Excerpt: Emissary

The hills stared down disapprovingly at Michele Newcombe. They disapproved of her briht yellow SUV, and the amount of oil it was pouring onto the desert floor sixteen miles away. They disapproved of the fingers that dug into sagebrush for traction, ripping roots from the dry ground and pushing them aside as she made a slow belly-crawl through the foliage. They disapproved of the trail of blood she left in her wake, turning flaky brown in the disapproving yellow sun and sending an attractive stink to the coyotes at the edges of wilderness.

The world disapproved of Michele Newcombe, and it was glad she was about to die, alone, hours away from any hint of civilization.

Her throat was raw and dry, and she tried to suck in air to soothe her burning lungs, but the motion only made her chest jerk. Michele Newcombe drew in nothing, and her abs ached at the force of it. Then she tasted blood in her throat like vomit, and it spattered against the dusty soil. She was no longer sure if it was normal to spew blood through her cracked lips, which stung with the salt of sweat long evaporated. It had been hours since she felt like she could breathe.

She stared at the ground just inches in front of her nose. So close, but miles from anything useful. Michele Newcombe dragged in a breath again -- coughed blood -- and squinted, trying to focus on the world around her above the sagebrush. Her eyes burned. The world was white. The sun, in all its cruelties, bore upon her back like an iron pressed to her flesh. Her skin was pitted and burnt like the desert itself.

Something dark loomed at the edge of her vision. Silvery mirages twisted around it with the lying promises of water, and heat distorted the shadow into a wavering hallucination. Had Michele found civilization... or madness?

Her fingertips, brown and red from dirt and blood, dug into the soil. It should have been scalding, like grabbing an oven's burner. She felt nothing.

Michele Newcombe dragged herself forward two inches.