You all liked the market place scene. O-kay... Don't know why, but okay.
- Sunshine; No, your review doesn't count as two. A threat is counted as two, like Rage's threat. Rage's threat was very effective... XP
Chapter Three;
~!~!~
Do you know, that wax can melt?
That wax can melt;
That wax can melt.
Do you know that wax can melt;
in sweat - not drops, it's said.
~!~!~
Hamilton stared in disgust at the 'truck's' dashboard. It was five days later - time to start, supposably.
"Alright!" The man down below was screaming his lungs out, but Hamilton still had to strain his ears to hear him. "Start whenever you're ready! I've got my hand on the clock!"
Hamilton had to withhold a snicker. Now, what if I told you I really wasn't ready? What if I told you that I wasn't going to be ready until I'm back in Alaska, got a truck that isn't a piece of junk, and can go faster than seventy, and actually have something with a stereo? What about that then? But he started the truck's engine. It sputtered, coughed a few times, and settled into a steady monotone voice. Hamilton rolled his eyes. Typical harsh-weather truck.
"Drive!"
Hamilton put his foot to the pedal. The truck gave another sputter, a putt, and then began to crawl forward. Groaning, he leaned back in the driver's seat, floored the gas pedal - not that the truck sped up any - and crossed his left foot on the steering wheel. Don't stop driving until you reach the oasis-checkpoint? This was going to be a piece of cake.
Or maybe not.
Hamilton breathed in and out, consciously and deeply for the fourth time in fifteen minutes. Sand was everywhere. Dunes were everywhere. Rocks were everywhere. Heat- heat was everywhere. Shaking his head slightly, to clear it, Hamilton focused on the road. Wavy lines drifted everywhere one turned beyond twenty feet. The road looked like a series of roller coaster bumps.
And he couldn't think.
Grasping the steering wheel with both hands, Hamilton took another deep breath and let it out. Nothing helped. Tiny, fine, particles of sand dug into the corner of his mouth, face, eyes; eyelids, and nose, and wouldn't let go for the world. There was nothing to focus on. If there was, it wouldn't be that bad, but the road stretched on in a flat, mirage-riddled line as far as mirages would let the eye see. Sand was the only other thing.
How could people live here?
Grabbing his teeshirt from the empty seat beside him, Hamilton mopped sweat from his face. He had five, one-liter water bottles in back, but the first one was almost gone, and he'd been driving for only an hour and a half. Leaning back, Hamilton closed his eyes and tried to imagine he was in Alaska again, where it'd probably be snowing.
This was torture. Real torture.
For a second, Hamilton was mildly grateful that Griper had chosen him for the job. Millie - or Middie, either one, would have passed out at the wheel after the first hour. But I just couldn't get the stupid exempt line. Frowning, Hamilton focused on the road.
A checkpoint was never more welcome for any contestant, anywhere.
Hamilton could see the leering eyes of the desert men as he crawled - quite sheepishly - down from the truck. They had made bets to see how he'd take the first day. Only one guy was paying up; apparently everybody else had bet against him.
Hamilton could have clobbered them all. As it was, he stalked through the group, swearing under his breath about how commercialized people were these days. The men stared at him, muttering under their breath about how rude it was for those stinking Americans to take their shirts off in public.
Once inside, Hamilton dropped into a chair and called for a glass of water. It came with no ice. No ice. Deciding against drinking it, Hamilton went straight to his room. Room five, Griper had said. Hamilton opened the door to the room, and then stopped dead.
He was shorter.
Backing up, Hamilton measured himself against the door. He had heard that most of the doors in rural areas were made by hand, but this was ridiculous.
Six inches to the door one day, and then an entire foot the other?
Standing against the door frame, Hamilton marked where his head was at, and then measured up with the length of his palms. Three of those. And if each palm length was four inches... that was a foot. One foot. But that made no sense!
"Do you have problem?"
Hamilton spun around to see the truck stop keeper staring confusedly at him. He quickly shook his head, glanced at the doorframe for a moment, then shook his head again. "No- no, I'm good. Just- I was thinking there for a minute."
"Good. You take long rest," The man bowed his head slightly out of courtesy or respect, Hamilton couldn't tell, and then nodded. "It 116 degrees tomorrow - Far-en-heit. You need lot rest."
116 degrees. Hamilton shut the door. He needed the exemption line. This was ridiculous.
Quite honestly, I've been in 120 degrees, Farenheit, so Hamilton doesn't even have it that bad. For some reason, I like to boast about that. My cousin was showing off that he 'wasn't cold' in the Arizona winter, so now I've got to get him out some time and boast about how I'm 'not hot' in the Arizona heat. Haha. I GET THE LAST LAUGH! - if I can do it. O.o
This is a minor filler chapter, but also rather important...