Chapter 23
JOLIE
The desert does not wait for me to recover, and the realization settles into my body the same way the heat does—immediate, suffocating, and impossible to ignore.
The sun presses down in relentless waves that burn through my uniform and into my skin, while the ground beneath me radiates its own stored heat back upward, trapping me between two sources of punishment that do not let up.
Every breath I pull in drags dry and sharp across my throat, thick with dust that clings to my tongue and teeth, and the constant hiss of wind moving sand across the surface fills my ears with a sound that never fully fades, like the environment itself is trying to wear me down piece by piece.
I force my eyes open wider despite the sting of the light, and the world swims slightly at the edges before snapping back into focus in jagged clarity that feels almost too sharp to process.
My arm trembles as I try to push myself upright, but the breath has been so completely blown from my body on impact that I’m not immediately able to move.
I clamp my jaw hard enough to feel it ache, forcing the sound back down as sensation ripples outward, leaving a lingering burn that follows new oxygen making even the smallest movement feel deliberate and costly.
“Yeah,” I rasp, the words scraping out of a throat that feels like it has been stripped raw. “That’s not great, but you’re not staying here.”
I roll instead of forcing myself straight up, letting momentum carry me onto my side as the sand grinds against my shoulder and arm, its heat seeping instantly through the fabric.
I lie there just long enough to get control of my breathing before I drag one knee under me, then the other, my hands sinking slightly into the unstable surface as I push up into a crouch.
The horizon tilts hard enough that I throw a hand out to steady myself, fingers digging into the sand as dizziness claws at the edges of my vision, threatening to pull me back down if I let it take hold.
“Easy,” I mutter, squeezing my eyes shut for a second before forcing them open again as the world steadies in slow increments. “You don’t get to fall apart yet.”
The wind shifts and drives a hotter gust across my face, stinging against cuts I had not even registered until now, and I turn my head slightly, blinking through the distortion as I force myself to focus outward.
The horizon stretches endlessly in every direction, broken only by heat shimmer that bends distance into something unreliable and deceptive, and for a moment the scale of it presses in heavier than the pain itself.
Then I look back.
The wreckage cuts across the sand behind me in a scattered line of dark metal and debris, each piece catching the light differently as it sits half-buried or exposed, some still faintly smoking while others lie silent and already being reclaimed by the wind.
The sight anchors something in me, giving shape to what would otherwise be endless emptiness, and I shift my weight forward with renewed intent.
“Good,” I murmur, pushing myself to my feet even as my balance wavers. “That means you’ve got something to work with, so stop standing here and use it.”
The first step lands unevenly, my weight shifting wrong as pain flares down my side and into my leg, and I stagger forward before catching myself with a sharp inhale that burns going in.
My breathing turns rougher, uneven, but I force each step into something controlled as I angle toward the largest section of wreckage, the sand dragging at my boots and making every movement cost more than it should.
“You can fall later,” I mutter under my breath as I keep moving, my voice tightening with each step. “You move now, and you deal with everything else when you’re not in the middle of nowhere.”
By the time I reach the first piece, my vision has narrowed slightly, the edges dimming in a way I do not like, and I drop to one knee beside the debris with careful, deliberate movement.
The metal radiates heat when I touch it, even through my glove, and I pull my hand back instinctively before forcing myself to grip it again and shift it aside, scanning for anything intact.
“Come on,” I mutter, working through the debris with controlled urgency. “Give me something useful, because I really don’t have time to improvise without it.”
A compartment door hangs twisted nearby, its latch damaged but not completely broken, and I drag myself toward it, my movements slower now as I fight the drag of exhaustion starting to creep in. I wrench it open the rest of the way, the metal groaning as it gives, and lean in to search.
A pack sits wedged inside.
My breath catches—not relief exactly, but recognition of what that means for survival—and I pull it free with shaking hands, dropping it into the sand in front of me as I tear it open.
“Yeah,” I say, digging through the contents quickly. “That’s what I needed, so don’t screw it up now.”
