OTHERBORN: THE CREVASSE

EPISODE ONE, PART THREE

The tiniest movement will pull the thing loose!

As the truck wavers there, threatening, and again undecided about pitching on down, I see other items that tumble out of the windscreen, smashing as they hit. They fall on the away side from me.

I can't get to them, but I see what appears to be a surveying gearbox and some loosely strewn items of gear, and possibly sleeping bag...stuff...a map that is blowing...yellow snap lid...Maybe it's useful?
I can't get down this side anyway, as I look, so I have to climb over, above the smashed truck.

That part I manage...but my arm is not good, and I keep shifting small rocks and sand.

"Plink! Pong!" Sounds echo—loud—crazy, pelt off the roof.

I shout!

No answer.

Yes—my bag. I climb over again to where I had been, wait for the truck to rock back nearly to level, and I whisk the bag out. It doesn't snag.

I shove that under one elbow. Zippers are metal and digging in me, where I tie the bag on to use as a sling—hang it against me...because...is my arm broken or cracked or just sore? And I yelp up to the top of the void.

I'm dizzying. Butt lowered...I slide.

Briefly, the fire becomes clearer to me...just for a moment...and then gone again. No visions.

"Help! Helloooo!" I just hear my echo. I shake my head. And I continue sliding, stumbling—agony now. Fall...then I pick myself up...Yep, I am now more hurt and bruised.

I start to talk to myself: no words or real thoughts. "Not useful!"...just grumbling and frequent, colorful swearwords.

I'm walking along the crevasse bottom trying to gauge whether or not the truck will fall further, just on its own. This seems important.

Then, I go back up the slope a few dozen feet. The stuff from the truck isn't too high. My thoughts are clearing. And with a shirt lasso and a rock in the sleeve to propel it, I catch an edge of the gearbox and drag it towards me to a safe point away—in case the truck and that guy crash down and land here.

The gear holder's awkward and heavy, and I leave the box there. Can I stash some items into my pockets?

I only seem to have one back pocket left. I note that there's a big window-sized rip across the cheek of my butt on the other side of my jeans. Scratches and blood. Oh, that's going to burn! And I discover...I can't sit on sharp rocks!

So—I keep moving.

Can't do that all the time. Must shove the sleeping bag from under my other arm under my butt every time that I sit.

I break my lace on one of my boots...

Jerry rig it together with another piece from the end of the other boot lace. And I do have a pocket knife.

I keep yelling, like I think I should do, "Anybody there?! Helloooo!" but each time there's nobody. So I end up with no answer. It's silent.

"I need a signal. With what?" I survey the rocks, squint down the length of the channel for something. "Sacrifice this shirt? Make something colored. No other choice."

I pile tumbleweed onto the only patch of sunlight I've seen to this point, leaving the older live plant. I lay my shirt over my brush pile and try to balance a smaller tumbleweed for a head to look more like a scarecrow. The head will not stay.

I drop a rock into its thicket and that holds it still. I nod at the creature.
I wander a while, up and down the crack in the Earth, not wanting to go far from the truck where we pitched. In case.

Eventually tapped, I locate a rest space between several choice rocks, slightly elevated on the side of the crevasse near the sun slit. There, I'm able to grab my shirt if I need it. I'll try to construct some bit of shelter in time.

"Perhaps we need some piece of gear...?" I yell "Helloooo..." without looking up. "I'll use the gearbox itself as a roof or something..." I holler upwards again. Still pointless.

At last, I pause...collapsing. I'm tired. For the first time, I worry for how long this takes—and Angie.

Darkness. Rustling?

"What?" From the tumbleweed beside me. I've fallen asleep. But I don't know fear. My adversary is weak. "Don't you go moving!" I warn.

And more rustling...

My head has been cleared too, more than it was.
Sound's down the canyon?

In the dark, I can't guess what the sounds are. And I draw myself up, huddled and hiding, hoping whatever it is can't see me, or won't want to find me. My eyes close again.

In the morning, I walk around stiff. I'm not in a mood to call out. My lame "help" sign has fallen in a breeze and isn't doing its job, and it's gone and lost its head, so I pick that up and throw it on him again. "You leave this alone."

Then I find rocks to pile up to add to my shelter.

I write "SOS" in the sand along the crevasse floor, where the previous afternoon I'd noticed the deepest sun shaft may be able to hit. A plane might see this!

I return to the precarious truck and try to tune out the dead guy. What was his name? Boylan? Brolin? Something. Now he's "Some Guy" who picked me up on my hunt. Sorry, Brolan.

I begin to fish more gear out of the truck with a long bent and hooked stick, ever so slowly, and suddenly...the rustling sound again!

"Who's that?!"

There's no more noise.

Back to my camp on the cliffside. I'm halfway amused by my tiny construction.

Soon, I lay out all the belongings I've found in a row. I survey them.

The rustling sound! This time I freeze and get more nervous.

I don't make a peep, slowly, rising...till...I almost suffer a heart attack and dive off the side of the cliff as a string of baby rodents runs over my toes.

I realize that the sound I keep hearing is probably something like this — baby partridge or snakes. And I react to the rats.

I go to grab them, but they scatter. "Damn!" I can see them scurry beyond where I reach. I throw rocks where they are, but I am missing each time.

Eventually, I find small packets of food under a flap in the gearbox.
"You guys are lucky!" I say to the rats. "I'm eating right now..."

The plastic's too tough to tear. I stab my knife in. The blade breaks at the joint of the handle. "Knew I shoulda fixed this! Dammit!"

I scratch the pocket with the edge of a rock to wear it through, then I use some trumped up kind of sheer force—nothing happens.
"Okay—get creative! Tear into it." I pull at the seams. My broken-ish arm doesn't help. "This is tough."

Nothing happens. "Okay!" I protest. "Again with the rock..."

I puncture a corner.

Contents won't come out. Hole is too small. I salivate. "Perhaps, it saves me from choking myself...This will be good." I try to slow down.

Each bag fights me.

The second one tears. It sprinkles all over rocks. I gather the pellets—some kind of protein nuggety lumps. Can't get those down my throat.

With the third bag, I squish the air to one end and hit that with a rock until...Poof! The bag pops.
I gather its contents again. I wolf down the works...and choke without water.

"I absolutely must collect more moisture to drink." I tear a piece off my pants flap that ripped and jam the denim into a plastic bag with a small, roundish rock at the bottom, and I tie this over the most alive plant with a knot round the stem.

I'll...use the rag to mop condensation up...in the morning. Just gotta wait.
Then—find a good tool—dig a hole, two feet, to cover and pull moisture from the ground with the plastic and pebble.

My bag has a hole!

~ ~ ~/

It's looking tough for Cornelius! 🥴🤪 Stay tuned for next week...