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“After two days in the desert sun
My skin began to turn red
After three days in the desert fun
I was looking at a river bed
And the story it told of a river that flowed
Made me sad to think it was dead.”

                America, A Horse with no Name

                I wake up to the sound of the sunrise.

                In the desert, sound is a scarce thing. Besides the ever-present wind, little else keeps you company. Animals, even birds, are few and far between. The desert sand skates over the surface of the world with cold indifference, sliding along the rocks and dirt like a rattle snake coursing towards an unsuspecting baby.

                My eyes part and I see the sky making its quietly epic transformation from red to golden. The sun is just peeking up on the edge of the sky. But with its rupture through the horizon, it sends a blast of fiery power across the world, scraping like ragged fingertips across the red surface to expose the blue wonderment that waited.

                I sit up from my place on the ground, my presence stirring Slate. She looks back at me, her military jacket off, leaving her only in the sports bra. She’s crouching on the ground, watching the distance. I sniff in deeply, sitting up away from the tree. “What’s for breakfast?” I ask, trying to joke.

                But she gives me a harsh glance, her finger over her mouth to tell me to be quiet. She then looks back in the distance. And its then that I notice from her posture, she’s staying low. “What is it?” I whisper, creeping along the ground over to where she is. And when I reach it, I see.

                Its maybe seven feet tall. Maybe it a bit larger. It seems just a few inches too wide across the shoulders, and its arms just a few inches too long. It has blue-green skin and white hair, while its clothes are ragged and mix-matched.

                But it’s just standing there, staring at a cactus the size of my foot growing out of solid rock.

                “What do you want to do?” I ask.

                “Get away from it.” She whispers to me, her gaze not leaving it. “It’s not human.”

                “Think we could shoot it?” I ask.

                It’s still staring at the cactus.

                “We don’t have many bullets left.” She says. “Besides, bullets haven’t done us a whole lot of good recently.” She seems to think for a moment longer, then looks back at me. “I want you to wake up Patrick. Quietly. Once he’s awake, we move around to the far side of the bio-dome’s leg and we’ll head in that direction.”

                “Isn’t that the opposite direction from . . . wherever we’re going?” I ask.

                “We’ll loop around.” She says, looking at me. “Now . . .” She turns back.

                And her silence turns my head.

                Its not there.

                “Not good.” I say.

                “No. It’s not.” She says.

                We both start to back away.

                And then we see the shadow.

                Slate whirls around, her eyes wide. Standing over us is the giant creature. Its eyes are open just a little too wide, it’s big mouth stretched back just a little too far. Its teeth are recessed from its lips, while its blue-green skin stands out against its fragmented, but mostly dark Frankenstein-esque suit.

                It stands there.

                We stand there.

                Slate glances at me, then up at the monster. She holds her hands up a bit. “What do you want?” She asks.

                It doesn’t blink.

                It doesn’t speak.

                It doesn’t respond at all.

                It just stares.

                “Are you going to kill us?” I ask.

                It doesn’t blink.

                It doesn’t speak.

                It doesn’t respond at all.

                It just stares.

                I can tell Slate looks past it, towards the tree. Patrick’s still asleep.

                But her motion apparently caught the monster’s attention. With agonizingly slow motions, it turns its large head around, looking over its right shoulder towards the tree. It seems to stare at Patrick for a moment, then turns its inhuman face back to us.

                It doesn’t blink.

                It doesn’t speak.

                It doesn’t respond at all.

                It just stares.

                “What do you want?” Slate demands.

                It doesn’t blink.

                It doesn’t speak.

                It doesn’t respond at all.

                It just stares.

                “Fine.” She says discardingly. She moves to walk around the monster.

                She gets just close enough to be within an arm’s length of its massive grip. And it reaches out its huge hand and grabs her around the face. Its entire maul grabs hold of her, stopping her cold. And at the same time, a flail of tiny worms whips out from within the sleeve of its coat. The tiny, reddish tendrils flail out at Slate, reaching for her nose and ears and mouth.

                I tackle into Slate, knocking her free of the monster’s grip and taking her to the ground. The tendrils tear free of her face as she gasps for air. We both hit the dusty sand and Slate curls up, shivering. Her skin grows cold and pale, her eyes wide as her pupils draw in on themselves.

                I roll up onto of her, trying to look into her face. But all I see is fear and violation.

                And then the shadow spreads over us.

                I look over my shoulder in shock.

                It’s standing over us, staring.

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