Chapter 4: The Fatal Split

On the morning of July 24, camp was tense.

Nobody spoke much over breakfast. Even the cook, usually chatty, kept his head down as he flipped pancakes on the camp stove.

For some reason, the fuel truck was especially slow this time.

The group took turns scanning the horizon. Every glint made hearts jump. A couple of the drivers chewed their nails, worry gnawing at them.

When it finally arrived, the driver turned out to be a teenager—not even twenty. It turned out he was filling in for his father, who couldn’t leave because of a family bereavement.

The kid looked nervous, clutching the steering wheel like a lifeline. His baseball cap was sweat-stained, eyes red from lack of sleep.

Now, there wasn’t a single “old hand” left in the team.

For the first time, the group realized just how alone they were.

The Land Cruiser’s owner, who’d been introduced to Guide Jackson by the old driver, was friends with him. Hearing about the kid’s grandfather, he pulled the young driver aside to comfort him.

He offered the teen a bottle of cold water, sharing a few kind words about loss and family. It was a rare moment of tenderness in an otherwise grim day.

Maybe because things were so chaotic, after refueling, they realized the mistake this time was even worse.

The sun beat down as tempers flared, the mistakes piling up until the air felt electric.

It wasn’t just a regular/premium mix-up anymore. Someone had actually put diesel into a gasoline truck.

The mechanic’s face went pale as he realized what had happened. A few bystanders groaned, the gravity of the situation hitting home.

And the white Dodge Ram, which had already gotten the wrong fuel, suffered even more.

The owner exploded with rage. His wife flinched at his outburst, shoulders hunched as she packed their things in silence.

He hurled his coffee thermos into the sand, cursing loud enough for the coyotes to hear.

The mechanic broke out in a cold sweat and rushed to “fix the mistake.” He hurriedly disassembled the gas tank to drain the diesel. But whether from nerves or just bad luck, his hands shook and he snapped the angry owner's fuel line.

The hiss of leaking fuel was the final straw. The mechanic backed away, muttering apologies, his hands trembling.

That owner, born in 1956, driving a $150,000 luxury truck, with a young wife born in 1987, had planned to show off their love in the wilderness—only to end up with this crew of amateurs. He lost all pride.

He kicked the tire, muttering about "never trusting Craigslist again," and glared daggers at the guides.

He immediately decided to quit, demanding that Guide Jackson escort them back to Silver Hollow.

He packed up his gear, slamming the truck doors, his wife quietly gathering her things with tears in her eyes.

Another Dodge owner, afraid of getting stranded, started wavering—should he keep going?

He paced around his truck, weighing his options. The group watched, tension thick enough to cut with a knife.

The Land Cruiser’s owner was also shaken. Having suffered the most, he now regretted joining at all.

He pulled out his phone, scrolling through old text messages, no longer interested in adventure.

The rest of the group could only wait and see.

People muttered among themselves, casting suspicious glances at the guides and the mechanic.

In the end, the convoy decided—to split up.

The group stood in a loose circle, nobody meeting anyone else’s eyes. When the guides finally announced the split, the only answer was the wind scraping grit across the hoods of their trucks.

With a resigned shrug, the guides made a plan: the disgruntled would head back, the rest would push on. Nobody realized what a fatal mistake this would be.

No one realized that this simple decision to split the group would completely change the fate of four people.

Sometimes, disaster is just a series of small choices made in the wrong order. In the burning silence of the Salt Flats, nobody saw it coming. Somewhere out on the flats, the sun kept rising, and the clock kept ticking down.