It was nightfall once again and she stirred on the rocky ground with a groan. It had been several hours (or was it several days? She couldn't tell ... ) since she had last had the refreshing sensation of water relieving the relentless, cruel claws of thirst, her parched tongue heavy and swollen. If she did not get up now and find water she would surely die.
Her tattered shoes shuffled through the desert sands; she did not have enough strength to lift them into steps, the finer particles of silt billowing up into the desert breeze. She shivered, the night air nipping at her cheeks and ears which were red not only from the burns that marred her skin, but the chill, the cold, air bringing rogue to her features, a blue tinge to her lips.
The cacti sprung up sporadically near her shelter, her only source of water for miles. She dug a rusted switchblade from the remains of her board shorts, expertly slicing the thorny hide free of the needles, then cleaving off the top. With shaking hands she thrust her fingers into its flesh and brought pieces to her mouth, the juices dribbling down her chin as she ate. It was the first bite of food she had all day, the first drink of water she had in several.
In the distance a single coyote howled, a scout. She froze, listening intently for the others. Fifteen or more joined the scout in an eerie chorus, their haunting song echoing across the dunes. They weren't far off.
Eyes wide with fear she spread the remains of the cactus where she stood and sprinted into the cave, hoping they wouldn't catch her scent. Crying soundlessly into the night, she listened with fear, waiting for a sound, a sign in the uneasy, foreign silence that followed.
