Before you die of thirst, you go mad. Riley kept remembering that.
It's hot in the desert, especially when you're only wearing a holster. It's going to be a wild ride everyone: strap on your seat-belts, keep your arms and legs inside the vehicle at...
Before you die of thirst, you go mad. Riley kept remembering that.
For the last several hours, she had seen nothing but open sky, dead plants, and rolling hills of desolate sand. The desert sun burned like a branding iron against her bare shoulders. The air was stale, and when the occasional breeze did blow by, it was as dry and lifeless as the sand beneath her feet. As she stopped to catch her breath, Riley wiped the sweat from her brow and brought it to her mouth, licking up what little bit of moisture she could conserve. She'd give anything to have her undershirt back; there are few things more degrading than feeling a single bead of sweat trailing its way down your ass crack.
Removing her clothes seemed like a good move at the time, but her burning skin reminded her just how fucking stupid that was. Her discarded articles of clothing marked the path behind her like a trail of breadcrumbs, each piece far too distant to retrieve.
"Just a little further," Riley told herself, tightening her grip on her pistol. She hoped her internal monologue could keep her on track towards the nearest town. "I'm not going to die out here."
As the day grew a little older, her monologue became nothing but broken sentences. It was like the juices in her head were overheating, boiling away any good ideas before she could process them. At the moment, she was nothing but a lone wanderer, drunk off the overwhelming heat of the sun.
"I'm going to die out here." Riley's mind chanted. She'd tell herself to put a sock in it, but she discarded both of them about two miles ago.
As the hours blurred together, Riley did something she hadn't done since she was little: she dropped her gun, fell to her bare knees and clasped her hands together. In a weak, breathless whisper, she mumbled a prayer to God. When that failed, she prayed to Satan. Then Buddha. Hell, she even gave Oprah a shot. After a few minutes, she had whispered the name of every god she could remember into her clenched, trembling hands. No deity answered the call; every desperate prayer went straight to voicemail.
With a newfound sense of dread, Riley rose to her feet, brushed the stubborn flakes of sand off her knees, and continued her lonesome trek through the desert, her gun held firmly in hand.
Another hour dragged by, and the sun was now in the middle of the sky. Looking up for too long burned now. Riley stared at the ground in front of her to keep from going blind.
When the shadows drifted across the ground, Riley thought she'd finally lost it. When they passed by a second time, she made the mistake of glancing upwards. Vultures were circling high overhead, their bodies dark against the blinding sun.
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Without hesitation, she squinted upwards, aiming her weapon towards the birds. Three deafening cracks echoed through the desert. She returned her gaze to the ground, her sun-blinded vision shifting back to normal.
The shadows were still circling.
"Ah, shit." The Wanderer panted. She swallowed, forcing a small amount of spit down her dry throat. A deep panic began to set in. "I think I'm gonna fucking die out here."
As if on cue, Riley's tired feet drifted to a stop. Her legs buckled, and she slumped to her knees. This was it, she came to accept. Soon she'd collapse from exhaustion, and the vultures would munch away at her corpse like a fat-ass with a happy meal. With a groan, she let her upper-half topple over, face-planting against a bed of hot sand.
In her last moments before unconsciousness, Riley made sure she fell with her rear-end facing the sky. She wanted to die the way she lived: telling her killers to bite her ass.
Little did she know, a figure was approaching from the distance.
