Mists of Dawn (33 page)

Mark
slept
the
dreamless
sleep
of
complete
exhaus
tion
and
when
he
awoke
he
could
not
believe
that
he
was
alive.
He
must
have
died
during
that
night o
f
horror,
died
and
gone
to
heaven.
He
did
not open
his
eyes
for
a
moment,
but
simply
lay
there
and enjoyed
the
almost
forgotten
luxury
of
comfort.
He was
warm,
gloriously
warm,
and
the
searing
agony
of his
pains
had
subsided
to
a
dull
ache.
Even
the
ache seemed
pleasant
to
him—such
was
the
relativity
of pleasure.

Mark
opened
his
eyes
at
last,
then
blinked
them shut
again.
He
tried
once
more,
this
time
opening
them to
mere
slits.
He
saw
the
sun,
the
wonderful
sun.
And a
brilliant
blue
sky,
flecked
with
scudding
white clouds.
Almost
it
seemed
that
he
was
back
home
again in
the
hills
of
New
Mexico;
the
sky
was
the
same.

The
warmth
from
the
sun’s
rays
bathed
his
body, and
he
soaked
them
up
gratefully.
The
gentle
heat coursed
through
him,
wakening
once
more
the
slumbering
fires
of
life.
Mark
smiled
contentedly.
The
sun’s heat
was
the
most
enchanting
thing
he
had
ever known.

Mark
became
aware
of
the
fact
that
he
was
lying on
his
back,
and
he
rolled
over
on
his
side.
The
rocks that
had
sheltered
him
were
warm
and
friendly
now, no
longer
the
dark
behemoths
of
terror
that
they
had seemed
the
night
before.
The
scrub
pines
stretched away
down
the
foothills
below
him,
and
beyond
them was
the
grassy
plains.
The
scent
of
pines
was
strong in
the
air,
and
sweet.
Mark
saw
that
the
sun
was directly
above
him.
It
must
be
noon.

Cautiously,
he
tested
his
dry
throat.
It
was
still
raw and
sore,
but
it
seemed
little
worse
than
it
had
been before.
Mark
knew
that
the
sun
had
saved
him
for sure,
the
sun
and
the
rocks.
The
great
boulders
had shielded
him
from
the
cutting
wind,
and
the
sun
must have
come
up
shortly
after
he
had
collapsed,
warming
him
and
drying
out
his
wet
clothes.
Mark
felt
like a
new
man,
through
with
the
terrors
of
the
night
and ready
to
face
life
again
with
a
fresh
spirit.

Mark
got
to
his
feet,
and
his
new
strength
promptly deserted
him.
He
swayed
dizzily
and
almost
fell,
but caught
himself
on
one
of
the
boulders.
He
stood
with his
eyes
closed
for
a
moment,
waiting
for
the
spinning
in
his
mind
to
stop,
and
then
struggled
erect again.
This
time
he
made
it,
but
he
was
fearfully
weak.

He
panted
from
the
slight
exertion
and
tasted
the dryness
of
his
throat.
His
mouth
felt
as
if
it
was
full of
cotton,
cotton
that
had
the
fiat,
metallic
taste
of copper
pennies.
His
thirst
came
back
with
a
vengeance, and
with
it
came
a
gnawing
hunger.

He
had
to
have
food—and
he
had
to
have
it
in
a hurry.
Mark
moved
carefully
from
his
retreat,
every sense
alert.
He
saw
nothing
that
looked
dangerous. There
was
only
the
blue
sky,
and
the
sun,
and
some faraway
tiny
shadows
on
the
plains
that
must
have been
birds.
He
crawled
up
over
the
ledge,
and
walked slowly
to
where
he
saw
a
patch
of
snow
under
a
large rock.
He
fell
to
his
knees
and
scooped
out
a
handful, which
he
forced
himself
to
eat
slowly.
The
snow melted
deliciously
in
his
mouth
and
trickled
down
his dry
throat.
Mark
ate
another
handful,
and
another, and
then
he
felt
a
little
better—well
enough,
at
any rate,
to
make
it
to
another
stream.
Water
was
everywhere
in
the
mountains,
and
he
expected
to
have
no trouble
finding
it.

Mark
waved
a
weak
farewell
to
the
little
shelter that
had
saved
his
life,
and
made
his
way
back
through the
foothills
to
the
edge
of
the
marshy
plain.
He
moved slowly,
conserving
his
strength.
He
thought
for
only a
moment
before
he
set
out
once
more
into
the
east, determined
to
put
distance
between
himself
and
the half-men.
Of
course,
there
might
be
others
ahead
of him—he
had
no
way
of
knowing.
But
that
was
a
chance he
had
to
take.