"Death Valley" One-Shot

The desert is an unforgiving place.  This one is called Death Valley for a reason. Every living thing there has to fight for survival. And we would have to fight, too, or else we were as good as dead.

The blurry view Marc awakens to is rosy-colored sand, the sea of shining dunes stretching far past the horizon where his eyes could see. Half-conscious, he acknowledges the sweltering heat, despising how it made him melt like snow with each passing second.

Marc tilts his head, much to the complaint of his sore neck, catching sight of his twitching fingers, chipped inked nails and all. Somehow, he wires his brain to move his aching muscles into a propped-up-on-his-elbows position, allowing him to scan his surroundings in all four directions clearly.

Groaning, he blinks away the endless dust that was clouding his vision, only for his eyes to water at the amount of effort it was taking. Marc wants to rub his itchy eyelids but restrains himself, wanting to conserve as much energy as possible lest he falls asleep. For miles beyond his line of sight was a barren desert, shimmering like crushed specks of gold.

In confusion, he purses his lips and closes his eyes as a pounding headache runs over him like a freight train. Wondering where in the world he was, he tries to connect his hazy memories to the situation before him. A collision of flashbacks shocks the nerves of his mind. He remembers the eardrum-shattering sound of a plane engine exploding in blinding white sparks. Eyes of beautiful cerulean.The mixed shouts of panic. Strands of hair, a crimson color. Him screaming in fear at the terrifying sight of scarlet fire consuming his vision.

Not a moment later, the raven-haired boy's eyes shoot open, clutching a handful of his tattered shirt where his hammering heart was. He suddenly coughs out a mouthful of burning hot sand, the uncomfortable feeling of powder lingering much to his distaste. Attempting to grasp control of his numb tongue, he licks his chapped lips and starts to hold back the moist tears threatening to spill.

Much to his lament, Marc remembers it all. He had entered an international competition, the Continental Creativity Competition (CCC), and his short story had somehow miraculously won first place. He and two others (the second and third place winners) were expected to journey by plane to Sacramento, the capital of California, to receive their trophies and rewards. As well as have a once-in-a-lifetime meet and greet with some of the greatest modern-day artists of the 21st century.

Only for a malfunction in the plane's engines to occur, causing the pilots, flight attendants, and the passengers including himself to crash-land in the middle of a random wasteland in California with no supplies, food, nor water. And Marc himself might be the only survivor.

He thinks of his friends and teachers back in Paris, anxiously awaiting his return. He thinks of the stunning city of lights he was proud to call his home. He conjures up thoughts of his family. Are they worried? Will he ever see their faces again?

At the quesy thought, he resists the urge to hyperventilate and harshly tug the ends of his tangled hair out of his skull, forcing his lungs to inhale as much oxygen as possible. It'll be fine, he keeps telling himself. Maybe there were others. Others who might have made it like him.

Wanting to take advantage of whatever positive, hopeful adrenaline Marc had left, he attempts to bend his wobbling legs to shift his body into a standing position, but a sudden electrifying shock of pain causes him to collapse onto his back once more. To his buzzing ears, his raw wail was unrecognizable, the hoarseness due to lack of usage evident in his vocal cords. The throbbing veins continuously burst like fireworks over and over, leaving the writer gasping in choked whimpers of agony. His left leg was tormented with so much discomfort that he was on the verge of blacking out.