â. âË.â âď¸ ââËâ§ ďž His clothes and skin were getting scratched by the boulders as the panic of merely seeing the gun to his face level made him stumble on his feet and get sightly stuck. The confusion of seeing the barrel withdrawing didn't last long enough to appease his panic; he realized their intentions as soon as his first drop of sweat slid off his forehead. He touched his face, his hand coming damp. His difficult breathing, his dry throat and his general fatigue were all to blame to the heat; the nausea, though, was pure panic.
â Shit. Shit, shit. I'm dead. If I don't get out I'm dead. â
â. âË.â âď¸ ââËâ§ ďž He went through his bag a few times, realizing he had nothing to defend himself with. He knew panic was bad and that all the calories spent on his frantic thoughts were wasted, but the survival instincts of thousands of years were sinking their claws into his throat. He looked up to the sky, the small snippet of pure blue that mocked him from above. There was no other way out.
He grabbed a fistful of rock, feeling the sharpness of the stone break his skin. He closed his eyes, practically dragging himself up with his hands as he gritted his teeth. He knew, he didn't have a lot of time before the heat got him. If it did, he wouldn't wake up.