Each step weighed more than the last as he moved forward. As if that wasn't enough, he had another dune to cross, and this probably wouldn't be the last one either. A breath of resignation to his luck escaped as he finally gave in to the temptation to check on the compass.

His hand slipped to the pocket and swiftly retrieved the compass. For a moment, hesitation lingered as he stood in the sand, halfway up the dune. The memory of checking the compass while he was facing a hurricane passed through his mind. He had grown confident after checking the compass, seeing as his luck was peaking. Yet it had dived into the black area a moment later. That had almost cost him his life if it wasn't for the sudden shaking in his legs causing him to fall onto his left leg, causing a flying shard of wood to impale his right forearm instead of where his heart would've been at. It was a lesson engraved into his mind.

A pulse of searing pain pulled him back to reality as he flicked the compass open. Encouraged by what he saw, he climbed the dune eagerly —pain pushed aside— only to catch sight of what was once a megapolis, now only a shadow of its former self.

There were crudely made tents leaning on the side of fallen skyscrapers, shielding traders and stock from the sun. Piles of rubble were gathered to either side of the road, with inorganic trash laid separated from the piles. Buildings had proved far dangerous to inhabit, and those who were willing to take the risk had made an effort to create reinforcements so they don't die from sudden collapses. Even then, underground homes were a much safer alternative, offering protection from the sunlight and heatwave.

Ignoring the jets of pain from his exposed back, he pocketed the watch and ran down, his feet occasionally stumbling albeit not enough to cause him to tumble. He could see figures walking around, bartering for daily supplies deeper in the city. Stocks were covered with cloths to prevent sand from contaminating them. Considering how close the stands were to the border of the megapolis, he guessed the city was by far the largest he had seen yet.

As he switched from running to jogging to limping into the city, many seized what they were doing and prepared to evacuate, not before he shook his hands to tell them he wasn't a bringer of bad news, to which relief flooded them all. Everyone resumed what they were doing, the traders who were preparing to gather up their stock hunkering down again.

Now that he was closer, he could see metal wagons here and there, filled to the brim with soil, with hints of crops growing in it. The hostility of the open environment has made farming a difficult mission as even plants find it hard to weather hurricanes and blizzards without shelter, yet the food was crucial and is prized highly. The ingenuity of the human mind had created a solution, that is to create mobile platforms that could be moved to a nearby shelter before the environment had a chance to kill the crops, resulting in what everyone called a farm-wagon, or "fag" for short.

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As he approached one of the traders resting on a piece of rubble under a crude tent, leaning against the wall while watching his approach, the trader took off his mask —similar to his in every way— and revealed a girl around his age instead, with a piece of cloth shielding her airways from sand infiltrating.

"What can I do for you?" She spun back and lifted the cloth covering her supplies. "Canned food, clean water, portable gas canisters. Name what you seek, and I shall deliver. At a price of course."

His mind was blank from the lack of human conversation through the entire journey, but the trader mistook his lack of reply for something else instead. Wary in her voice, she spoke. "If you're thinking of robbing me, best be on your way now. The city doesn't tolerate bandits." She eyed him, one of her hands already reaching for something in her back pocket.

As sudden as a sand storm could turn into a blizzard, he fell to his knees as the fiery pain from his back that was previously held back by adrenaline began to take effect on his weary mind. The trader looked worried for a second as if she was looking at a sick patient —a Covid patient perhaps— though she quickly realized he was wounded instead. Her previous wariness was gone as she went and inspected him.

"Jesus Christ, what happened to you?" The girl swore when she caught sight of his sand mutilated back, black skin hanging off on the edges of the wound as the smell of decay reached her. She turned to her supplies and grabbed a bottle of fresh water and some bandages, intent on at least patch up the wound.

He shook his head as he realized his throat was parched from traveling without a sufficient water source. Quickly, he grabbed the bottle, eliciting a "Hey!" from the girl, took off his mask, and drank a mouthful. He couldn't afford to drink too much, since he needed some to wash his wounds.

"This is..." The girl grabbed the half-empty bottle as she let out a sigh and grabbed another bottle of water, along with some salt. She went behind him, washing his wounds, sterilizing the wound with salt —he grunted from the sting— before bandaging him.

"We're gonna have to visit the pharmacy for some antibiotics," She said as he put his mask back on. Though his back burned and stung, the pain meant the injury did not reach bone. He looked to the ground, still kneeling, and saw drops of pus and black blood staining it. The girl helped him up, taking care not to let him fall, yet he was too weak, his butt falling onto the solid ground.

"Your injuries are too deep to leave untreated with medication," She said as she realized he was to heavy to carry. Hesitation showed on her face, her eyes looking between him and her wares, not before his back fell onto the sands did she put her mask on and ran deeper into the city.

As his injuries weighed him down, he felt ill and weak, the strength he relied on to power through the storm long gone along with his adrenaline. He was tired, yet the pain from his back kept him awake. For once, dying didn't sound so bad.

"With the world's gone to hell, you're gonna have to carry our genes son." His father's dying words rang suddenly in his mind.

He sighed and took out his compass to check his luck. To his horror, the needle was sweeping within the black area while the other needle pointed at the cloud.

Should he want to survive, he would have to walk it off. Then, he would have to warn the others.