Karl Samuelson was not a happy man.

Sand was everywhere. The constant buffetting of the wind in the night had caused the tent to split open, and what the sand didn’t bury, it filled. Nothing was left untouched and Karl, himself, was half-buried.

With more thumbs than fingers, he dug through the tiny dunes of sand that used to be his night stand until he found the crinkled pack of cigarettes. Without bothering to pour the sand out of the package, he fumbled one of the gritty sticks into his mouth. Even a dirty cigarette was better than no cigarette. It was just different amounts of suffering.

The lighter could be anywhere. With winds that strong it could’ve blown right out the goddamn tent.

He sighed and struggled to his feet. He was still wearing much of the desert gear that had been provided by the Diamondhead Corporation. Technically he was an independant contractor, but his orders and paycheck came with their logo attached.

A radio flared to life. “Sammy, you out there? Wake up. It’s time to work.”