The Sun's Anvil

The sun slowly rose over the desolate Sonoran desert. It was very mild right this moment, but within hours - minutes even - the alkali sands would be too scorching hot for even the lizards, tarantulas and rattlesnakes which prowled the desert at night.

Through this vast expanse roamed Marie Wynter. Since her esacpe from Charriba, she had gotten desperately lost and was now roaming the deserts aimlessly. She had not seen a sign of civilization for days... well, seen is a relative term, as she had lost her eyeglasses somewhere back across the way. She had little water and there was only so much of the scorching heat and stinging scorpions she could take.

The sun rose gradually. By eight o'clock it was already unbearably hot.

As she stumbled forward aimlessly, Marie's mind wandered. She began thinking feverishly over the inexplicable events of the last few weeks, and began remembering her friends at Alabama, how hot it was there - but not THIS hot! - and her early life in Pennsylvania. She thought of her family. She thought of God, no matter how difficult the situation was. But now, it seemed even God might not be able to save her.

She had often fantasized, as most every young girl does, of being in an impossible situation and rescued by a dashing figure out of one of the trashy novels she read. A British duke of some sort, perhaps, would sweep her off her feet and take her as his own. But that seemed a very remote possibility at this point.

The sun beat down ceaselessly; Marie could not see more than a few feet in front of her. Thoughts swirling in her head, her body overcome by heat, she collapsed to her knees, staring at the ever-present sun. Then everything went black.

* * *

Groggy Dundee put on his old uniform as he arrived back at the camp. He felt his face. Damn it! he thought. I haven't shaved in weeks! And where the hell is my razor?

Even though several members of the command complemented him on his new look, Dundee hated it; and Tim assured him that he looked utterly moronic with that fuzz growing out of his face.

After minutes of shaving - which went beyond shaving, more along the lines of hacking and sawing at his face, unconcerned with how many grotesque nicks and scars appeared as a result - Dundee finally saw a clean-shaven face. Blood spurted through small holes in his chin, and cheeks, and neck - but he was clean!

Suddenly, Dave entered the tent, knife drawn, and cautious tapped the Major on the shoulder.

"What IS it, soldier?" Groggy asked, in a frightened yelp.

"Oh, I heard you were shaving..." Dave began, gesturing towards his knife, then noticed Dundee's face. "Nevermind." He saluted and exited, grumbling.

Dundee looked after him for a moment. That prick's been more trouble than he's worth, Dundee mused thoughtfully. I'll have to keep a close eye on him...

Groggy then returned to the mirror and saw - shit.

A small tuft of hair remained on his chin. Dundee cursed out loud and reached for his blood-soaked razor.

* * *

The sun beat down in the vast desert as Sergeant Cullen and Jed rode a mule back to friendly territory. How degrading! Their horses had been stolen, and now they were forced to share a mule.

The previously antagonisitic scouts, however, had grown a strong bond over bouts of whiskey and liquor whilst in Durango, so they didn't mind.

Potts knew - or thought he knew - that the quickest way back to the camp - if it was still there - was through the Sonoran Desert. Even though it was west of Durango, it didn't matter. Potts would have thought about it, if his mental capacity for thinking hadn't been ruined by five cases of hard Mexican whiskey. A stream of urine trickled down his leg as he tried to concentrate, leaving a moist trail behind the donkey. Or maybe it was Cullen's.

They were in the midst of a mild and friendly argument - which led to knives being placed at each other's throat - about Ben Roethlisberger's ability as a quarterback, when they discerned a small heap in the middle of the desert. It was scarcely visible, and the two men were lucky to have seen it, what with their glowering at each other and being hammered like two sailors. But they saw it, and as their mule slowly - agonizingly slowly - drew them closer, they could tell it was a person.

It was a girl, her pale skin badly sunburned. She was breathing shallowly, unconscious, and seemed near death.

Chivalrously, Cullen and Potts stopped their mule and picked her sunburned body off the ground. Potts put her on the mule and hopped up after her. The girl's body slumped against his back.

"Thanks for being so chivalrous, amigo," Potts exclaimed. Cullen, uncomprehending, stood staring, until it finally dawned on him: there was no room on the mule.

Cullen started reaching for knife, glowering. "You bastard!" he screamed.

"Ah ah!" Jed said, drawing his shotgun and levelling at the Sergeant. "You see, ol' Bessy here is real tired, and I think it's best if you lead her yourself for awhile."

Cullen glowered at Jed, but with the shotgun pointed at his head, and the girl on the back of the mule, there was little he could do.