Day 8

Part of the Gentlemen’s spice stories.

Should I feel bad?

It will be irrelevant in a few hours, the sand will engulf both our wretched bodies. Christ!

Thompson bought it last night, though the sun had claimed his mind a lot earlier. He had spent most of his final hours on his stomach, just laying there resting his cheek against the sand, a miserable specimen of a man. He didn’t move or make a sound, and the only sign that marked his passing was when his eyes no longer blinked.

This morning I mustered what little energy I had and dug a shallow grave for him. There will be no one around to give me such an honour in the undoubtedly short time I have left.

Our flight was originally meant to take four hours tops, and as such we did not have much in the way of supplies. What water we did have ran out some three days ago. We… well, I… managed to distill the engine’s antifreeze. But I drank the final sip of that this morning, shortly after burying Thompson, I might add. I’m past caring how dry my throat feels in this cursed heat. I would give anything for some shade right now.

Shortly after the crash, when we were both full of strength, we had propped what remained of the starboard wing against the wreckage of the fuselage. This provided a small but perfectly adequate amount of shade. The bitter Saharan winds got up early this morning, and thanks to them, the wing now lays some three foot away. If Thompson was still here, I might have some sort of chance of putting it back, even though he was in a state of madness. Alas, I barely have the energy to stand.

Damn you, Thompson!!! Damn you.

It had been your idea to take this blasted trip in the first place.

“There’s a marvelous oasis one simply must visit.”

You said.

“I know a very reasonable place we can get a plane.”

You said!

“Not that old Charlie fellow from the embassy.”

I said.

“Come on old boy, where is your spirit of adventure ?”

You said!

Oh, I tell you exactly where my spirit is at the moment. Not only was it your wretched idea and your wretched flying that got us here, but you had the god-damn indecency to die this morning!

So, no. I shall not feel bad, nor shall I feel guilty. I will drag myself over, so I can lean comfortably against the fuselage. I will remove my shirt and tie it around my head. The sun can burn my chest. I want some shade god damn it. I will then enjoy my final hours before the sun blinds me with the picture of Thompson’s wife in one hand and my whore-pipe in the other!

The Dead Adventurers Club

Day 8

Robert St-John Smith

Leeds, United Kingdom

  • Artist
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