Sweet Dreams (WJA Series Book 1)

Chapter 9

KIRK TORE STRIPS OF cloth from the legs of his jumpsuit and tied them around his feet, but the makeshift shoes didn’t do much to protect his feet from the scorching sand. The backs of his white hands began to blister. He’d had too many days living in the dark like a sewer rat. And, though he squinted, the bright sunlight stung his eyes. He could tell his forehead was burning.

On the bright side, he was finally free and, though his long hair was hotter than blazes, it protected his cheeks and his throat from the merciless sun. He trudged forward, telling himself being lost in an endless desert was a whole lot better than being trapped for months on end on a chunk of suspended metal. He shielded his eyes with his hands, trying to see how much farther it was to the city.

The buildings of the city looked to be about a mile off—unless he was seeing a mirage, so he kept walking, dragging each step through the hot, heavy sand. Soon he would be back to civilization and water. The thought gave him new strength. That was another positive. If he hadn’t used his imprisonment to get in shape, he wouldn’t have made it this far.

Finally, he stumbled into a small town. From the looks of the stucco-and-stone buildings and the dark-skinned people who stared at him from beneath white headdresses as well as black head coverings, he was in a Middle Eastern country.

Water. He had to find water. Several yards farther, he found himself in the center of the food market. The colorful fruit and vegetables displayed on the bright rugs looked incredibly juicy. His dry mouth watered.

He looked around. Everyone was staring at him. He raised his bent fingers above his mouth as if drinking, then held out his palm. Surely someone would feel sorry for him and offer a pale, burnt, ragged foreigner a drink. The vendors looked at each other. Finally, a grizzled man stepped toward him and reached into his robe.

Kirk stiffened and moved back as the townspeople circled him. The man was going to shoot him. He couldn’t run, he couldn’t hide. And maybe after all he’d been through, it didn’t matter. At least he’d die free.

His gaze never leaving Kirk’s, the man slowly pulled his arm from the folds of cloth.

Kirk couldn’t help but drop his gaze to watch the man’s arm motion.

Before he could blink, the man thrust a plastic water bottle at him, his dark eyes bright and wary.

Kirk nodded and took the bottle. He removed the cap, tilted his head back, and drank the entire liter. Hot water had nevertasted so good.

He twisted the cap back onto the bottle and handed it to the man. Who knows, maybe the town had a recycling program.

The crowd dispersed; evidently satisfied he was human, despite his appearance. He looked around. Phone...he needed to find a phone. He glanced up and down the dirt street that ran between the run-down buildings but saw nothing promising. No phone booths. No cell towers or satellite dishes.

He spotted an uncovered, curly-haired head above the noisy market crowd and realized he was looking at a tall white man with a camera strap around his neck.

Maybe the guy spoke English. Knowing he could be a reporter or one of the Creepers, he hesitated only a moment before hurrying toward him. At this point in the game, it didn’t matter.

Up close, the Caucasian’s hair looked like a wild bush. His beard was patchy and clumpy, growing in some spots and bare in others. Kirk touched his arm.

The man stared at him, one eyebrow raised as if he was trying to determine what he was seeing.

“Do you speak English?” Kirk croaked.