He couldn’t ignore the vultures.
Jonas rips open his canteen and flips his canteen.
“There’s no water, my feet are screaming and where’s our team? Harry, I’ve had enough.”
His companion squeezes Jonas’s shoulder.
“I have some liquid if you want. I can’t promise you it’ll taste nice but it’ll keep you hydrated.”
Jonas chokes. His throat splutters sand back into the desert. His eyes are ready to turn into steam.
“I haven’t got much choice have I?”
Harry reaches into his backpack and tosses Jonas a silver flask. Jonas unscrews the lid and blanches.
“What the hell is this?”
Harry points to the interminable expanse of yellow earth.
“You can go thirsty if you want.”
Jonas closes his eyes and swallows. His tonsils threaten a rebellion when the foul wine arrow burns into his stomach.
“Harry, that was disgusting.”
“Jonas, can you hear something?”
Jonas makes out a faint rumble across the endless sand.
“Harry, look over there.”
Harry reaches for his binoculars and punches in triumph.
“Thank God, it’s Peter and Michael.”
Jonas hands Harry his canteen.
“By the way what was that drink you gave me?”
“Oh, it’s only urine.”
Jonas’s throat shivers. His lips release a golden fountain into the scorched Earth. He vows never to take the piss again.
Gary Hewitt is a raconteur who lives in a quaint little village in Kent. He has written two novels which are currently being edited. His writing does tend to veer away from what you might expect. He has had many short stories published as well as the occasional poem.
He enjoys both writing prose and poetry. His style of writing tends to feature edgy characters and can be extremely dark. Some of his influences are James Herbert, Stephen King, Bulgakov, Tolkein to name but a few
He is also a proud member of the Hazlitt Arts Centre Writers group in Maidstone which features an eclectic group of very talented writers.