Thomas was careful not to leave July’s skin exposed to the sun as he lay slowly dying on the desert sand. He wrapped his companion in a hood and fetched his goggles from the wreckage of the car, then pulled July’s collar up to his chin.
Tom paced around the crash-site mumbling, “It’s okay… You’re okay…” as he gathered anything that would be useful for the journey through the desert. He had tended to July’s leg, binding it as best he could with the tattered pieces of cloth available. He filled a heavy-duty backpack with food, water and medicine—everything he could salvage from the crash. The 45-70 was thankfully undamaged and he slung it over his shoulder. July had spaced out a little, his eyes wandered. Tom tied him to a sheet of metal and began to drag him along with a rope. It was going to be a long walk. July weakly applauded his friend’s ingenuity.
Time became an uncomfortable blur for most of the rest of that day. The pain in July’s leg gradually worsened as it throbbed and ached. He opened his eyes after what he thought had been an hour. The sound of metal sliding over sand had stopped. The air had cooled. Thomas rested beneath a lonely tree. July’s cracked lips began to bleed and his tongue had swollen.
“Water…” he moaned.
Tom placed a bottle in his July’s hand and July realised that his friend was flushed and breathing heavily, and it occurred to July that more than an hour had passed. He gulped the water down, feeling a little guilty. How long had Tom been dragging him through the desert?
He untied the rope around his chest and tried to sit up.
“Where are we?”
“Close to Bastille Point, I think. Maybe, two… three hours away.” Tom glanced at Biscuit, who stared at the northern horizon. “It’s the safest place I could think of, but if the Templar’s find out.” He shook his head.
“You kept it, right?”
Tom laughed. “Yeah. I shouldn’t have but I figured if you lived and I left it behind you’d get pretty salty about it.”
“Well, at least I won’t die in vain.” July ripped a bloody strip from his pantleg. Biscuit trotted over and July tied the strip around the dog’s neck. “I won’t have you dragging me to Bastille Point,” he said to Thomas. “Suppose Phoebe’s still in town?”
“What, the Sun Children? You sure?”
July shrugged. “She helped us before…” He scratched Biscuit behind the ear. “Remember Phoebe? I need you to go fetch her. Can you do that?”
Biscuit barked happily.
“That-a-boy.”
In the quiet hours that followed Tom did his best to keep July talking. Frighteningly pale and constantly shivering, blood soaked through the binding on July’s leg and it began to reek of puss. Tom made July drink the last of their water rather than using it to wash the wound. Anxiety balled in his chest.
“We have to get you to a doctor.”
At last a small truck appeared over the horizon, and while doubt lingered that it could be the Templars, Tom had no choice but to believe that it was Phoebe. The truck rolled to a stop nearby and a woman stepped out, followed by Biscuit. The woman, unlike July and Thomas, seemed to have a natural presence in this desolate place; her tanned skin was calloused and spotted with freckles and her dark sandy hair was braided on one side, almost in a tribal fashion. She gasped at the sight of July and ran to him.
“What happened?”
July smiled slowly and closed his eyes.
“Phoebe…”
July became dizzy again and recalled being lifted into the truck, Biscuit nudging his face, and the whir of the engine.
Phoebe was speaking. “We will take you to the Caravan, but my leader doesn’t like outsiders. Thomas, be careful what you say when we arrive. July, are you still with us?”
He groaned.
“I don’t want to sugar-coat it, that wound is likely to get infected if it isn’t already. We’ll do what we can but…”
“I trust you…” July mumbled.
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