Psycho Heat

Becoming nobody. Standing alone, isolated, no longer heard or seen.

"I'm still here," I said.

No answer.

Powerful feelings.

Looking out across the rolling sage foothills just west of the mountains, at the base of the massive volcanic plug that dominated the western skyline, I felt the sun’s early promise of another blasting, battering day of heat on my face. The scent of moist soil and decomposed plants gave way to pungent herbal sage. The volcanic rock smelled minty metallic as the sun rose.

I abandoned the prearranged landing zone two days ago, if I had to guess. That would put me at five days from basecamp. Hard to be sure. The recent past receded into a haze, just like the horizon at the far end of the desert basin. I knew it was there, but I could not see it clearly.

I surveyed my position. Considered my options. I tried to be critical. Deliberate. I wished I was somewhere else. My situation did not change. I was stuck. It took a while to beat those powerful thoughts back.

Nagging doubt crept in. I analyzed my decision to forgo the scheduled pickup. I had doubts about the safety of the landing zone. Something was wrong, there. There was danger.

Paul fell on the third day out from basecamp—the same day we were to be picked up by the 'copter—and was lost. I didn't see how it happened. We were descending the eastern face of the Shadowtooth Mountains and were navigating a rock formation known on the map as the Serpent's Spine. He fell maybe thirty feet, hit hard. I heard it and moved cautiously to see what happened.

Dead has a look to it. The sort of look that, no matter how many times you have seen it, you stop for a moment to watch carefully, expectantly. You hold your breath. The stillness was unique. Dead has a look. It was familiar.

I did not like Paul much. He was gone, so that no longer mattered. My feelings were…complex. I felt bad for him, but he was beyond that, too. I did not miss him or mourn him in any genuine way. What should I do with his body? I decided to leave it and find my way out. It wasn't going anywhere.

***

Five days earlier we had checked our gear, locked the truck and hefted our backpacks. The plan was to hike from basecamp eastward across the crest of the Shadowtooth Mountains. Paul said our objective was an abandoned turn of the century gold mine, located on the eastern slope. We were supposed to find it, map it and evaluate for economic value. I'd figure it out.

I did not know Paul before this excursion. We were independently hired by a Canadian mining company, put together randomly as a reconnaissance team. It was just a job. It came unexpectedly, the timing perfect for me.

"I've got a friend in the Corp of Engineers," said Paul as we geared up. "They shuttle by 'copter every day or so between Furnace Creek and their work site, a few miles north of the Serpent's Spine. They'll be looking for us late afternoon on the 25th. We have to be away from the foothills out in the basin, just east of the Spine, ready to jump on. It'll save us the hike back over the range."

The hike up the western flank and over the crest was uneventful. More rattlesnakes than I was comfortable with, and that required extra vigilance. Each footstep had to be considered. We crested the range and began exploring in wide lateral sweeps along the contours of the mountain.

Late afternoon of the second day out from basecamp, we ran across a small, innocuous adit scoured out of the volcanic rock, hidden by sage and tumbleweed. Paul was elated. Dusk, then darkness, fell.

Radio reception on our old AM radio was spotty at best, but apparently we were high enough elevation and the atmospheric conditions that night favored sporadic reception of a news report. We learned of the attempted assassination of Ronald Reagan in Washington, DC. It was just news to me, nothing special. Paul seemed frozen in place, stricken by the news. Reception faded in favor of static. Paul tried to tune in a signal, but could not.

***

Six days out from basecamp. Water was short. I had Paul's canister now, so that helped. Food was becoming a problem. Daytime heat was brutal.

I could hike east across the basin—at least thirty miles if I dared—to the high security perimeter of the Nevada Proving Grounds. Someone would notice me there, for sure. Probably shoot me as save me, though. Hard core, that lot. I could hike south, but I guessed the nearest habitation to be at least another thirty miles. I could head back west into the Shadowtooth range. Cooler—maybe—but I faced a steep, at times treacherous, climb. And then?

Something about my decision to abandon the landing zone nagged at me. I ran it through my head over and over. Paul's reaction to finding the mine adit made me uncomfortable—now that I thought about it there were too many odd things about this job that tweaked my inner alarm bells. I was glad to have some distance from that location.

I felt shaky. My head ached. Shallow panting, rapid pulse. I needed shade and there was none found close to the basin. I turned west, started uphill. I could see vegetation up higher, but could not gauge the distance. I deliberately calmed myself, slowed my respiration. Each footfall was an accomplishment. One after another. That's the way.

The volcanic rubble was sharp. I stumbled, slid, rolled my ankles in shifting scrabble. At last I reached a few moderately sized boulders. I checked around for rattlesnakes or other threats. None. I curled up tightly in the sparse shady side of the largest bit of rock I could find. It wasn't more than momentary relief. It was heaven.

I slept for a while. When I woke, the sun had shifted. I was half in the sun again. I crawled back into a little sliver of shade. There was something else. A dull beating noise. Thrum. Thrum.

