Patrick slipped his hands from his gloves in order to properly fit pieces of the contraption together. With lean and nimble fingers, he added the finishing touches to the two assembled gasmask attachments. "The toxins are only dangerous if inhaled, so we don't have to worry if we need to remove our gloves," he assured me.

There was no need for assurances. He was right. So far the contaminates only fatally affected individuals by attacking the respiratory system and slowly shutting down organs as loss of blood flow and necrosis took over. Rumor had it the process felt like being eaten alive by tiny organisms from the inside out, which had triggered the large-scale immense fear of contamination. Still, the less exposure to the toxin in any form, the better. But these were dire times and a cause for desperate measures.

I steadied my light on his hands. They moved expertly over the filter he'd created with rusted aluminum cans that he attached to other parts he borrowed from our supplies. Our materials weren't much, but his actions screamed confidence, which was appealing.

The old jagged scar running lengthwise on the inside of his pale wrists took me by surprise. There was no way the pair of well-placed identical injuries could be an accident. Was it the unhappiness of his apparent privileged life that shocked me most about his scars, or the oxymoron that he was unsuccessful at his attempt, being an otherwise highly intelligent man? Had he done it when he knew impact was inevitable? Had he done it before he knew he was chosen to live out the remainder of his life in the safety of the Refuge facility? Had he done it soon after the main door to the facility was sealed to outsiders? Had fear, guilt, pain, or loss been the trigger? As curious as I was about his actions, deep down I knew some stones were better left unturned.

The sand continued to whip around us, but it didn't faze him, or at least he didn't complain, which was something to admire. If only I could be as cool, calm, and collected inside as he appeared to be on the outside. And with every passing minute, and with each tightened and attached segment, my optimism grew.

"There's a twenty-eight percent chance we'll find a species of drought-resistant perennials that adapted to low-light conditions." I continued to focus my light. "If we look near structures where moisture would've gathered and pooled, that's a likely place to start."

"Agreed."

"But there's the possibility that..."

He paused and huffed. "We're going to find that plant. Trust me. We are not leaving this place without seeing that plant."

His confidence boosted my own, and I took his promise and hid it deep inside where my hopes and positive anticipation were kept. Still, the chances of failing the mission were great, and I didn't have it in me to get my hopes up only to be let down. Not after all the tears I'd shed and the final farewells I'd said to better accept my fate.

"All right." He stood, contraptions in hand. "Keep an eye on your monitor. When our oxygen levels are at the last two percent, we will remove the oxygen canister, connect these filters, and allow the last bit of oxygen to puff out of the hoses and our masks, preventing ambient air from entering the mask. Then we can remove our helmets if needed and still protect our faces and breathe the filtered air."

"How sure are you that it will work?" I eyed him suspiciously, needing his optimum certainty before allowing hope to fill what was empty inside.

He fiddled with his monitor, calculating. "As long as we're careful, it'll buy us another seventy-six hours or so."

I nodded and focused my attention on my wrist readings. "We have sixteen hours of oxygen left, sixty-six percent."

"Let's get a move on it, then."

The wind still stirred as fast as it had when we first emerged. Hoping it would let up and settle enough to give me a peek at more than a few feet ahead was wishful thinking. After helping Patrick put the makeshift filters into his pack, I glanced at the navigation on my wrist monitor and took a few steps north. If we walked straight for a couple miles, we'd find a base facility, which was half the battle.

A sudden mammoth gust of wind, traveling close to eighty miles per hour, thrust my suited body and forced me to the ground. Aiming my flashlight to my side, panic rushed me when Patrick wasn't in my beam. Only the loud grunts and huffs coming from his microphone confirmed that he had survived the gust.

The wind continued to shove my body until I flipped and tumbled across the desert plane. Flecks of dirt flickered in my vision as I was tossed about like a pile of rags on spin cycle. Thoughts of Patrick's well-being entered my mind as a pained yelp sounded in my ears.

"Patrick!" My spins grew faster and suddenly it wasn't the push of the wind moving me but the pull of gravity. "I'm—I'm falling."

"Damien—ugh-eh-ah."

As gravity rolled me down a steep slope, a violent tumble twisted my body and my ribcage hit something small and rigid, shooting a sharp pain up my side. "Ah. Fuck." Adrenaline sped through my veins with the first tinge of pain, and I squeezed my eyes closed.

At highly stressful times my imagination would make up possible scenarios to help explain what I was experiencing, but in this case, my thoughts turned to curiosity and the only thing running through my mind was one question: When will it end?

"Damien?" Patrick's voice was clear and his breaths fast yet shallow. "Where are you?"

Like on cue, my battered body thudded to an abrupt stop, knocking the air from my lungs. I coughed, attempting to catch my breath. Once breathing became easier, I groaned as the ache in my ribcage traveled to my back. "I'm—" I grabbed my ribs. "I'm in pain. That's where I am."

