"We're almost there, boy...we're almost there..."<br/><br/>Gladstone breathed heavily, sweat dripping down his scruffy chin, his mouth dry like cotton. The hood of his jacket was pulled over his head, a pair of tinted goggles over his eyes. In one hand he held an AA12 automatic shotgun, a worn out and rather empty duffel bag strung over his shoulder. In his other hand a leash attached to a dead dog. He limped forward, the hot sun beating against his back. He was hot in all those clothes, a kevlar vest against his chest and a pair of paramilitary pants covering his legs, tucked into his combat boots. Most would say he was stupid for wearing such a thing in the desert, but he knew what harm the sun could do. He knew it was better this way.<br/><br/>Damn was he thirsty, though.<br/><br/>"We're almost there, Grendal," he said, tugging harder on the leash. The dog's corpse struck a rock. "See? That place...settlement...in the distance." His hand waved in the air. His vision was blurring. Or was that the heat of the desert, causing everything to ripple? Or perhaps that was just hunger and thirst.<br/><br/>He walked atop a hill, surveying the land. Anyone in the town would be able to see him from there. At most he was a quarter mile away, more likely a fifth. He dropped the duffel bag and gripped his AA12 by the stalk, wanting to let whoever was there know he wasn't an invader.<br/><br/>"He-" he began to shout, but his dry thirst constricted his throat, causing him to cough and hack. "Hey!" He shouted, louder this time. "Hey! I just want to tra...I just want to tra...to..."<br/><br/>He fell over, unconscious.