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.”

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