Heat Death

 DIE FAST.

Armand hoped for only one thing, and that was a fast death. To die and pass into the next world, if he could, to escape the hell.

LEFT BEHIND. FORGOTTEN. HEAT DEATH.

Words carved hastily into the stone pedestal. Under its shade he stood, taking shelter beneath the broad shadow cast by the elegant arm of the steel dancer frozen into a majestic position; its metallic form shimmered in the heat, dim waves of heat radiated off its surface. All around, everywhere the sky was a thick orange and the deadening heat was impenetrable, the sand from the ground whirled up into the still air and sat, drowning out all life.

Water, thought Armand. The empty canteen knocked against his belt. He needed water, soon - the inviting grip of death neared, but the fear compelled him onwards, searching, legs struggling beneath him. No, he would not die of thirst, or starvation, or suicide; he couldn't die here, nowhere and alone, for his body only to sit and rot until only bones remained like artifacts for millions of years into the future. That would not be his death.

Day coming on more now, the shadow gradually thinned. Hazily the sun reached its zenith along its path. He could feel the intensity of heat swallowing up the air around him, drying up his throat, slowly killing the man. He would have to find shelter, and soon - before the sun emerged and reduced all to ash.

He went west away from the rising heat, following along a thin stretch of shadow. Before long he came across a garden; the lily white gate was swung open in haste and the green of the plants had long died, but the hedges remained stiffly in place. Armand went slowly through the cemetery garden, observed all around him. The roses and tulips by the fence had shriveled and flopped over; the soil, upturned, was brown and brittle; the grass matting the floor was brown and lifeless. The bushes, some carved into skating figures or dancing women, had leaned over and fallen apart, and the humble trees were skinned of leaves and only the skeletal wood remained.

And then he heard it - water. A tiny noise of tinkling liquid silver. Instinctively he moved towards the noise, out of the garden and into the house. The garden came to an end and gave way to a grand marble staircase, leading to the mansion itself which spilled with a great veranda, overlooking what had once been a magnificent, colorful sight, but now dead and forgotten. Armand might have closed his eyes right there in the midst of such beauty, imagined what had been - but the thirst drove him onward.

Stumbling, struggling to balance, he threw himself against the fountain and dove into the crystal pool of water. Silence as he drank; the cold water brought him life, for a while. He drank and drank until he could no more and sat propped up against the fountain.

"My god," he sighed.

The grandness of the mansion struck him all at once - marble palisades, diamond chandeliers, spiraling staircases, ornate columns everywhere. In the empty places on the walls it pictures were once seen to change, and from this vantage he could see everything, almost, as it had been.

"Good water, isn't it?"

Another voice - Armand swiveled around and saw standing in a doorway a dusty, short man. He wore a belt low around his waist and he had a thick beard, and there was an air of intensity in the way his calculating eyes stared.

Armand nodded, voiceless. "Yeah."

The man paused, then smiled. He moved forward and offered out his hand. "I'm Roger."

Armand rose to his feet and shook his hand. "Armand."

"Nice place you've found here, Armand," said Roger. "Good thing, too. The heat's coming on now." He gestured towards the door, which was left open - glancing out quickly they both saw the land bright with heat, so impenetrably scorching.