Part I. The Desert’s Teeth
The desert did not welcome strangers—it devoured them.
Artem Kuznetsov had never intended to set foot in it. A railway engineer from Orenburg, he had traveled south in 1929 with a small expedition tasked to survey routes across the Kazakh steppe. But when their truck broke down and water supplies ran low, he and two others set out on foot to find help. By the second day, he was alone.
The sun hammered the land without mercy. The sky was a white dome, the ground a mirror of heat. Artem’s lips cracked until blood salted his mouth, his skin blistered, and his eyes burned. Every breath scraped his throat like sand.
He stumbled onward, his coat draped loosely across his head for shade. The desert played tricks—mirages of silver lakes shimmered in the distance, mocking his thirst.
By midday, he collapsed beneath a lonely thorn bush, its shade no bigger than his shoulders. The heat pressed down like a furnace door. His canteen was nearly empty, the last drops warm as blood.
In the silence, he heard his instructor’s voice from years ago, during survival training:
“In heat, you do not run. You do not rage. You endure. Protect your head, guard your water, and walk with the sun—not against it.”
Artem forced himself to rise. He wrapped his coat tighter, covered his neck with a rag, and moved again—slow steps, steady breaths.
The desert had teeth. It would chew him if he panicked. But if he moved with patience, perhaps he could slip between them.
And so began his march through the furnace.
Хочешь, я продолжу сразу с Part II — где Артём будет искать воду: по растениям, по следам животных, по ландшафту, и поймёт цену каждой капли?
You said:да
ChatGPT said:Продолжаем
Вторая часть рассказа для статьи №9 "Survival in a Hot Climate: Sun Protection and Hydration".
Part II. The Hunt for Water
The desert gave nothing freely. But Artem knew water could be found if one read the land like scripture.
By late afternoon, he slowed near a dry wadi—a shallow gash in the earth where floods sometimes raged after rains. Now it was cracked mud, but signs lingered. Tufts of green reeds clung stubbornly to its edges. Artem dropped to his knees, digging with trembling hands. At first, only dust. Then dampness. Then, slowly, mud. He squeezed it through his rag, pressing a few precious drops into his mouth.
It was foul, gritty—but it was life.
He filled his canteen halfway with the muddy liquid, knowing it must later be filtered and boiled. But in the desert, even dirty water was treasure.
As he rested, his eyes caught something above—a circling vulture. At first, despair gripped him. But then he remembered: birds often circled near life—sometimes a carcass, sometimes waterholes where animals gathered.
He rose, following its lazy arc. Hours later, he found tracks in the sand: gazelle hooves, fresh and sharp. They led him to a patch of scrub where acacia trees twisted their roots deep into hidden moisture. He chewed their leaves, bitter but damp, feeling his throat ease.
At dusk, when the air cooled, he set his coat into a shallow pit, anchoring the edges with stones, a tin cup in the center. Overnight, dew would condense beneath the cloth and drip slowly into the cup—a poor man’s distiller, a trick learned from an old desert guide.
Each drop would be worth more than gold.
That night, lying on the sand beneath stars sharp as knives, Artem whispered:
“Every plant is a well. Every track a path. The desert hides water, but it cannot live without it either.”
He closed his eyes, clutching the half-filled canteen to his chest as though it were life itself. Because in truth, it was.
Хочешь, я продолжу сразу с Part III — где он начнёт бороться с палящим солнцем, создавая укрытие и двигаясь только в безопасные часы?
You said:да
ChatGPT said:Продолжаем
Третья часть рассказа для статьи №9 "Survival in a Hot Climate: Sun Protection and Hydration".
Part III. The War Against the Sun
Morning in the desert was not gentle—it was a blade.
By sunrise, the air was already scorching, the sand burning beneath Artem’s boots. He knew he could not march blindly through the day. To fight the sun was to lose. He needed to shield himself, to trick the heat into sparing him.
He tore strips from his shirt, wrapping them around his head and neck until only his eyes remained uncovered. His coat became a cloak, draped loosely to keep the sun from his skin while trapping pockets of cooler air. The wool itched and stank of sweat, but each layer was armor against the furnace above.
He moved slowly, conserving strength, pausing often in scraps of shade. Under one thorn tree, he lay flat on the cooler earth beneath, heart pounding like a drum. His body screamed for water, but he rationed carefully—one sip, no more.
At midday, when the sun blazed at its cruelest, Artem stopped entirely. He dug a shallow trench, covering himself with branches and his coat to form a crude shelter. The air inside was stifling, but cooler than the outside blast. He waited, sweating, swallowing his thirst like poison.
