The heat was like a plague, creeping in from all sides, invading him, until it consumed every single bit of his body, and left it to rot, weak.
The voice coming out of his mouth wasn't his, it was a bare croak, hardly recognisable, his throat a mere effigy of what it once was.
Water was scarce, every single drop of that precious liquid seemed to have been drained from his body, which was drenched in sweat.
Dried blood adorned the mosquito bites he had so viciously picked the previous night, which seemed to attract even more of those insolent little pests.
The harsh Sun showed no mercy, raining and raining it's wrath down upon his body, charring the inside as well as the outside.
His only salvation from this incessant torture was the liberating knowledge that his death was fast approaching, life quickly seeping away from him
His hopes? His hopes for his own survival had been squished out of his body by the cruel desert, which seemed to be mocking him with every step he took.
But he couldn't allow himself to think like that. He won't.
His legs ached, every fibre of his muscle and his very being was cramping, pleading with him to let go of his unwavering determination to complete his mission, his ridiculous request of only one more step, step after step.
The desert vegetation, already scarce, had nearly diminished along with the chances of his survival, but he wasn't ready to let go just yet.
Not when his goal, his true salvation was so close.
And sure enough, lying upon the fine grains of the desert sand, reflecting the Sun's golden glory, a badge read 'Lucas Flemming'.