3/5/2009
12
Aegypt
Lieutenant
Paul Bolang laughed mirthlessly; the surging water would
never make its way back to even the ancient lake Chott el Fedjadj.
Set in an endless inequitable cycle, the liquid rose daily,
sucked out of this hellish waste to be returned only a few times
a year.
He
cast the butt of his cigarette to the sand and spat a few grains
of loose tobacco after it. Already the sun was flooding him
and the sodden plain with blazing splatters of heat.
Paul
cursed under his breath; not a drop of rain had touched him.
He slung his rifle more evenly over his shoulder and turned back
toward the line of march. The last traces of mist streamed from
the clouds, and he could taste the water with his lungs—refreshing.
The heat and the dryness would be back soon enough
to overwhelm his senses.
Paul
signaled his men to remount. His horse, l’Orage, was skittish
and danced back a step as Paul hauled his aching frame into
the saddle.