Abrasive grains pelt me from every direction. Constant rubbing on my skin is causing my flesh to give way. Pain ensnares my entire body, including the places I’ve covered. Restraining from yelling for fear of choking on sand, I grit my teeth and bear it. There is no telling how long I’m in the sand hell. My raw skin is now becoming bloody. Despite my earlier hope, it is certain now a raw fleshy version of me will be walking out of this desert. If I walk out of this desert.

  As sudden as the storm appears, it passes, leaving me prone beneath the empty sky.

  I'm curled up, waiting out the lingering sting when the howling sands are replaced by wild shrieks of pain and anger. Jumping to my feet, I look back towards the south.

  Following the storm are opportunistic beasts looking for easy meals. Giant scorpions hunting in packs. Monster vultures circling dead beasts that didn’t survive the storm and the soon to be dead. Wild hounds as big as the giant scorpions are present. Serpent-like lizard-humanoids are the most numerous. They have a snake's body, a torso of a human, and the face of a spiked lizard. Also included in the mix are bat-like reptilian creatures, with bat wings spanning ten feet attached to a primarily bat-looking body, and a distinctly lizard-like face and tail.

  It is utter rampaging chaos.

  Not wanting to join the party, I sprint as hard as my overexposed body can muster towards the distant tree line, hoping I don't get noticed. Of course, I'm seen right away. I'm the only slow, bipedal, and fleshy-bodied fool running from them and I’m alone. Every beast in the sky and on land targets me for the easy feast I am.

  At the moment, I'm apologetic for every mean thought and complaint I had towards the desert before. Maybe a change of views can will this impending disaster away. While at the same time, "What in the actual hell, desert? Why do you have to prove to be the absolute worst?"

  Quickly I ditch my sled and all its wonderful resources except for a few machetes and shields that I strap to my back. Before adjusting the gear appropriately, I book it towards the west.

  There is no illusion that I will escape the beasts. However, I’m at a loss for what to do. Honestly, my split-second decision-making kind of let me down here. I'm running for my life, getting nowhere fast. The storm of wild animals is nearly upon me.

  Flapping wings get louder, practically drowning out the rest of the chaotic uproar. I don't turn around until the wings' sounds are flying in my head. I raise my shield and swing high with my machete in one fluid motion. Momentum from my shield increases the force at which I slash my blade cleanly through a lizard bat.

  Immediate threat disposed of, I turn back to the forest and keep running.

  Fortunately, the first batzard, a name I created on the fly, was a solo flier outpacing its pack and the rest of the dinner attendees significantly. Unfortunately for me, the rest of the swarm is sticking together, and I only get a hundred yards further before I must turn back around.

  Twenty batzards dive bomb me at once, forcing me to take cover beneath the shield and armor. The shield deflects one-third of the bat hits as I struggle to maintain my footing. The other two-thirds are clawing and scratching at my exposed raw skin, threatening to tear me apart. More blood falls to the ground enraging the swarming batzards further.

  Finding little protection beneath my shield, I drop the cover and struggle to draw my second machete. Completely exposed, I fall to my knees just as I’ve both blades in hand, the weight of the attack proving to be overbearing.

  The swarm is too thick, and I cannot find the space to even swing my blades. Adding to the dire situation, I hear the footsteps and growls of the rest of the predators closing in.

  Desperate rage-induced defiance rushes through me as I muster the last ounce of strength I’ve left and explode to my feet. Sudden movement shifts the swarming batzards enough that I can wildly swing my blades.

  Both blades slash out violently, cutting through the densely packed bats. Several bats fall to the ground; the rest pull back, giving my blades respectful distance.

  "I'm not even good meat," I shout to no one in particular as I swing my blades, keeping the bats at bay and stepping back.

  By my estimates, I still have two miles to cover before I'm in the woods. Not that the woods will do me any good. I'll still have ravenous ravagers nipping at my heels.

  "It’s lean at best if there’s any meat on me. Most likely, it’s dry and stringy. There's no fat, so good luck with the flavoring in this seasoning-desolate landscape." I’ve no reason to be talking. The words just spew out while I continue to swing at bats whose numbers are now in the single digits due to injury or flat-out retreat. "You would think in a land so barren; salt would be an abundance."

  Now that I can see through the swarm, I get a better picture of the dire circumstance. Vultures are flying high, watching and waiting for their moment. Though their swarm is significantly reduced, the remaining healthy batzards continually attack.

  To my relief, some of the hounds and snake-people beast-things are fighting over the injured batzards. However, there are still many creatures seeking variety in their diet. I sense they can sense I don't have much of a chance against their numbers.

  The giant scorpions are particularly eager to eat me. Not a single scorp stops to capitalize on the wounded. Instead, they advanced as a unit seeking my demise as if I owed them my life. To be fair to the scorps, I’m covered in the burned shell of their fallen. Though in my defense, how was I supposed to know scorpions burrow and are territorial? Or that they care about each other and wearing pieces of their dead is a heinous crime punishable by death? They should at least carry some of the blame. All I’m saying is a simple sign warning others they are sleeping underground would have helped avert much of the unnecessary violence.

  I’m brought back to focus as I back step out of reach from the stinger launching at me. With my right hand, I slice my machete through the stinger, and my left swings upward, cutting through the bat, thinking it could attack unnoticed.

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  "Like the desert, you will also choke on my tasteless, dead corpse." There is no illusion I make it out of here alive. I'm just trying to prolong my life to make it miserable for the rest of the group.

  Combinations of attack and dodge become my new norm.

  Step.

  Dodge.

  Swing.

  Swing.

  And step.

