The Price of the Elite

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Heat. And cold. One for the day, one for the night, and wind, near constant wind, whipping up scouring sandstorms. An atmosphere thin enough for severe temperature extremes and thick enough to blow the sand.

     Get lost in that and you were dead. The man with the tatters of cloth drawn over his face felt he was dead, but if he was back in his room, or anywhere else in the village, his life would already be over. For the sake of vague rumours he had fled, ill-equipped, into the desert, fleeing for his life in panic. His stolen beast of burden was already buried in the sand, far behind him, and now his turn had arrived.

     His compass pointed vaguely north, wavering uncertainly in his unsteady hand and the weak magnetic field. He cursed the thing as best as he could with a parched, dust-clogged mouth, wishing for the sophisticated electronic device he had spurned in fear of it being used to track him. As if that would matter now.

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