the water bladder. A day later, the food ran out.
The dunes to the east still seemed endless.
The beast was still there, in the distance. Its three pulsing eyes watched me, blinking.
As the sun set, I once again began to walk. The beast was still there, and so were the winds and the sand. Still, I walked eastward. Without water, I had no more than four days left to me. I could not waste it sitting idle. If I was to live, to defy the sands and the wind and the beast in the distance, I would have to walk.
I walked. I was careful to avoid climbing atop steep dunes, and when the wind picked up, I took shelter. These things would sap my strength, a resource which was now waning, and very limited. I slept as much as possible, and kept my shirt over my mouth to conserve moisture. Still, it was a battle I would not win.
Two days after my water was finally consumed, I felt not a bit closer to finding life in this sandy wasteland. I crested a dune, tapping my slight reserves of strength. I needed to see into the distance, even if the struggle upward would tire me all the more.
From the top of the dune, I looked about me. I saw that the beast was still off in the distance, watching me with its three blinking eyes. It seemed further away, as if it were backing off. To the south, there was not but dunes. To the east, I could see little, save the clouds of dust whipped up by the wind. Yet there was something there. I breathed in. I tasted salt on the wind. Salt.
I tore the shirt-mask away from my face and breathed deeply. Yes, salt. The breeze, flapping my shirt about as it hung loosely from my head, was ever so slightly cooler than the harsh heat that had become my constant shadow on this journey. Salt. That meant water!
I hurried forward as fast as my exhausted, parched body would allow. I paid no heed to my scorched skin, or to the cracked, bleeding lips as I tried to lick them with a dry tongue. They did not even bleed anymore. I did not care. I hurried onward, pushing toward the ever-increasing smell of salt upon the wind.
I must have pushed on like that, half-dead and entirely desperate, for hours. The moon swept overhead, and it seemed as though it were moving faster than normal. It was my perception, nothing more. By the time the sun arose to greet me, I cared not that it nearly blinded me with its rising glare. I pushed onward, up and over the dunes, until finally the smell of salt was overwhelming, and the winds and sands could not hide the scent or sight of what I sought.
I came up over a set of dunes, and there, not one hundred paces away, was the source of the smell. The moist wind washed over me, though I could barely feel it through my wrecked skin. It was like some grand illusion, yet I knew it was real. There it was, disproving the old belief in the endless desert. There it was, welcoming me into its depths. There it was, and it would not save me. It had drawn me here, tempted me with salvation, and yet it offered none. I could not drink salt water. It was sure death.
The sea before me was calm, with clean, foaming waves lapping up on the sandy shore. It welcomed me, called me to its embrace. Water, yet I could not drink it.
I did not even have tears left to cry.
I staggered over the dunes, and onto the beach. More sand. I stumbled across the beach, my vision failing me as the lack of water finally brought me to my knees.
The shore stretched north and south before me. I was in a bay of sorts. Through my ever-increasing death fog, I could see the beach to the north curve eastward. There were a few trees scattered about, bizarre things with long trunks, and wide leaves at their tops. They all leaned this way and that. The seawater washed up onto the shore before me, as if to remind me that I could not drink it. I felt the wetness in the sand. It felt good to the skin, though the salt burned my scorched skin. I did not care. At least I could still feel something.
I lay down where I was. There was nowhere else to go, nothing else to do. I pulled the pack from my back, and pushed it aside. I let my back sink into the wet sand. I looked up into the clear blue sky. It was beautiful. The sand storms did not harass my sight. Instead, only a few wispy clouds moved overhead. In other circumstances, I would have enjoyed the sight, and lay here to take it in. Now though, I was watching my very last sights.
I was going to die right here in the sand.
I looked to my left and right. My sight was failing me faster and faster, likely a combination of the grinding sand upon my eyes, and the dehydration. To my right, there was nothing but beautiful beach and untouchable water. To my left, the same, except...
Wait. There was something. I could see it, standing beside one of those odd, leaning trees. It was white, round, and supported by stilts. I sat up and shielded my eyes from the sun, all to get a better look. It was shaped much like the wooden vats brewers used for their spirits and wines. I felt my failing heart pump full of life once more.
I tried to stand, but could not. I crawled. I dragged myself. I bared my teeth, and through a parched throat, growled out my defiance.
"Move, Jovan." I snarled at myself. "Move... your... body!"
I dragged myself across the beach, with the pitiless sea to my right, and the sun rising overhead. I felt myself losing strength, but the fire inside me burned fiercely. I would not die here. Not yet.
I hauled myself across those many paces, my legs barely working, my arms taking up much of the effort. I was a pathetic sight, surely. My leather jacket was worn down, my shirt upon my head, and my skin looking worse than any of that. I knew my eyes would surely look wild. The skin on my hands, stretched out before me as I crawled along, was deep red and brown from the sun. I felt my boots fill with sand, and one of them slid off my useless foot.
I dragged myself closer to the white vat. As I grew closer, my failing eyes focused on the curious object. It looked metal. It was much like a vat indeed, though laid on its side and supported by stilts. It was a brilliant white. I could see the spigot in the middle. Was it wine? Spirits? Water? I did not care.
After what was surely an eternity, I finally dragged myself underneath the shade of the tree and the white vat. I lay beneath it. There was writing upon in, written in black paint. I could not read it, though I was not sure if that was because the language was unknown to me, or because I was simply too ill and far gone to read anything at all.
The spigot was above me. I reached upward. It took every last bit of my strength. I cried aloud, as though I were trying to move a massive stone, or haul down some great wall on my own. I cried out, my hand reaching high. I felt my fingers touch the tap. It was metal, and some odd, smooth material I could not discern. I did not care. I turned the tap.
The water poured out of the tap, washing over my face. It was cool, and wet. I tasted it. Fresh water! I lapped it up, as it poured out of the tap in a slight, endless stream. I felt the sand wash away from my face. I tore the shirt from my head, and felt the water soak my brow and hair. The cold water felt soothing on my leathery, torched skin. I drank some more.
After an eternity of drinking, I rolled aside. The stream continued, a pool forming in the soaked sand beside my head. I laughed. So much water. If this vat was full, I could live for months on it. I reached up, and with my strength slowly returning to me, I was able to turn off the flow. I collapsed into the sand once more.
I laughed. I was going to be alright.
Water.
CHAPTER
