The hot, dry day had become a cold, dry night. Buffy clutched the mylar blanket around her. She cursed Uncle for sending her here and her companions for leaving her in such a bad neighborhood. It mattered not that they thought she was dead. She was very much alive and determined to stay that way.
From out beyond the dunes she heard a low whistle. They were coming. She jacked another magazine into her M-16 and waited. “Killing is our business,” she reminded herself, “and business is good.”