Alexander Cross

Cross awoke in the cockpit of the drop ship. The pilot was next to him, shrapnel through his chest, indicating his untimely demise. Staring out the cockpit door, he could see open sand, the rest of the ship was missing. There was space between the cockpit, and the seats, where they had been sitting. His people could have survived, hell he did. But then, it was highly unlikely. Damn, now he was the last one of his regiment.

Getting up he took stock of him self, a little blood, a few scrapes, all in all he was a lucky son of a bitch. Well almost. His rifle, had fallen from his hands during the blast, his pistol was mangled lying on the floor of the cabin. The weapons lockers, were in the back part of the ship, so that was out.

They had broken up in the air, so the back half the ship could be spread over a mile, for all the soldier knew. If they survived, they would look for shelter. The sand storms were suppose to get severe now and then.

Stepping out of the wreckage, he kicked the ground. Top lair was sand, but this was more like arid badlands, then desert, with firm rock beneath. That was good. His combat knife, was still in its sheath, unharmed, so he wasn’t unarmed. Better yet.

Taking note of his surroundings, he spotted a ramshackle town, composed of piecemeal, buildings and parts, squatting together in an unruly fashion. That would be the shelter they would move to.

It took a half hour to make it to the edge, of the town, which looked more like, a scrap heap. He would have to wind his way through it. As he moved through the dirty alley, he spotted a man holding a sniper rifle, and smoking a cigarette. Lazy, but what do you do?