A bolt of lightning danced across the sky, setting it aglow with a purplish hue and illuminating the skyline. Of course, the skyline didn’t need much illuminating.

The small buildings stuck out like small shards of glass, swept under the rug and forgotten about until someone who’s trouble is worth something steps on it.

Near the outskirts, I could still see the dumpsters where the bussers would take the garbage out. It was a city of waste where anything not of use was disposed in the most instantly convenient way. A paste made from sand, grease, and grime coated the foundations of the pubs and slums.

Small lights of penthouses shined out across the rooftops illuminating the paths less travelled by that would become oh so useful in a pinch.

It was a dark hole where everything smelled like liquor and trash. It was also the only place the poor jackals had.

Thunder rolled.

At the center of it all stood the desert gem. The Glass Locust Hotel and Casino. Spotlights bounced light up the thin pillar and shot off into the sky. A beacon of greed. And opportunity.

On the edge of the dust bowl valley in which the city sat was a highway that somehow appeared out of nowhere when the buildings ended, stretching out past me and into infinity across the desert.

The buildings had caused the wind to deposit sand dunes surrounding the city, forming artificial walls that could be effortlessly infiltrated along the road that was the only common way in or out.

Alternatively, you could climb 70 feet up a sand dune, and then slide down the other side. Of course, you’d have to do it in the dark and avoid the spotlights or have your blood spilled on the sand by a bullet ripping through your shoulder.

Yet here I was, just past midnight, sitting atop the dune wall.

Outside the dune walls, the landscape was mostly flat, with the gentle waves of sand blowing across and leaving a thin blanket over that photogenic highway.

The only major exception was the old motel. It was only two floors and had been abandoned years ago. That’s where Jack and I stayed, and the Doc’s been with us travelling back and forth between our hideout and his lab in the space hidden above a pub in the slums.

It looked like a cardboard box that needed to be broken down. The roof in the lobby had caved in, making the reception desk an excellent place to stargaze on a clearer night.

We made a supply room out of the second floor lobby in the Northwestern Wing, and my bedroom was just around the corner in room 218. Jack Rabbit’s was 222, and the Doc’s temporary space was 112, across from the steps down to his workshop in the boiler room.

Out beyond the motel was nothing but sand dunes and real jackals. Desert dogs that would tear you apart for fun. There were small amounts of vegetation but nothing substantial enough for anyone to make it out of this hell hole without a vehicle.

Rumor has it there are jack rabbits out there that would lure you in by copying your friends voice, crying for help from a ravine or a cave, only to shred you with a swarming frenzy of pirranha teeth. They bore the antlers of a stag and could only be caught by setting a trap with a glass of bourbon as bait.

No one from the Glass Locust or the valley had dared to travel too far to find out.

The lightning streaked across the sky again and the clouds blew across the deserts vast expanse.

I exhaled. Alone.