Wolf lost all track of time. How long had he wallowed in the filth of deck 33. An hour? Two? It turned out to be a mere ten minutes, but what wicked force of nature could make it feel ten times longer? While time may have slowed, the Saurids had not. In earnest, they’d rushed to envelope him. They tried to break through the airtight seal of his suit, both endlessly and hopelessly. Did they possess a mind equal to their evolution? They seemed to smell the feast within, as if an egg ripe for plunder. Nor had they any luck on Crazy's carrier. After all his useless barking, Crazy settled down for a nap within this vision of hell, so full of death and the burgeoning life that murdered it.

Wolf remained on his knees, hunched into a fetal position. When his eyes finally opened he was greeted by a horrifying sight. Dozens of Saurids crawled across his visor, all climbing over the smeared remains of their companions, like so many flies smashed against a windshield. Though, this image was blurred by a pool of tears rippling across the inside of his visor. Every tear which rained down served as a tribute to lives lost; friends lost. They formed a whole and mingled together like a mass graveyard.

The darkness of deck 33 prevailed. The light there was flickered, not from a shorted circuit or server, but swarmed off and on like locusts. Through it all, Wolf saw a crude, blurred reflection of himself on the inside of his visor. The irony of it hit Wolf full force. No matter what happened, he was as good as dead in two or three years, yet he still lived. His friends, on the other hand, those who could've lived 130 years, were all dead. All except those on 87C's final mission. Against all odds, Wolf prayed they made it. It was something. It was hope. Hope is life.

What testament is it to die for those who've already died? It's much better to live. To carry on their memories . . . and perhaps, one day, avenge them. A shaky gloved hand rose to meet the marred visor and wiped it clean of living Saurids, while creating a larger mass of dead ones. The view hadn't improved much. It never does when you try to clean a mirror with a mud soaked rag. Wolf's entire body was covered with living and dead lice, including his glove, especially his glove.

The clone sat up slowly, releasing his pool of tears to mingle with his sweat soaked body. It actually felt good, even though the built-in thermostat still purred on. Wolf took in the horror of Deck 33. The lowest deck was never a haven, but now evidence of vandalism and chaos ensued. Albeit, there was no human life, not even of himself, as he was proud to excise himself from their dwindling ranks.

Through the dim parody of hell, Wolf realized something. The Saurids weren't crawling everywhere. In fact, most of them swarmed around the entrance. He soon saw why. Human and clone bodies littered the level, but most of them were at the levitator entrance, where they made their last stand trying to escape through a door sealed due to quarantine. A sudden chill ran up Wolf's spine as he made the realization. The Saurid's were hungry and had no qualms sucking the blood of the dead, like so many tiny vampires.

Wolf stood next to the entrance, in the worst of it. With all due speed, he brushed himself off, found his remote and moved to a clearer spot. Crazy awoke from his fitful sleep and his carrier soon did likewise. Everything was scattered everywhere, and Wolf soon found a piece of cloth to better wipe the Saurid's from his visor. Though shaken, he pushed forward. The layout of deck 33 was much the same as he remembered it and the path to the air vent was a long, uneventful one. On occasion he'd come across a dead man or woman, crawling with Saurids. He always went around on the far side. There wasn't anything he could've done for them.

Half an hour later he reached the entrance to the shaft. The area all around was littered with trash, bodies and Saurids. The seal Wolf placed over the vent was breached. The shaft spanned the miles to the surface. The air-tight seal guarded against radiation leakage. This too was a way out and the residents of Deck 33 knew it. No one cared about the radiation, they just wanted to escape. So this leak explained why everyone was already dead. The Saurids couldn't work this fast with active resistance, but the symptoms of radiation sickness slowed the living to a crawl.

Wolf and Crazy were protected from this hazard, but now came the next obstacle; getting up the shaft. Any hope of accomplishing this depended upon Wolf's good friend and black market source, Goat.

}||”:::[O]

Time drifted by and a solemn figure stood among the sand dunes. A few yards away hovered a sand skiff; the wind drowning out its steady hum. The sand was the only witness to their existence. The camouflage paint scheme hid both man and machine like a veil.

The man's time outside the vehicle was short. The skiff's computer recorded it at 00:03:16; a far cry from the time spent inside, recorded at 03:39:28. From his cockpit the man witnessed the wasteland's spectacular sunrise. It was seen as through a fog; a haze attributed to the sand particles which seemed to float in mid-air at times. The wind never died, it just let up a bit. Yet beauty remains even after destruction, and the sunrise was as exquisite as it was unparalleled.

