As all forms of water evaporated worldwide, the Oasis, a lush area protected by a massive concrete wall and guard station, offered the final hope for the remaining drought survivors. Judging by the dead bodies strewn across the path near the compound entrance, I assumed the guards were not planning our welcome party today. Pity.
Hearing a desperate request to find a way inside, I speak while reluctantly reaching for a hidden Vodka bottle from my backpack.
“Let me attempt to bribe the guards and once I signal, slip in fast.”
Praying to St. Michael, I quicken my pace forward.
::: ::: :::
Inspiration: Friday Fictioneers with host, Rochelle Wisoff-Fields
Write a one hundred word story that has a beginning, middle and end.
MAKE. EVERY. WORD. COUNT.
Photo source: John Nixon at The SuperCargo.com