The fabric is scorched along one edge but intact enough, and I move through it with increasing urgency, pulling out water, rations, and a compact med kit that immediately becomes priority.
“Okay,” I whisper, steadier now as I force myself into control.
I grab the water first, unscrewing the cap with fingers that do not quite respond the way they should, and take a measured sip, forcing myself to stop before instinct takes over and drains it entirely.
The liquid hits my tongue like a shock, cool against the dryness, and I swallow slowly before sealing it again.
“Don’t be stupid,” I mutter, setting it aside with care instead of urgency.
I pull the med kit closer and open it, forcing my focus into the task as I assess damage with practiced precision. I test my ribs carefully, pressing until the sharp flare confirms what I already suspected, and I exhale through my nose as I adjust my position.
“Cracked,” I say quietly, my voice tightening. “At least one, maybe more, so that’s going to be fun.”
My leg holds when I shift it, though the pain spikes hard enough to make my vision flicker, and I take that as the only good news I am going to get for now.
“Not broken,” I add, more to lock it in than to celebrate it.
I clean what I can, wrap what needs it, and work through the process with controlled efficiency even as my hands shake and the wind drags sand across my exposed skin, stinging against the cuts that are now impossible to ignore.
The heat continues to build, pressing harder with every passing minute, and I can feel time working against me in a way that does not allow for mistakes.
“You’re running out of time,” I mutter, sealing the kit and forcing it back into the pack.
I sling the pack over my shoulder and push myself upright again, slower this time, heavier, and the world tilts harder before settling into something barely manageable.
I steady myself, forcing my gaze outward again as I scan the horizon, squinting through the distortion until something finally breaks the line.
Not movement.
Structure.
Faint, warped by heat, but real.
“Yeah,” I murmur, adjusting my stance. “That’ll do, so you start moving now before you lose it again.”
I start forward, angling toward it with determination that overrides the growing exhaustion, each step dragging more than the last as my body begins to protest in ways that are harder to ignore.
My breathing roughens further, my muscles respond slower, and the distance refuses to close as quickly as I need it to.
A sound cuts through the wind, low and wrong enough that it pulls my attention immediately, and I stop just enough to shift my stance as my hand drops to my sidearm.
“There you are,” I whisper, spotting movement blending into the sand.
The creatures circle outward, low and deliberate, their bodies nearly invisible until they shift, and I track them as they tighten their pattern around me with predatory patience.
“Of course,” I mutter, raising the weapon and adjusting my footing despite the instability.
The nearest one edges closer, testing distance, and I follow its movement, my grip tightening as I align the shot.
“You want it?” I say under my breath. “Come get it and see how that works out for you.”
It lunges, and I fire, the shot cracking through the air as the creature drops mid-motion, its body skidding across the sand in a spray of dust and heat. The others scatter briefly before regrouping, their movement faster now, tighter, more aggressive as they adapt to the threat.
“Yeah,” I say, adjusting my stance. “You’re not that easy to scare, so this is going to get messy.”
Another one lunges, and I fire again, the shot hitting but not cleanly, forcing me to adjust as it stumbles and keeps moving. I step back, angling toward a rock formation rising unevenly from the sand, forcing the fight into a narrower space where I can control their approach.
“You’re not getting me out in the open,” I mutter, breath tightening as I reposition.
Another lunge.
Another shot.
This one drops clean, and the others hesitate just long enough for me to move, pushing through the pain as I scramble up the rock, my hands slipping once before finding purchase against the hot surface.
I haul myself up, turning as I reach a higher point, my weapon already raised as I track their movement below. They circle, waiting, watching, their patience matching mine in a way that sets my nerves on edge.
“Yeah,” I breathe, my chest rising and falling hard. “You’ll wait, and so will I, because I’m not coming down there for you.”
I steady my grip, forcing my breathing into something controlled as exhaustion settles heavier into my limbs, my vision dimming at the edges again while the heat presses harder from every direction.
“You’re not done,” I whisper, tightening my hold on the weapon as I brace myself.
Even as my body starts to slow. Even as the desert tries to take its share.