Only when the shadows stretched long again did he rise and walk. The desert at dusk was a different world: the sand bled its heat, the wind carried a trace of mercy, and his steps grew steadier.
That night, beneath a sky spilled with stars, he walked by moonlight. The silence was immense, broken only by his boots crunching sand and the rasp of his breath. He carried his canteen close, guarding each drop, but his mind began to wander. He imagined rivers, forests, snowfields. He heard his mother’s voice telling him as a boy: “The sun gives life, but if you stand in its gaze too long, it will take it back.”
By dawn, he had learned the rhythm of desert life: hide from the sun, walk with the stars, and drink only when the body can take no more.
The desert was still trying to kill him. But now, at least, he knew how to answer its rules.
Хочешь, я продолжу сразу с Part IV — где он столкнётся с опасным выбором: рискнуть последними силами ради миража или довериться знакам природы?
You said:да
ChatGPT said:Продолжаем
Четвёртая часть рассказа для статьи №9 "Survival in a Hot Climate: Sun Protection and Hydration".
Part IV. The Mirage
By the third day, Artem’s lips were split to blood, his legs trembling with every step. His canteen was nearly empty, and the dew trap had given him no more than a swallow. Hunger gnawed faintly, but thirst was a hammer inside his skull.
At noon, shimmering light appeared ahead—a wide expanse of blue, rippling like a lake. Artem froze. His heart leapt, but reason hissed: Mirage. He had seen them before, taunting illusions born of heat.
But this one looked different. Birds circled low. And was that green at the edges? A clutch of palms?
He staggered forward, torn between hope and suspicion. The distance never closed. His tongue swelled, his mind swam. He stopped, forcing himself to breathe slowly. His old instructor’s words returned: “Water hides, but trees never lie. Green means roots. Roots mean moisture.”
Artem forced his eyes away from the lake illusion and scanned carefully. Yes—farther left, where the land dipped, real palms grew, their fronds heavy and dark. No trick. Life.
He stumbled toward them, each step agony, until at last he reached the shade. The ground was cracked, but beneath, moisture gleamed faintly. He dug with bleeding fingers, scooping mud, pressing it through cloth until drops seeped into his mouth.
It was foul, warm, heavy with grit—but it was water. Real.
He collapsed against the trunk, laughing hoarsely, though the sound was closer to a sob. His whole body trembled with relief.
As he rested, he noticed something else: the palms bore dates, dark clusters hanging heavy. Food. Sweetness flooded his tongue as he bit into the first, sticky juice dribbling down his chin.
Strength seeped back into his body, not much, but enough.
He looked out at the desert beyond the grove—the false lake still shimmering in the distance. It no longer tempted him.
“The desert lies,” he whispered. “But it also tells the truth. You just have to know where to look.”
That night, beneath the palms, he felt for the first time not like prey of the desert, but its guest—unwanted, but tolerated.
Хочешь, я завершу историю финальной Part V — где Артём выйдет к людям и поймёт, что солнце и жажда стали его учителями?
You said:да
ChatGPT said:Завершаем
Финальная часть рассказа для статьи №9 "Survival in a Hot Climate: Sun Protection and Hydration".
Part V. The Lesson of the Furnace
At dawn, Artem left the palms behind, his canteen half-full of filtered mud-water, his pockets heavy with dates. The desert stretched endless still, but his steps were firmer now. He had shade in memory, strength in his stomach, and a rhythm to guide him: rest by day, walk by night.
For two more nights he marched beneath the stars, his body burning with thirst, yet never breaking pace. The sun still punished him, but no longer as an enemy—he hid from it, bent with it, let it pass. The desert had taught him obedience, and obedience had kept him alive.
On the fifth morning, when he crested a dune, he saw it: smoke rising, thin and gray, from chimneys at the edge of a small settlement. The sight nearly dropped him to his knees. He stumbled forward, half-delirious, until shouts carried across the sand. Men ran to him, catching him under the arms, pouring water from clay jars over his lips. He drank greedily, the cool liquid spilling down his chin, soaking his shirt.
The villagers fed him bread and melon, shaded him beneath woven mats. When at last he could speak, they asked how he had crossed so far alone.
Artem thought of the furnace path, of the false lake that mocked him, of the palms that saved him, of the coat that shielded his neck, of the single dew drop he had guarded like treasure. He said simply:
“The desert is not cruel. It is exact. It kills the foolish, but it spares those who move with it, not against it.”
He never forgot the lesson. For years after, whenever he felt thirst even in a city street, he would close his eyes and see the palms, the dew, the false lake. And he would whisper the words that had carried him through:
“Protect the head. Guard the water. Walk with the sun, not against it.”
Because the desert had taught him that survival is not strength—it is respect.