Helicopter.

I peeked around the rock that protected me and saw it working slowly south along the base of the range. Looking for something, or someone. Maybe me. I had a strong urge to stay hidden. I did not want them to find me.

It passed by my hiding spot without slowing. After a few minutes it was out of sight. The beating faded. I was relieved.

***

Five? Six? Seven days out now? Must be at least seven because I was sure I spent at least one night on the range slope after the helicopter passed by. It was hunting me. I knew this for sure.

The attempted assassination of Reagan. Paul's elation at finding the mine adit. The way he talked about the 'copter picking us up. There was an edgy undercurrent. Patterns are important. These felt weird.

That first night out from basecamp Paul had said, for no reason, something about communism not being a threat. He criticized the Reagan Doctrine, which was definitely anti-communist. I didn't care about any of it, but Paul was intense, obsessed.

Would they think I killed Paul? Why else would I run? Why did I leave the body? Was that why they were hunting me? Did they find him already?

It was mid-morning. I moved slowly, carefully upslope. The sun still beat like a hammer, but I imagined coolness in front of me. It came to me in a flash. A lush patch of green oasis, just in the foothills above the parched basin. And then it was gone.

That's when I decided. I needed to return to the mysterious mine adit we discovered days ago. I had my compass and the map. I had some trail mix but needed water. More than anything I needed to get out of the relentless sun.

My plan was to climb higher and then work my way back north. The terrain was harder, but there was more opportunity to find shade in crags and behind outcrops, especially in the afternoon. I hiked slowly, very deliberately, surveying the ground around me.

The desert is beautiful. It is hard and unforgiving. Sharp and angular and most things here are painful in some way. One step. Another step.

***

I shivered. My skin was cold, then hot. I knew I was shocky from the heat. I refused to give in. I laid down in place, covered my head as best I could and slept.

Eight days?

I heard helicopters. Scores of them, searching. Searching. Why did they want me? I did not want them to find me. The sounds drifted away, soaked back into my nightmare. I was pleased to have eluded them once again.

Night fell and the blessed coolness turned to bitter cold. I had to move or die. There was no living off the land here. Just the opposite. Creatures here were waiting to feed on me.

I knew what was going on now. It all fit together. Out there, across the desert basin was the atomic bomb testing ground. Just beyond that was Area 51. Not that far. Not at all. There were rumors Reagan visited with the aliens there, shaped policy from their advice. The entire assassination attempt was staged, of course. No matter his public policies and rhetoric, Reagan was thick as thieves with the Hollywood elite. Communist sympathizers, all of them. He was brainwashed, controlled by those determined to end the Republic. What was that movie?

The Manchurian Candidate. Yea. That's it. That's Reagan. I had it pegged now.

Where did Paul and his cabal fit in? What was in that mine adit? They came expecting to find a body. They were surprised it was Paul, not me. Now, they were hunting.

***

A week—two weeks?—ago I was in Vegas enjoying a complimentary breakfast buffet at a very posh, air conditioned casino. Free drinks, too. As long as I kept gambling.

Heaps of scrambled eggs, fat bratwurst and rich black coffee. Danish rolls, fried potatoes and strawberries with cream. All I could eat. I should have eaten more. I won, too. I was up nearly ten grand in the first few minutes. I lost it and more over the next four hours.

People around me laughed, but I could see they were miserable. Angst piled up around them in slag piles of refuse. Desire compelled them, drove them forward. Anything they won they lost, of course. Not like me. I was smarter than that. I was in command of my desires. I was very calm.

And other delusions. I laughed. Other delusions.

Sage and dirt and acrid, metallic smells. Sun is up. I jerked myself upright. Hiked north, I think. I couldn't believe my luck when I stumbled to my knees in front of a timbered mine portal. Shade. Cool. I very cautiously searched the entrance. This was a great place for a rattlesnake to hang out during the day. Nothing. I entered.

I knew I had a flashlight, but where was my pack? Gone. I felt my way. Just at the limit, when the dark shadows overwhelmed the faint light from the opening, I saw old dynamite. Very dangerous. Crystallized, volatile. Unpredictable. I moved back toward the opening, still in the shade. Enjoyed the relief of cool.

Ninth day out. I was hungry and dreadfully thirsty, but for a moment my head cleared. What was I going to do? I had to tell someone what I knew. They had to know about the aliens.

***

Nearly three hundred miles to the southeast, in Las Vegas, a team of law enforcement professionals met. Jake Sangorn was the regional lead for this mission.

"Make no mistake," said Jake. "We are hunting a very dangerous individual."

"Corbin Huber. Political anarchist and charismatic psychopath," said Tanya Timbol, criminal psychologist. "Hallucinations. Paranoia. Lives in a delusional fantasy. Loves a good conspiracy. He escaped from a high-security facility for the criminally insane ten days ago. Last seen here in Las Vegas."