The man was one of the few open enough to see the endless beauty all about him, down to the very fabric of his own skin. It was always there, but few ever realized it, or cared to. He marveled in the construction of nature. It comforted him; and the golden hue spread out upon Mawenzi peak brought tears to his eyes. Yet now the sun was well into the reddened sky and the heat rose as the bitter cold of night faded. The thermostat within his suit kept him cool enough, but he still stared up at the sun. He wondered where the time had gone; and he worried for his friend, Wolf. The man's name was Goat.

Beads of sweat glistened on Goat's jet black goatee, his namesake. It shone in time with his sparse mustache, but only when the Sun angled in the proper direction. The rest of his scalp was hidden beneath his helmet. Though, it wouldn't have mattered much; Goat was bald. Anything black is conductive to heat and heat is a curse in the Dead Zone. The hair he had, he kept for style.

Even through his visor, the man's skin had already baked to a dark brown, with a texture to match. He'd spent far too much time in the desert. It amazed him the radiation hadn't worked its way through his suit. It was a PCS 10,000, but an overly used one. It was also his favorite suit, out of three, because of the beige desert decor. Perhaps the camouflage added extra protection; perhaps not. Yet he was still alive. Unseen beneath the suit Goat wore a khaki jumpsuit; a testament to his genetic code.

Goat was a clone; a half-breed, but not from 87C. The right shoulder of his outfit read 252E in large black letters. He still couldn't decide which was hotter, Africa or the Sinai. It wasn't called Saudi Arabia anymore; now the entire region was called the Sinai. Regarding scenery, there was only one major difference between the two, Kilimanjaro. Goat had been to 87C many times before, making secret deliveries for Wolf, but for a man of his nature, the mountain was always worth the trip, as was the view while skimming over the Red Sea.

For Goat, the entire trip was serene, even while traveling at 150 mph. Most sand skiffs could only handle 100 mph, but C-Alpha-J was as special as Goat himself. Goat was no normal clone. Aside from his black market trade, he was a technical genius, and required a skiff to suit. For his machine, upgrade was an understatement. C-Alpha-J was the standard model number for his skiff. Goat liked the name, so he kept it. He bought his sand skiff used and rebuilt it from the ground up. When he was done with it, C-Alpha-J was anything but standard.

It was the size of a small land freighter, but with some serious speed. To keep the skiff from falling apart at 150 mph, Goat replaced every beam in the ship's frame with chromide durite. Durite was lighter, stronger and five times more expensive than normal chromide. It paid off, though. Even with the add-ons, which doubled the skiff's capacity, C-Alpha-J was stronger and lighter than crafts half the size. Crazy and his carrier would fit easily, especially with the skiff's retractable ramp. Yet none of this would happen if Wolf was dead, which was a very real possibility, even with the older man's ingenuity.

Goat checked the time, again. 3 hours, 51 minutes late. Kilimanjaro no longer comforted him. The mere thought of his friend being devoured by Saurids made the peace he found in nature as fleeting as the desert wind. Worry filled his mind as he walked back to his skiff.

As Goat climbed in, the skiff's computer automatically cycled the door shut. Within two seconds the seal around the outer rim of the door pressurized, becoming air-tight. This provided either sanctuary or death for the man the computer had yet to identify. The computer began scanning and after eight seconds found that the unidentified man's DNA matched that of the skiff's owner, Goat. If the computer found otherwise, a countdown would begin, giving the unknown person 15 seconds to confirm whether they were friend or foe. If one failed this test, then a blade would detract from the seat, slicing open the person's suit, if they were wearing one. Then came the cyanide gas. It was Goat's security system, and it was worthy of Wolf himself, paranoid or not.

Upon the successful match, the computer automatically began a decontamination procedure, filtering out all the radioactive oxygen and replacing it with a surplus of breathable triexelyne. When the cockpit's red light turned green, Goat punched in the code to raise his helmet visor, thereby saving his suit's tank for when it was really needed.

Wolf was Goat's friend. They'd both taken turns saving each other’s lives. Now it was Goat's turn once again. He sincerely hoped he'd get the chance. The worry cut through Goat like a knife. After twelve failed attempts on their private frequency, Goat tried again. He wasn't superstitious so he really didn't think the thirteenth time ‘would be the charm’, so to speak.

