The first red tinges of the rising sun crept over the barren horizon. A lone figure huddled in the dust, staring out at the endless desert, sand and dust reflecting off of the heavy goggles that shielded his eyes from the sun. The desert was endless, ridges and hills of sand stretching off into the distance as far as he could see. The oppressive heat was already starting to permeate the air, wilting the feeble grasses that clung to life in the baked mud.

Matthew lifted his head, staring down the long, dusty road that parted the endless sands of the Afghan Desert. He had been stranded, alone and abandoned, for two days now. His canteen was nearly empty, the last traces of water making light sloshing noises each time he moved. He had half a mind to drain the canteen and be done with it; to stop rationing himself to a few halting sips every few hours. He wanted to gulp down what little water remained, to squander it in a burst of fulfilling need. He wouldn't, of course. He despised the teasing weight of the canteen, the ever-present reminder of what little time he had left, but he wasn't about to give up hope.

For perhaps the hundredth time since his abandonment, he fingered the dog tags strung around his neck. They were sticky and warm from being pressed against his chest. They felt unbearably heavy, though they could not possibly weigh more than a few grams each. Eyes flicking from the tags to the desert, then back again, he flipped the one closest to his heart over, fingers tracing out the name engraved in the hot metal. Alfred Jones, his half-brother, and the only reason Matthew had not given up hope.

They had been part of a small transport –no more than 10 men or so- on their way to the base. They had been happy, leaving the desert for a month long break had seemed dream-like after their years of fighting. Alfred had been ecstatic, excitedly talking to all who would listen about his plans as soon as he returned home. Matthew had listened quietly, interjecting his own ideas whenever the opportunity arose. Every few minutes Alfred would turn to him only to deliver another blinding smile before continuing a story, eagerly protesting when Matthew jokingly rolled his eyes at his idea of a perfect day-McDonalds for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, interrupted only by horror movies and videogames. Matthew would propose some better options-namely hockey- and the arguments would spiral upwards from there. Beneath all his snide comments however, Matthew couldn't wait to get home. And just looking into his brother's eyes, he could tell Alfred was thinking the same thing.

A sentry had noticed a cloud of dust rising into the heated desert air behind them. Soon, the sound of engines roaring could be heard clearly over the drone of the truck's engine. They had prepared for combat, readying their rifles and staring anxiously as four black motorcycles came steadily into view, each carrying a masked driver and a passenger holding a machine gun. The mysterious passengers had opened fire, the spray of bullets lodging in the wood and metal of the truck bed, whistling around the soldiers as they struggled to return fire. Matthew, like the rest of the men in the truck, had crouched behind one of the many supply crates that were scattered across the rear of the truck, attempting to shoot his pursuers. It was a difficult task; the truck lurched over the unpaved desert road unpredictably, causing his aim to fly off each time he tried to take a shot. Luckily, the bandits were having similar problems.

Soon there was only one rider left, still chasing the truck even as his comrades lay dead in the dust behind him. Matthew stood to take a shot, leaning out over the open end of the truck as he steadied himself against a steel support beam. Suddenly, the truck lurched forward, bouncing awkwardly over a sizeable dip in the road. Matthew grabbed at the truck's wall, hands scrabbling uselessly across the rusty metal as he felt himself falling. He was jerked back by a rough hand around his collar, and he turned, looking into the panicked blue eyes of his brother. Alfred smiled, tense and worried, before releasing him and laughing awkwardly. "Sorry about that bro, but I'm not about to lose you that easily."

Matthew had opened his mouth to reply, only to cry out as a searing pain knifed through his leg. A shot echoed in his ear as he felt the bullet tear into him, carving through skin and flesh like butter. His knees buckled beneath him, and he was falling, his thigh smacking against the edge of the truck bed before slipping over the small ledge that separated the truck bed from the ground rushing beneath him. He felt hands pull uselessly at his jacket, slipping over the coarse thread as uselessly as his own hands had traced the truck supports just moments before. He grabbed blindly behind him, feeling rather than seeing his brother's face, closing his hand on a thin chain –dog tags? –And pulling, trying to steady himself, opening his eyes just in time to see his brother's panicked face as the chain snapped. And then he was falling, really falling this time, and his arm pounded against the rough dirt of the road, a futile attempt to break his fall, and the rest of his body followed, falling limply to the dirt. He rolled involuntarily, his leg screaming in protest, before coming to a stop, face down in the dust. He blearily raised his head in time to see the truck continue down the road, a dusty cloud in its' wake.

Why weren't they stopping? A loud droning reached his ears, and he turned his head to the side, eyes widening as he saw the lone rider speeding toward him. Closing his eyes, he waited for the impact, wincing instinctively as the bike sped by his ear, missing him completely. Matthew laughed in relief, a groan of pain escaping his lips as he tried to stand. The rider was probably smart enough to realize that hitting his limp body while going at speeds in excess of 60km/h wasn't great for the tires. He would have acted as a human speed bump. As the bike became a black shape, rapidly fading into the distance, Matthew became aware of a new sound, deep and rough. Looking back, he saw another cloud of dust rising, much bigger than the first. That's why they hadn't stopped. Looks like the biker had reinforcements.

Looking back up the road to the now fuzzy speck in the distance -his glasses had been knocked off in his fall-his eyes caught a slight glimmer on the road. Crawling slowly forward, he nearly cried at what he saw. His brother's dog tags. Grasping the thin chain tightly, he shoved them in his pocket, eyes wandering back to the approaching trucks.

Gathering his strength, and trying not to cry out as his wounded leg threatened to give out, he crawled to the side of the road, falling into a welcoming ditch. He crawled over the sand and dried mud, reaching the top of a large dune just as the convoy of trucks became visible. Hurriedly flinging himself over the edge of the dune, he tumbled haphazardly out of sight, flipping and rolling before coming to rest in a small gully. Thankfully, he had not been seen -or perhaps he just wasn't important enough for them to stop- and the trucks passed him, men shouting in an unknown language as they continued after the motorcycle.

Matthew sighed in relief before reclining against the sloped walls of the ditch, careful to avoid putting pressure on his wounded leg, letting his eyes slip shut as he reached into his pocket, withdrawing Alfred's dog tags. He traced the contours of the small metal plates, unstringing them from the broken chain and sliding them onto his own, sighing as the warm metal slid across his neck.

Looking around, he spotted a small dip in the sand in front of him. The desert winds had carved out a small channel, creating a trench of sorts, which he gratefully sank into. The air was hot, his army jacket making the heat nearly unbearable, but the ditch provided some means of relief from the hot sun. Shrugging off the jacket, he reclined in the sand, falling asleep quickly to dream of rescue.

He stayed in that ditch for two days.

So first of all...
Massive Disclaimer: I know NOTHING about being in the army, but I'd like to hope they don't leave people behind like that, although in this fictitious situation it was for the best. I needed to get him alone, and I couldn't think of a better way to do this. I also have no idea whether a dog tag "necklace" would break that easily. Finally, I'm sorry for bringing the Taliban/Afghanistan into this. I'm not usually one to bring politics into writing, not the writing that I post here anyway. Either way, this is not meant to be a pro-war story, or an anti-muslim story, or anything racist. I just needed a military conflict that Canada is currently participating in. Needless to say, I support our troops, just not the war efforts themselves. I'm more of a talk-it-out person.
Author's Note: This is going to be a chapter fic. Thanks for reading, reviews (good and bad) are appreciated.
-Meg