Sahara

The scorching heat plays nasty tricks on you. And the longer you remain exposed, the nastier the tricks become. Hallucinations and fantasies of things that are not really there take hold of you, and at that point, it becomes a battle to retain your sanity. Its a test of will - can he keep trudging along on the shifting dunes with no sense of direction? Or will he collapse into a sobbing heap and let the wiggly waves of heat sap the last vestiges of life from him?

He is a fighter. Or at least he thinks he is. Sometimes he doubts himself, but he'd like to think that if the occasion called for it, he would pull through. It was just a question of putting him in a challenging enough situation to call upon the will that will theoretically sustain him. And that situation was now. Alone with not a friendly soul in sight, surrounded by shifting dunes and the occasional prickly cacti. He wasn't giving up just yet.

He had just reached the top of a dune when he heard a distant sound. There was a cloud of dust being raised in the horizon. He brightened up a little. Salvation!

Moving as quickly as he could, he headed towards the direction of the cloud. He lost sight of it as he tumbled down the dune, but the persistent creaking got louder and louder, telling him that he was indeed drawing closer. Soon it was within shouting distance, and he started screaming at the object. It came a little bit closer, and he could make out the shape. A horse-pulled caravan came to view, and he moved to intercept.

Strangely enough, there wasn't a driver in sight. It was a phantom horse caravan, just like the carts in Sherlock Holmes and the Red Death. His gut instinct told him to be wary, but the thirst was overwhelming. He had to try.

When it was close enough, he threw himself at the caravan, almost missing it. Somehow, his outstretched fingers managed to grab hold of the steps leading into the inside, and he clung on for dear life. His flesh grating against the unyielding desert sands burned like sulfur on an open wound, but he kept his vice-like grip. He wasn't giving up. He wasn't going to let fate have the last laugh.

The door to the caravan opened. He looked upwards and saw the silhouette of a woman dressed in a long dress. She was tall, and looked stunningly beautiful. Even while fighting to block out the pain, he wondered if she looked beautiful because he hadn't seen a woman in a very long time, or if she was genuinely attractive.

He reached out, his eyes pleading. He pursed his parched lips, mouthing a silent "Save me." because his voice had been long lost to the desert. She looked down on him with her soft eyes. He tried again. "Please let me in." She was indecisive, not really knowing what to do. Looking back into the caravan, she talked to someone on the inside. Then she turned back to him and looked at him again, a pained expression of sorrow in her face. She bent down close to him, and said in a quavering voice "I'm sorry, but I can't".

She closed the door behind her as she went back inside.