Desert Scorpion: Uncollected Anthology

By Jason A. Adams

Desert Survival Makes Strange Allies

Ambushed, left for dead, and slowly dying of desiccation.

Sgt. Burton Jennings needs friends.

No savior he, nor his new family.

Not alone.

Together they must call forth another deadly ally from stars and dreams.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Spiral Publishing, Ltd.
• Release date: Aug 1, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201952648

Jason A. Adams

Jason A. Adams grew up in various Air Force towns, but Southwest Virginia has always been his homeplace. His military brat childhood exposed him to exotic locales, fascinating people from around the world, and a lifetime curiosity that informs his fiction.Jason is the author of many short stories based in and around the Virginia coalfields he lives in and loves. He currently lives on a forest mountain with assorted beasties, and his beautiful and talented wife, Kari Kilgore, also a writer of many wonderful stories.Find out more at www.jasonadams.info, where you can sign up for information on upcoming releases, and the occasional update from The Brain Squirrels.For all works released by Spiral Publishing, including Kari's many fantastic stories and non-fiction by Frank Kilgore, check out www.spiralpublishing.net.

Book preview

Desert Scorpion

For all the arachnophiles.

DESERT SCORPION

JASON A. ADAMS

Spiral Publishing, Ltd.

CHAPTER 1

Heat.

Heat is what defines the Sonoran Desert in summertime. Heat and lack of moisture.

A silvery sun cuts through the bone-dry atmosphere like a knife, roasting plant and animal alike. Sandstone outcrops painted yellow and red by the ages reflect the heat like rocks around a campfire. Temperatures hit upwards of a hundred and five in the air most days, even higher on the salty caliche surface. Saguaro cacti the color of gangrene stretch their arms toward the lapis-blue sky, and scrubby mesquite and palo verde trees crowd thickly around any spot that gathers the scant dew. The plants provide some shade, but only for critters built low to the ground.

Anything without stickers or stingers has a mighty rough time out on the pan.

Burt had neither.

He lay huddled in a small depression he’d manage to scrape out of the sun-baked dirt under an overhanging shelf of rock, waiting for the sun to finish its business and go to bed. He’d spent the last—seven nights? Eight?—stumbling through this