What Better Place to Die than Death Valley

Heat and sunlight beat down mercilessly out of the cloudless sky. It can be felt as a throbbing against dry, ashy, feverish skin. No trace of moisture is held in the air as hot as an oven. It is a wonder anything survives here at all. A few scraggly brown bushes, and the ever present cactus. How could anything get that big out here, here in the middle of nothing, nothing. Breathing is a torment, the dry air parching the throat. If you could, you would stop breathing to find a bit of relief. Feet have become long numb to the searing heat of the sand, callouses forming, it is hard to walk in a straight line in the best of circumstances in this desert, but being dehydrated makes it almost impossible. The shade of a large cactus is a welcome reprieve from the tortuous sun and heat. It doesn't even matter that the spikes are a good inch and a half long. Doesn't matter. Mirages promise water and deliver hell in return, shimmering oh so invitingly just out of reach.