Sacrifice in the Wasteland

I opened my eyes in the jostling front passenger seat, the back of my head still pressed against the cold seat, the bumps making my temples throb. My throat felt dry and tight, as if still aching from being choked by the swirling sand in my previous life. Outside the window stretched a vast desert; the wind whipped sand grains against the car window, producing a soft rustling sound. The familiar scene stabbed into my heart like an ice pick, making it suddenly constrict. This was the day when Cara Lucas, Mickey Black, and I set out to the wasteland. Memories of my previous life suddenly surged up, tinged with the stench of blood. The howling of the Tornado exploded in my ears. When the tent pole snapped in two with a sharp crack, Mickey grabbed Cara's wrist and ran toward the safe house. I called their names from behind, but the sound was swallowed by the fierce wind as soon as it left my lips—no echo followed. They rushed inside the safe house, the door slamming shut with a bang. I saw Mickey's hand pressed tight against the crossbar inside the door. I lunged forward, pounding on the door until my knuckles ached with pain. Then came the wolves' howls, closing in, reeking of blood. I felt sharp pain as the wolfs' teeth bit into my calf; warm blood seeped down my pant leg. As I slipped in and out of consciousness, I closed my eyes in the darkness. When I opened my eyes again, sunlight streamed through the car window onto my hand. I was still in the passenger seat of the silver-gray SUV. Cara was sitting in the back seat, chatting with Mickey. She turned her head and smiled, "William, didn't you sleep well last night? You look terrible." I tugged at the corner of my mouth, the muscles stiffening, and said nothing. Before we set out in my previous life, I warned them no less than three times that the weather in the the wasteland could change abruptly—it was very dangerous. Cara rolled her eyes at me, calling me a coward, while Mickey laughed, tapping the steering wheel, saying I was just a buzzkill. This time, I won't try to persuade. I turned my head to look out at the sky. The color of the distant clouds was wrong—not the usual gray-white, but a dark ink-black, like a coarse cloth soaked in ink. The wind had picked up since earlier, and the sand grains on the car window kept piling up, blurring the view beyond. I quietly touched my pocket, my fingertips brushing against a cold metal case. It was a silver lighter—the one I had fought tooth and nail to bring into the safe house in my previous life, the same one that had gone cold in my hand in the end. This time, I won't hold back. I want to watch them—this path they chose—and see them through it on their own.