Pedestals of Ash Read Free Page A

through Meraton whispered wild stories of horrific scenes and terrible circumstances in that west Texas city. Bishop figured there was some exaggeration involved, but his narrow escape from Houston tended to lend some credence to even the most farfetched claims. He judged their tall tales had some foundation in truth. 
    On the third set of 100 steps, he had to fight down a strong urge to take off his pack and leave it behind. I can move on ahead, find water, and then come back and get it, he kept telling himself . It took all of the discipline he could muster to overcome the impulse.
    On the fourth iteration, he noticed that the landscape was changing around him. His route was now gradually sloping downhill, and an island of vegetation lay ahead. The small clump of cacti was mostly dead, but it was the first life he’d seen in hours, and it immediately improved his morale.
    He hiked a little further, noticing more and more signs of life around him. Even walking was becoming easier, as the ground beneath his boots changed to a flat, packed surface. Random spots of green and dark brown vegetation littered the desert floor, and the rock facade of the surrounding hills seemed to transform into a friendlier color of red. A turkey vulture circled in the sky ahead of him, no doubt having spotted a meal. A dead animal meant something had once been alive, and that meant water somewhere nearby. Bishop was envious of the scavenger’s apparently effortless soaring on the thermal waves rising from the desert floor. He tried to imagine what the cool air would feel like rushing by his own head.
    Rounding a bend, he saw the first signs of civilization in hours. A fence line suddenly appeared, stretching into the distance. Alongside the barbwire, a   pair of worn paths showed clearly in the desert soil. Bishop had a vision of a bored cowpoke driving the fence line in his pickup while looking for downed wire or busted posts. He had performed the same job dozens of times in his youth. Where there was a fence, there were cattle. Where there were cattle, there was water. The fence ran in the general direction Bishop wanted to travel, so he decided to follow it. Experience taught him that the ranch hands would have taken advantage of the flattest terrain when laying the wire and that sounded like good news for his aching knees and tired back.
    Bishop managed another mile or so before he came to a dry creek bed lined with smooth, bleached, white limestone. The sun was almost at its zenith, and the day was going to be a scorcher for this time of year. There were occasional clumps of scrub oak along the banks, some of which were actually large enough to provide shade. He considered walking up or down the stream to see if there were any low spots that still held water. He concluded that finding a   standing pool   was unlikely, and he would be gambling precious energy on a wild goose chase. His head was now pounding – yet another sign of dehydration. He wasn’t going to be able to function much longer without something to drink.
    He moved away from the fence line and followed the creek until he found a large oak, its branches extending over the bank, creating shade over a low spot of sand. Bishop scanned the area and couldn’t see a better place to make camp. The relief he felt after taking off his pack, chest rig, and body armor gave him energy. He swung his rifle around to his back, and tightened the sling to secure the weapon. It would   take him a second or two to get back in position should the need arise. But he had work to do, and the lack of water was the imminent threat. Bishop dug around in his pack and extracted his entrenching tool and his supply of plastic bags. It was time to start digging for water.
    He began burrowing in the dry sand beneath the shady spot. With any luck, he would find enough water below the surface to get a drink. The first 16 inches of sand was so dry it wouldn’t even stick to his hands. At two feet below