Ghost Town

You awake to the hot sun beating down on your skin. The sand blows over you, already coating you in a thin layer. When you press yourself onto all fours, it pours off of you like water. You cough, your throat dry, then get to your feet.

About thirty yards away, you see the remains of the tour wagon, made up like an old west coach, laying on its side, sand beginning to cover it as well. Pieces of it have fallen off, leaving chunks of wood here and there in the sand around it. You stagger forward, unsure how you got so far away from it, but glad you did. No one else is left.

The riders came out of the desert, riding toward the coach dressed like old west outlaws, looking as though they were part of the show. You and the other tourists watched with wonder as the bandits rode up to the coach, thinking they intended to create some fictitious scenario. Instead, they climbed on board, the coach driver trying to outrun them, and tried to stop the wagon.

The horses had reared, then tried to turn suddenly, sending the coach onto its side. You can't remember anything else. Just waking up in the desert moments ago, your mouth dry and body aching, but otherwise okay. Except that you are alone, and scared.

You approach the wagon, see it totally abandoned, then see footprints leading off through the sand. They are visible here and there for about twenty feet, where the sand is thin and the hardpan just beneath the surface, then they disappear, the sand having blown over top of them.

You decide that, since the journey back to the tourists station is a long one, it might be best to follow the footprints.

You travel for almost an hour on foot, wondering if you will ever find anyone or anyplace, then you see the buildings in the distance.