That night was cold. The moon hung wan and swollen in the dead sky as wind barraged Jonathan’s camp.

His eyes slid open as the wind got worse, slicing at his already chapped lips and dry skin. The mask wouldn’t hold the biting air off – just the contagion, which was deathly clever enough to presumably work it’s way as far out from habitation as possible. His gloved finger traced the line a scorpion made through the light red dust.

Samson whinnied softly. “Hey, boy,” Jonathan croaked, softer than the insect’s legs hitting the dirt. “Just a few more days…”

He trailed off, eyes drawn to the faded silhouette of the old Anemoi skyport to the north. It had been derelict and abandoned for years, now, as the airship graveyard could attest to.

Jonathan closed his eyes again. It took two hours to pass before he fell asleep.