  Eager to shine its light, the sun joins us as we struggle through the desert. Luckily, I’m already squinting, having taken a claw to the eye from a batzard that could pass my guard. It only cost it its life to do so. My other eye, the good one, is constantly blinking from the blood and sweat that drips into it.

  The lifeless repetition becomes crucial for my survival.

  ****

  The morning sun now rises higher in the sky. Resting by my sides are my machetes. The strength in my arms gave out not long ago. I awkwardly swing my body to get the blades to respond. I’m so close to the trees.

  Step.

  Before me, I can partially see the wake of death paving the way from where I’ve been. Bats, scorpions, and snake folk have fallen to my blades, either dead on the spot or soon-to-be-dead from the hounds and vultures satisfied with a more leisurely meal.

  Step. Swing. Step.

  Now that the sun is in full force, the remaining three bats and the snake folk have decided to abandon their pursuit seeking shelter from the sun. The vultures and hounds have made it abundantly clear that they aren't interested in a fight. Had they joined in, I would not be standing. Instead, they safely feast on the hard work of others.

  "Come and get me." I raspingly taunt angered scorpions still fully invested in my demise, words barely leaving my lips.

  At this point, I’ve given up on dodging, relying on my armor to protect me from most of the blows. Hit after hit, it has proven to be durable. My flesh, on the other hand, is less durable. Wounds from stingers and claws are exposing bones and different disgusting insides I would have been better off not seeing. Poison from the stingers is coursing through my veins, causing me to stumble as I continually retreat to a false safe haven.

  Step. Stumble. Swing.

  I try to get back to my feet only to find the strength gone. Abandoning one of my machetes, I use my free arm to somewhat help me crawl backward. My other arm awkwardly swings, my only defense from the scorpions snapping at my legs.

  Light dims as scorpions take advantage of my slower pace, and the ten completely surround me. I can no longer crawl away, and the machete is too heavy and awkward to wield. Ditching the heavier blade, I grab my two hunting knives.

  All I can do now is rest and wait.

  On cue, the scorpions attack. My only saving grace is that not all ten can attack at once. Stingers slam into my back plating, straightening my bowed resting position. Momentum from the blow allows me to plunge my knife into the mouth of the scorpion, striking at my throat.

  My knife rips through its mouth as I roll over, placing myself below another scorpion. I impale the scorpion's body with the blade and continue to roll. Loud screeches follow my attack while crushing weight can be felt on my legs.

  I ram both knives down on the scorpion that has me in its grips. Stabbing twice more, my left arm is interrupted by another claw. Impulsively my right arm slices through the claw and follows with a stab to the scorpion's head.

  My side is pierced by a stinger that I quickly cut free from the scorpion. Pain causes me to gasp. Once. Twice. Pressing their advantage, the scorpions redouble their efforts.

  Rolling, once more, I narrowly escape the onslaught of three stingers aimed at my head. I throw my blade at the scorpion screeching over its lost tail. The knife miraculously lodges into its mouth.

  No longer able to screech, the scorpion panics as it tries to enlist the help of its companions. Panic turns to a frenzy as it loses the ability to cope with the lodged blade, and it more aggressively seeks the aid of its companions.

  Two scorpions distractedly fight the panicked scorpion sparing no attacks to end its life. Slightly less overwhelmed, I throw my fatigued arm into the next scorpion cutting into its back. The newly cut scorpion rolls on the ground, trying to extinguish the pain.

  One scorpion attacks recklessly and I slam my knife into its head before it can hit me. Another claw grips my leg, which I wildly cut through.

  I'm soaked in all sorts of gore. Most of it is my own. Of the ten scorpions, only three are left in the fight, one of which is missing a claw, and the other, the one that killed its panicked mate, has grown. Defiant and desperate 'til the end, I let out a savage roar bluffing the fight I no longer have in me.

  My knife swings a couple times for show. The three scorpions look at me and then at each other. First, the larger scorpion turns and leaves, then the other two follow. I hold my ground as long as I can before letting myself fall.

  Laying on my back, I can barely see the sun forcing its light through the trees.

  Coughing and hacking, I’m now fighting for my last breaths of air.

  Soon I will rest for good and no longer must put up with the damnable desert again. The thought comforts me, and a dry bloody smile forms on my evaporated lips.

  Irritatingly, I realize the scorpions haven't left me to die in peace. Nor are they trying to attack me. They are waiting for me to die before they consume me. As a last act of defiance, I use every bit of strength I have left and pull myself to my knees. With a death grip, I hold onto my hunting knife with both hands. My smile returns when I think about my ruse causing the scorpions to wait longer than necessary.

  Kneeling, hands clenched around my lifeline, head bowed, and grinning like the fool I am, I breathe my last breaths. The decision to run through the storm was the absolute worst.

  I'll say one thing about death; it brings greater perspective.

  I believe, most certainly, I ended up abandoned in the desert because of a woman. It's hard to be sure about these types of things. Still, I’ve an uncanny feeling about this. I’m absolutely confident that there was a woman behind my unfortunate circumstance.

  And I’m positive I was the innocent party.

  Bold, brave, beautiful, and destined for greatness. She was leagues above me.

  Like an anchor, my love was keeping her ship from sailing.

  Tasked with the choice to stagnate on dry lands or sail the greater waters, she broken-heartedly chose the seas.

  "Love is love." I incoherently mutter to my empathetic audience. Or at least, I think that is what I’m trying to say. It very well could be a tsk, tsk.

  Where is the ominous voice telling me to push on when I’m at the end? Have I lived enough already? It all makes sense now. The desert, the sand, the scorpions… they're all playing their part in a long, terrible goodbye. Tsk, tsk, indeed.

  Alas, "So long, cruel world. I was too good for you anyway. Scorpions, deserts, and sand, be warned. I will haunt you even in death," I utter venomously with my last bitter breath.