"We have two leads," said Jake. "The first, a murder reported at the Sapphire Sky, a new casino just opened on the strip. Single thin stab directly into the heart. Victim was found stuffed in a laundry cart and left next to a breakfast buffet. No identification."

"Huber's signature," said Tanya.

"Huber has a well-funded cult following," said Jake. "Second lead. Six days ago a guy attempted to steal a helicopter from a private charter here in Furnace Creek." He flashed his laser pointer on a map projection. "Owner caught him, beat him up pretty bad."

"He was transported to Las Vegas," said Tanya. "When finally interviewed he mentioned that he knew Huber. We were called in."

"Our suspect gave up that he intended to extract Huber from the desert basin, somewhere around here." He pointed at the area just east of the Shadowtooth Mountains, below Serpent's Spine.

***

I heard helicopters everywhere now, all the time. When I saw one I would flatten myself and hide as best I could. Hard, everything is hard. Barren. Sparse. Hungry.

I struggled north, convinced the solution to my problem—what was my problem?—was at the adit that Paul became so excited over. Don't know why. Just something to think, maybe. Nothing else made sense.

I prayed for a cloud but the sky was brilliant, dazzling blue. The sun was evil, broke me down. It was killing me. Nine days? Ten? Thirst is agony.

The landscape gradually changed to shallow ravines broken by edgy ridges. I knew I was close to the adit. Helicopters, very close. I crawled, peeked over a sharp outcrop. Two 'copters there, on the ground just at the base of the range. A cluster of people awkwardly carried a body bag downslope. They found Paul.

They had food and water. I needed food and water. But did Reagan send them? Would they turn me over to the aliens? I was doomed if they did, I knew. I decided to retreat and hide until they all cleared out.

"Hello," said a voice from behind me. "Let's get you out of the sun, okay?"

***

"Lucky guy," said Jake. "Not many people survive ten days out in the desert."

"Or an encounter with Corbin Huber," said Tanya. "The body has been positively identified."

They had only a few moments with the ragged survivor, who was clearly close to death. He was too far gone to tell them much.

"What was that stuff about aliens?" said Jake.

"Hm," said Tanya. "Shock. Heat stroke."

One helicopter lifted off with Huber's body. The second with the fortunate survivor. A third circled, waiting to land.

"We found weapons in the adit," said Jake. "Know what's weird? They were planning to assassinate Reagan."

"Ouch," said Tanya. "Well, bad timing, right?"

***

It was cool. No more thirst. I craved a massive juicy steak with mashed potatoes and gravy. But whatever it was they fed me instead was fine for the moment. I gobbled it up. Hospital food. I was that hungry.

Lights are too bright. Too many interruptions. I wanted to sleep. I was clean. Didn't know how wonderful being clean could be. So far, no aliens. Pretty sure, anyway.

I listened carefully to scraps of conversation from the hallway. A very serious man, obviously important, stood talking to someone—I couldn't see who—while keeping one eye on me through the door.

"…lucky he's alive…" said the person I could not see.

"…no identification on him…" said the important man.

"…fluids…delirium…" murmured the first person.

"We tracked Huber's group back to a shell company posing as a mining firm from Canada," said Jake. "They tagged this guy in the casino. He knows the area, apparently. Sent him with Huber to be sure he got across the mountain okay."

"So, they planned to kill him?"

"Yep," said Jake. "At the landing site."

More muttering, murmurs.

I noticed movement to my right. A woman, well-dressed and middle-age, if I had to guess.

"My name is Tanya," she said. "Can you tell me your name?"

I shook my head no. I could, but I wasn't saying anything until I was sure they weren't aliens.

"When you're ready," she said.

***

"Look at this," said Jake. "National Crime Info posting."

"Hm. Another dead body at the Sapphire?" said Tanya. "According to the coroner, the same time frame as Huber's victim. Interesting."

"Stuffed in an air conditioning conduit," said Jake. "They followed the smell. Otherwise…"

"Hm. A local geologist, by the looks of it," said Tanya.

"Uh. Wait. Look at this," said Jake.

"Two?" said Tanya. "Why weren't we informed?" She scanned the official report. Two inmates escaped from the facility for the criminally insane. Not one. Two.

Jake was on the phone, yelling at someone. He was angry. He hung up.

"Number two was in the prison hospital," he said. "Restrained. Psychotic episode. One set of guards figured he was still in the hospital. Hospital staff figured he was back in the general population. Lost track of him."

"Did they plan the breakout together?"

"Different wings, never had contact inside," said Jake. "Twenty-four hour solitary, you know."

"Lancelot Tickles," said Tanya, reading from the report. "My God. This guy is a million times more murderous than Corbin Huber. Serial assassin. Schizophrenic. Total psychotic. He's like a wraith. A ghost."

Jake called the hospital. He slowly hung up the phone, pale and shaken.

"Don't tell me…"

"Middle of the night," said Jake. "Disappeared."

"That means…"

"He's out there," said Jake.