"Damned fool just drove into a wash-out."  The voice was slightly slurred.  Small wonder.  Over the past two days he's been working his way through the case of bottles that he'd been using as a seat.  There were already three empties on the floor.  His breath stank of whiskey and his eyes were bloodshot.  A first look at the old man would have you wondering why he'd been brought along.  It might have had something to do with the double barreled rifle securely fastened to the side of the truck or it might have been something less visible.<br/><br/>Like the fact that he spoke a fistful of languages.<br/><br/>Like the fact that he knew the Bedouin tribes and their customs.<br/><br/>Like the fact that he knew how to use the case of dynamite he'd been using as a foot stool.<br/><br/>"Somebody should go have a look, just in case he's snapped the wheel off or something."  He didn't mention the fact that they'd be left behind.  As the last truck in the convoy, 'tail end Charlie', that was their greatest danger.  Unless somebody stopped to check, nobody would notice that they were missing until the storm ended.<br/><br/>Alexander didn't wait for anyone to volunteer.  He wrapped his scarf around most of his face, crammed his hat on tighter and stepped out into the storm.<br/><br/>It was like stepping into another world.  He didn't let go of the truck as he began moving towards the front.  To do so would be to invite certain death and he'd been cheating death for years.  He had no intention of making it easy for the grim reaper.  When he got to the front of the truck and saw a shape that he assumed was the drive.<br/><br/>"HOW BAD IS IT?" he bellowed, trying to be heard over the storm.