The Debriefing
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Running.
The air broiling up from the desert was easily 120 degrees. His body screamed for water but water would have to wait.
Running.
As a gunshot cracked, fifty yards ahead of him, Tony Wright dropped. Ridiculous. If he heard the sound the bullet was well past him. It was true; you never heard the shot that killed you. That was the story. He had no objective proof.
He was behind a wall or hill — it was really both, it seemed, starting as the first and ending up, hundreds of years later, as the second. He found himself face to face with a Thelocactus bicolor. He knew the name because Lucy cultivated them in their backyard.
Beautiful. Radiant pink flowers atop spiky stalks. Nothing in the desert should be pink, you’d imagine, but much was. This was the first time he had ever had this thought, though he’d lived in and around deserts all his life.
More bullets, shattering on rock, digging graves in the sand behind him. Those boys were crappy shots.