“C-Alpha-J to T-Beta-O, come in. Repeat C-Alpha-J to T-Beta-O, please respond. Aww, fuck it! Come on, man, you've survived too goddamned much to bite it now! Answer me! Please!”

After five more minutes of static, Goat's heart sank. Yet he'd wait, and keep on waiting until his trix supply forced him to turn back to 252E. As for his skiff, C-Alpha-J ran electric. With the sun bearing down, he could store the excess and circle the planet until he died of something far less sudden, like boredom. However, triexelyne was not so easily replenished. After so many trips back and forth he'd calculated how much trix was required. It took exactly 616.5 units, 650 to be safe. If he put himself under and set the skiff on auto pilot it took 459 units, 500 to be safe. Yet this was only for emergencies. Secrecy was required leaving and arriving at bunker 252E. This is much harder to maintain if you're unconscious.

It was just like Goat to consider these things, even through duress. It was what kept him alive. You had to stay on your toes. Buying and selling on the black market was risky business. Wolf had it easy. Nobody cared at 87C. 252E was far more modern. So was the security, but for good reason. Their scientists produced results, therefore Moonbase gave a damn what went on down there. Hell, 87C didn't even have a security force. The risk/reward ratio seemed equal to the numbers slapped on their bases, respectively. This was why Goat could afford to give Wolf such a bargain on everything. It's also why Goat was three times wealthier and could afford things like C-Alpha-J.

Yet friendship surpasses this barrier, even though Goat never actually met Wolf, not in person. They know what each other look like, but their entire relationship up till now has been via holo-vid, supply drops and credit transfers. It's just safer that way. Actually, this would mark the first time either had the opportunity to save each other’s life, literally speaking. Before they’d come to each other’s rescue financially, with information and business tips. Honestly, though, dealing with the black market truly was a life and death matter. It may not seem like Wolf had anything to offer, but Goat learned to never underestimate experience.

The stress seemed like a weight twice Earth’s gravity. Goat resorted to changing radio frequencies to get his mind off things. It was humorous sometimes and there was no risk in cutting off Wolf, should he call. Goat had up to three channels he could broadcast simultaneously. One he'd leave permanently set on Wolf's frequency; one on 87C's frequency; and the other he'd play with.

There wasn't a lot to choose from in the wasteland, but he randomly selected a frequency anyway. What he got was purely coincidental and horrifying. “Ssst, M.B. 489748971, this is Giger Tomcat 81F, we're incoming on Bunker 87C with the cryode bomb, T-minus 16 minutes, please confirm decision to drop, over, ssst.”

A pause ensued, yet the reply was forthcoming. “Ssst, Giger Tomcat 81F, this is M.B. 489748971, the drop is a go, repeat, the drop is a go. No mistakes, F leader, the cryode bomb must go straight down the shaft and detonate on the bottom deck, right where the infestation began, over, ssst.”

“Ssst, M.B. 489748971, this is Giger Tomcat 81F, confirmed, drop is a go, down the shaft, repeat, drop is a go, out, ssst.”

}||”:::[O]

The military frequency should be a default setting as far as Amy Davidivich was concerned. She thought a cryode bomb might be fairly important to Bunker 87C's future. The damn thing would send the entire base into an ice age for a full month. Perhaps it would thaw sooner with Africa's intense heat, but either way she'd still be dead. They wouldn't dare nuke the place. The wasteland's radiation levels were off the charts. This was the sort of thing the bunkers were built to prevent. An ion bomb would be better than a nuke. It would disintegrate the entire structure without threat of radiation, but better yet, a cryode bomb! She should've thought of it. Surely the freeze would kill the lice, along with everyone else. After a month everything would thaw, and the installation could be salvaged, and rebuilt. At the very least, it opened the door to the rare opportunity to study the Saurids. Whether that meant preventing future disasters or developing a bio-weapon, she couldn’t guess, but it was ingenious either way. Yet once again, this didn't help her much.

At least she had a little time. Cryo-freeze was a slow process, compared to a nuke or an ion bomb. If the detonation began on Deck 33, she estimated it should take about ten minutes for the ice to reach the surface and freeze the sand for miles around. Being on the top decks didn’t make much difference, being so close to ground zero. She’d have less than a minute to evacuate after the drop. This plus about fifteen more minutes before the drop gave her a maximum of sixteen minutes. It was definitely time to leave.