the mev is horrendously battered. it's a wonder they're alive. chantilas is propped against a rock, moving a device the size of a hardback book across his abdomen. it's a kind of combination x-ray. sonogram. doesn't like what he sees. puts it aside for the moment without discussing it with the others. gallagher emerges from the mev dragging some tools and other salvaged gear.
chantilas has toppled over. unmoving. we go wide, wide, wide and.
the crew is coming down a rise toward the hab. carrying the radio. walking back quickly. sun is flat over the horizon. shadows are long, already getting cold. you can see their breath.
moving across the landscape. miles and miles from where they started, we find the three men as they move rapidly across a dry wash, across the bank and up and over a hill. and stop dead at the top. over the next ridge, the landscape is covered with algae. colors like brush strokes on the terrain. oxblood brown, burnt orange, cadmium yellow.
they're all exhausted and a little punchy.
conversation's over. gallagher walks towards the rock -
burchenal and gallagher trudge onward. burchenal checks his watch. it's time. gallagher hands him the radio. walks ahead. doesn't want to hear.
the sun is way past its zenith. it hangs noticeably lower in the sky. maybe four or five o'clock. burchenal and gallagher plod along. they're beat. there's no singing, there's no banter. they're just trying to keep moving.
it's worse. they're stumbling. not keeping in all that straight a line. having to constantly re-check their position. radio crackles.