Rack swore into the heat. He wasn't a big fan of the climate, but the desert was so conducive to hunting barefoot scumbags. If only the damn dust would stay out of his ears, not to mention the sand that somehow worked it's way into places sand shouldn't go... Squinting into the binoculars again, deep creases appeared at the corners of Rack's eyes. The kind of creases that don't bring thoughts of humor and laughter to your mind. If you were to look into the distance as our subject does, what would you see? Bleak. That's what you would see. Bleak. Sand, sporadic tufts of sage, sand, the occasional large rock and small boulder, sand, and buzzards. Buzzards? Circling ones, nonetheless. Your eyes trace earthward, and battle the hot wind. It appears that under close inspection, there is a man dancing within the shimmers of heat in the distance. When you combine this observation with the device in Rack's hand, and the ever-so-slight lifting of the corner of his mouth, a cold feeling slips into the pit of your stomach. Rack lowers the binoculars. He's going to blow someone to pieces. There will be no hesitation, this was planned, this is deliberate- you see all this in the steel of Rack's eyes. You wish you could do something, say no... The antenna is extended, and it flashes brilliantly in the daytime sun. Your teeth clench, and there is a crunch from the sand that has been blown into your mouth. It goes unnoticed; your focus is on the killer in front of you, and his radio detonator. There is no doubt about what it is now. There is a keyhole in the front, just below the big red button. Not to worry, Rack hasn't left it on the counter at home. He reaches into his shirt, and pulls it out on a necklace. The key gleams just as brightly as the antenna, and sounds a nice click as it slides home. Sweat runs into your eye, and you blink as you paw it clear. The adrenaline that's been dumped into your system slows everything to a crawl, cursing you with the ability to observe the horror that is unfolding. Your bladder spasms, but doesn't release, and you're grateful for that. Fingernails are cutting into your palms, and your knuckles are white with the effort. You reach out to Rack, to tell him to stop, to think things over, to chat, but the order never reaches your arm, and your jaw now hangs as open as your eyes; nothing is issued but a dry, sickly wheeze. It's not enough. The dust and sand being blown past ensures that you are the only listener. The time to act is nearly past. Rack's callused thumb is already resting on the button. NOW!!! You finally lunge forward and manage to grab the remote. The thumb comes off the button, and you both fumble the device. It hits the ground, with the two of you in close pursuit. A brief rumble echoes past. Both of you come to a halt, still entangled, and look at each other. Realization hits you both simultaneously. In an instant, all the adrenaline in your body is replace by ice water, and after a couple tries, you manage to gain your feet. As you feared, a small brown mushroom cloud stands in the distance. Rack stands beside you. Wiping his nose, he stares you in the eyes for a short moment, then looks down. "I have an extra pair of shorts in the truck if you, uh... want to get that cleaned up."