"Tell me your location," Patrick demanded. "I'm having trouble tracking you on my monitor."

Finally, I opened my eyes and blackness stared back. I lifted my fist to illuminate my surroundings, but still darkness swamped me. My wrist monitor had broken and no light, readings, nor activity came from it. Not even the light inside my visor shone.

"My monitor's damaged." I sat up, attempting to breathe more evenly. "What was that? A hill? A pit?"

"My guess is a trench. The outsiders probably dug it to escape the winds."

As soon as he said it, I realized the winds weren't as harsh as they were before my fall.

"What do your readings say?" Suddenly feeling drained and parched, I cleared my throat. "We shouldn't be too far from each other."

"Navigation places me north of the hatch. So you should be somewhere east of me." His voice was low as if he was thinking aloud. "I'm heading to you now."

I stood and sharp pain radiated from my side and quickly traveled to my lower back, rendering me immobile. Was Patrick fighting through pain as well? "You injured?" I managed through clenched teeth.

"Negative." He huffed, possibly winded from the trek. "My wrist is achy but I'll live."

Was that sarcasm?

I glanced at my wrist. If my monitor worked properly I would have ordered a drink of water by choosing the command that extended a straw to my dry lips. As if to taunt me, a bead of sweat dripped from my brow and tickled my nose. The urge to swipe it away hit me along with the realization that adrenaline alone was no longer the culprit.

"Damn it. The temperature inside my suit is rising." I tapped my wrist, hoping to somehow kick-start my monitor.

"You can't access the gauge?"

"Nothing's working." Ignoring the pain in my side, I slid my oxygen-nutrient pack from my shoulders and inspected its connections. I took a deep breath to slow my racing heart and the speed at which adrenaline raced through my veins. As I inhaled, a thought entered my mind: what if the damage somehow extends to my oxygen system? This could be my last breath of untainted air. "Shit, my air!"

"Your oxygen uses separate regulators, remember?" Patrick's voice was rushed but reassuring. "In the event something like this happens, your oxygen is self-sustained. You won't be able to observe its changes without the monitor, but last you checked you were at sixteen hours, sixty-six percent."

His words registered, but I needed more than words. "I need your help checking for leaks."

It was silent over the microphone, allowing my mind to invent horrid scenarios. If I became effected, nothing could be done to save me. Supposedly this reason alone was the entire point of the mission, to find a way to combat or become immune to the toxins and prevent it from taking more lives.

Talk about irony.

Patrick's beam of light shined from around a darkened corner to my left and I finally made out the uneven hole we were in. Patrick was right; a long narrow trench was more like it. The canal had sloped sides that twisted around rounded corners and several uneven dips along the bottom.

His silhouette followed the light, and then he bathed me in its bright beam. "Are you okay?" His heavy boots crushed the trash at his feet as he rushed to my side.

I nodded. "I just need to make sure I'm not losing oxygen."

He closely examined the two hoses for cracks or fine tears. "Well, I don't see anything to worry about. I don't hear any air escaping, so..." He glided his bare hand along the hose, feeling for leaking air. "You're fine."

"You sure?" I stared into his eyes, searching for that familiar self-confidence.

He sighed. "No. It's hard to know for sure, but—"

"Goddamnit!"

"But we can play it safe by going along with our plan a bit sooner than expected."

"You want me to switch over to the filter you made?" The words forced their way through my clenched teeth. "I'll have fewer hours of fresh air than you."

He threw his palms up and shrugged. "If you don't, then we will just have to hurry and complete our mission before time runs out and we're forced to switch over."

Suddenly the ache in my side announced itself. I stifled my grunt. "We have mere hours to find a living plant and convince Control to allow us back in. How likely is that?"

That pinprick of hope I had stored away wavered as if teetering on a fine peak, trying desperately to keep from crashing down and pulverizing at any moment.

He squeezed my shoulder. "We will find a plant in that time. I'm so positive we will succeed I'll use the contraption as soon as you do."

"That's insane, Patrick." I shrugged, deliberately removing his hand from my shoulder. "That's the stupidest thing I've heard come out of your mouth."

"Listen, Damien." He replaced his hand and inched so close I could make out the determination and care in his eyes. "There's no sense in wasting time by debating what we should do. About the oxygen, we'll do what needs to be done when it needs to be done. We will find that plant."

With every passing minute, the likelihood of finding a living plant dropped as fast as my temperature rose. The heat, pressure, and realization of our unfortunate circumstance made my breathing grow shallow. Or was it the thought of my last few breaths of fresh oxygen gradually seeping from my hoses making my body react?

I took a deep, calming breath, and found some courage in his stare. "I'll take your advice and stay positive."

"Okay." He nodded, dropping the light toward the ground.

My gaze followed the beam and my jaw dropped as it landed on the small cluster of black seeds half buried in the earth around my boots.

~~~

Seeds? What do you think of the revelation?

Does it sound too good to be true?