The heat batters.  The sun beats down relentlessly on my olive drab uniform, baking me like a potato in foil.  A breeze blows, but instead of refreshing, it feels like my face is in front of a furnace vent.

The heat touches.  Scrub brushes reach up and touch me on the shoulder.  A steady hum of insects fills the air, but I don’t see anything moving.  My rifle sits loosely in my hands.  I feel the heat spreading through it, trying to scald my hands.

The heat illuminates.  It washes the colour out of everything.  Flowers, brush, dirt – it all blends into this dirty grey-green.  A steady stream of sweat runs down my face.

The heat deceives.  I look through my sight to where the target is supposed to be, but the mirage makes the land dance, skip, and jump around.

The heat tires.  How long have I been laying here?  I crawled up just before dawn, it must be near noon now.   How much longer can I stay?

The heat reveals.  I glimpse a slight movement through my sight.  Mirage?  I tap my rifle lightly with my finger.  From a few yards away I hear my squad-mates echo back my tap.  Not a mirage.  It’s about to get hotter.

This was written in response to The Daily Post’s Settings Writing Challenge.