old man, shoot us with your nasty gun?"
Sonny kicked him again and Pete groaned weakly. Then Sonny put his foot on the old man's other hand and slowly put his weight on it, twisting his boot back and forth; feeling the bones crunch.
Jessie watched in disbelief as Sonny bent down and picked up the gun.
"I'm gonna waste you old man!" said Sonny, sighting along the barrel.
Pete cringed back, holding his mangled hands to his chest. "No, p -- please!"
"Where you going old man?" Sonny kicked him again.
Through the haze of pain Pete watched Sonny raise the .38, fascinated by the soul-chilling darkness of the bore. He heard the snap of the cylinder lock and the sharp double click of the sear dropping into its catch as Sonny thumbed the hammer back.
"C'mon man, you done enough already!" Jessie shouted.
Pete saw Jessie grab for the gun. The two men struggled, and as he lost consciousness Pete heard the shot.
"Jesus! Sonny, I'm sorry man. I'm sorry!" Jessie cried. He hurled the pistol away and knelt down beside Sonny.
"What should I do Sonny? Tell me what to do!"
Sonny moaned.
"Sonny, don't die!"
"Jessie, you gotta take me to a doctor!" Sonny gripped Jessie's arm hard. "I'm bleeding man! God, it hurts! Get the old man's keys!"
Jessie started going through Pete's pockets. "We gotta take him to the doctor too Sonny." he said.
"No! You want to go back to prison?"
"But you hurt him bad!"
"No. Maybe his partner will find him. But if we take him with us we'll be back in the joint in no time. Just get me to a doctor, tell 'em it was an accident."
"O.K. Sonny."
"Hurry Jessie, I'm bleedin'." Sonny whimpered.
Praying that it wouldn't be recognized, Jessie idled the pickup down the town's single paved street.
"Jessie?" Where are you Jessie!" Sonny called weakly.
"I'm right here man! You're gonna be O.K."
Sonny coughed raggedly; a thin smear of blood ran down his chin. "How come it's so dark Jessie? I can't see too good."
"It's all right Sonny, there's the doctor's office, see?"
"Where?" Sonny looked about with glazed eyes.
Jessie pulled the truck up in front of a rustic hitching rail by a dilapidated boardwalk and switched off the ignition. "Right here. It's right in front of you." he said.
Sonny coughed again, spraying the cracked windshield with red droplets. He stared blankly out at the building with a faintly puzzled expression, then his eyes seemed to focus.
"NO! Oh no!" Sonny screamed.
On the weathered silver-gray boards hung a small plaque: Peter T. Bryce, MD.