Georg spied Rollan immediately as he crested the latest, most tortuous bluff and dropped to one knee. He rooted impatiently though his bag for the binoculars, careful not to let the sneak out of his eyes even for a moment. A blur of moon-lit sand and rock danced in front of his eyes for a moment before his gaze locked onto Rollan’s back once again.

“Pathetic,” Georg murmured, observing his rival preparing yet another surprise for him in the gully’s chokepoint. Rollan continued to fiddle with his handiwork, miming the location of the tripwire as he checked the tension. Georg followed the invisible line to the left… nothing. To the right, the plastic cone of an air-horn poked out from a clumsy pile of sand.

Georg lazily picked up a nearby rock and threw it in a single smooth, confident motion. He was prone and camouflaged by the time the blow pushed Rollan onto his own trap. He stared intently at the horror in the former candidate’s face as he scrambled away from the ferals that emerged from every crevice.