Dead Man Walking

She was sweating like a pig – there wasn't a nicer or more ladylike way to put it. Her teal silk blouse clung to her like a second skin (and not in the sexy way thigh-high leather boots do). And tight satin pumps are NOT sandshoes! She'd take them off about five miles back, and her feet were protesting; there were blisters on her blisters. She was beyond dehydrated and it wasn't making her any happier. That bastard! He'd just dumped her out in the middle of the desert to die like road-kill. Shields was a dead man walking. He just didn't know it yet.

(image source: zackrichard)


First, she had to think of a way to get back to the city. And that was starting to look more and more impossible with every blistering, scorching second. She thought she could see a road in the distance but she couldn't be sure. She'd been out in the heat for a while and could feel her brain frying. It would just be the icing on her shitcake if she got to that “road” only to find that the desert had decided to toy with her...just for kicks.


(image source: marcadamus)


Shields had better be on his knees, praying for his life. Because there was nothing or no one on the Earth that could save him from the slow, painful end that awaited him. Oh well, maybe the desert would have something to say about that.

(image source: klove)