Storm Valley

Just a walk. A few steps here and a few steps there. Trying to get from point A to point B. There is always a destination for travelers; Pioneers, Son. We are pioneers and we are the unsettled. We are the children who cannot sit still, and are labeled a disease. Many fights are in your future son.

My father's last message echoes through my head. Like an internal alarm, I know it's time for me to wake up. The heat is very cozy, but wasting another second isn't. I prop myself up, and receive a handful of dust and sand. Dust and sand continues to fall from the surface of my sleeping bag, and I notice my gear and camp are always covered in dust when I wake up. I look down at my dust-covered sleeping bag and smile; as if it's my own Swiss armor. I whisper a silent "thank you" to my reliable gear. The more I shift and move the dust starts to rise and create a small shroud around me. If it wasn't dark enough already. I scoff and chuckle to myself, and pray for a flashlight in my pocket.

The light blinks to life, and shows me a spectacular shower of dust and sand. Sand and Dust. Now I remember. I squat down to where I think my bag is, frantically patting in the darkness of sand and dust. At the slightest touch of Velcro, my hands instantly begin to undo the straps and holsters to find the familiar, cold steel hidden away. Knowing I still have it is enough, for now.

Unfortunately, moving around so much has sent more debris into the air, and it is beginning to annoy my lungs. With such consequences for moving around at a minimal, I can only imagine I'm trapped in a tomb of some sort. I grab and thrust my pack into my lap, creating my own sandstorm and coughing out a spare lung at the same time. It must be in here. I wouldn't come out here without one, or intentionally forget to bring one and live to tell about it. Hmmm, that would be a good story to tell. Dammit, I can't find anything with my eyes closed here. I pick up the flashlight as gently as possible, and shine it directly into the bag. Finally, I have enough light to see the glass plate reflect an image of a handsome idiot.

I couldn't help but smile.

I should've invested more into this endeavor.

With a broken rebreather, a small chuckle sprinkles from my chest. Even with my slight laugh, the sound is being absorbed almost immediately. I try not moving for half a second, calm breathes enthrall me now. While the dust begins to settle, I quickly focus on my surroundings.

Sand and dust to start, pitch black darkness, sound doesn't travel far and... I lose a headbutt contest with a rock, trying to stand. Dammit. I grit my teeth and rub my sore head. More dust came from this, and now I couldn't tell if it was the dust or something else making my vision foggy. Last I checked, I never grew tired from sand before. Dammit. That last bump probably gave me a concussion, or I'm running out of oxygen. I sit down slowly, and make my assessment: I'm in a tomb. I can't filter the sand and dust, so that might fill my lungs before I run out of oxygen, or speed up the process at least. No supplies of food or water. I imagine no chance of a rescue. Even if the "piglets" from the station could pull themselves from their cocktails, I wouldn't trust them to save my kid from a petting zoo. My kid. My girl. My family. The big picture trapped down here means, this is my tomb.

I slump against the wall and slide to the floor; making another cloud of dust. Best thing I can do now is wait and let the dust settle I guess. Is this the end?

No, I need to keep myself awake.

Dammit. I wonder if immortals worry about being trapped forever, I mean, they don't have to eat. Probably could take a bullet to the face if I was immortal... My thought trails off and I remember the cool, smooth steel in my bag. Man, I never thought I would have to make this choice; would I rather suffocate, starve, or take a bullet to save time?

I know I shouldn't, but closing my eyes to think right now would be amazing. Before I could give into my final rest, a weight finds it's way slithering up my leg. On reaction alone, I kick the snake into the wall of the tomb. My hand shoots into the bag and emerges with my 1911.

Barrel pointing directly at the snake, I hesitate.

Why?

Why??

Shoot this serpent bastard and have a decent snack already!

At least, that's what I keep thinking, but there's a sound. There's a whistle. Wind. Air. The snake; it must've come from somewhere. I keep my eyes and pistol trained on the fork tongue, yellow-eyed creature. It seems to be calm for now. Frantically, my eyes leave the snake for just a second to find the opening, but nothing.

I can't look for anything with two-fang, crap basket staring me down. Then I remember the weight in my hand. Only if I can make the first shot. That's the only way I get out of this skirmish alive, and I'm certain that's the only reason it hasn't lunged yet. Do I have any bullets?

Can a snake call my bluff?

Then there was a flicker. My flashlight has been on this whole time, and it was already struggling with it's battery life. I can feel the tense air between me and the snake with every flicker.

Keep calm, breathe.

Here's the plan.

Two more flicks, then I squeeze.

First flicker.

Dammit. I chuckle and have a small smile to myself. I could've sworn the storm would've gotten me before road kill. I tighten my grip on the handle. Thoughts and memories try to rush and flood my mind. Then I hear Dad's words again. The snake coils, like it knows what I'm waiting for. "Oh well, I'll eat you before I die. Either way, you're nothing but a three foot miracle."

Second flicker.