It's been two days. Days of thirst. Of heat. Of scorching sun beating down on the desert sand around him. He had seen pictures of deserts, but never been to one. He hadn’t known it would be so desolate. No rain, no plants with water in them, no animals to eat.
After the helicopter crash, the man had been on his own. No survivors. And since the chopper had been for transportation only, it was carrying no supplies. The memories begin coming again as the suffocating smell of fuel hits him. The terrifying descent. The sand exploding around them as they hit the ground. The pain. The blood. The man shivered at the memory as chills began running across his body, but in an instant, they were gone.
  Hissssss. He whirls around. Nothing. Just barren desert sand and dead plants spiraling through the air. I’m heeeeeeeeere. The man hears the voice. I’m going mad, he thinks. That’s when the people begin appearing. His family. Friends. Even co-workers. The man screams for help, but no one answers. He pauses, blinks. They’re gone. He suddenly feels exhaustion weighing him down. Before he falls into sleep the thought reappears: I’m going mad. Sleep is welcoming. Dreams are torturous.
He hears a beating sound. Like music, maybe. No, not music. He has heard this before. It’s the sound of a rotor on a helicopter. He opens his eyes to see a helicopter descending towards him. Suddenly, he feels renewed energy zapp him to reality. They are here for me. I am being rescued. The man begins feebly waving his arms to direct the pilots. He sees a strange cylindrical object come out of the side of the helicopter. That’s when the bullets began raining down on him.