Horse With No Name
They had been out there for an hour when Essa noticed the airplane hanger.
Lita would have felt dumber, had she not been concentrating on the slow dehydration of her entire body for the past two hours, along with the feeling of Horse's tail smacking her across the rump. But the smooth gray exterior, looking like a wale's belly rising up out of the deep, marked itself as obvious as a mirage.
It took Stevie bashing his head against the doorframe for Lita to conclude that they had, indeed, found shelter.
The structure's insides felt about as warm as a wale's; still, it was infinitely cooler than the sun that had been baking their skin. The three shoved gratefully into the huge structure, sliding unlocked doors shut behind them.
"Tie the horse down, Stevie," She ordered, and, like a good boy, he obeyed...to what extent she couldn't tell, because the insulated darkness. She slipped a hand into her back pocket, finally finding a flat book of matches. Lighting one sent up a soft, illuminating glow.
Essa sat on a bedroll; there was also a small Dutch oven. Walking deeper into the hanger, an alarming number of canned goods were piled up. She found a battery-operated lantern, a cache of batteries, a lighter and can opener.
"Well, this is good news," She said to Stevie, "Someone's left their gear here."
"How's that good news?"
"Stevie, think about it; someone's missing a lot of equipment. That means that they're bound to come back for it..."
"What if it's Saddam!?!" Stevie wailed; Essa, recognizing the name, seemed about as alarmed.
Lita groaned, "We're in Saudi Arabia, Stevie. We're well-protected." She plunked down on a bedroll next to Essa and translated a similar statement in Spanish. Stevie stood around, petting Horse before bolting out of the other side of the hanger.
He let out a war whoop that disturbed the relative peace, which had settled over the atmosphere.
Lita came tearing out of the hanger behind him, nearly on his heels. Even she had to blink at what stretched out before her eyes.
It was the center of the oasis.
"Now Horse won't starve!" Stevie bubbled, pointing out the carpet of lush grass and leaves that sprung up around the pool.
"More importantly, we have fresh water," Lita pointed out.
"We're not the most important thing here, Lita," Stevie primly pointed out, running back into the hanger. He nearly mowed her over bringing Horse out to take in a meal.
She watched Horse feed in silence, trying to calculate how far past their starting point they had traveled. She estimated about four hour's worth of travel, down the flowing river that had been used as a trail marker.
They would be found. She would have to exercise patience.
***
When night fell, Lita came to conclude that she was not a patient woman. She lay in her bedroll, watching Stevie as he lay curled up in the sand. Her belly was filled with franks n' beans (with an American label; they had somehow stumbled into some kind of unguarded American storehouse. She wondered briefly what it would be like to be hanged for treason...guilty of eating Surplus beans n' franks..). Her mind, however, filled itself with suspicion and worry.
She slipped out of the hanger without being noticed.
She noted that the desert was alarmingly cold; something she tried to notice as she walked further and further into the distance.
Maybe the company had bedded down somewhere; maybe they were still searching for their famous simultaneous interrupter.
Maybe she would die out here.
She turned back, began heading for home...if she could call the hanger a home. The night's chill deepened and worsened; the whole of her skin danced beneath the wind's whip.
Then a decisively sharp pain reported from her knee, sending her to the sand. She glanced down, watching her blood ooze darkly from the wound. Light seemed to dim as sound thinned and became tinny.
She collapsed, inches from the hangar. Her fingers tapped the cold metal siding, more code to the sleeping men inside.
She peered, weakly, through glassy eyes, at whomever, whatever had shot her. All she could make out in the half-light of dawn was the pathetically thin muzzle of a chestnut mare, her nostrils flaring smoke in the morning cool.
Her last conscious thought focused on the sensation of her thong, riding in an uncomfortable way up one of her most sensitive areas. She only hoped they wouldn't bury her in it.
Then the comfort of nothingness cradled her into the nether-sleep of the unconscious.