He squinted against the rusty sky, locked the helmet in. Pressure was off, but a few fumbling turns on the O2 brought it back up. The first steps out the airlock sent sand and dust blasting mercilessly across his body. Visibility barely reached the vehicle. Once inside, he hooked in the juice and life support, started the silent engine, and rolled out on the massive tires.
The vehicle rocked from the pounding winds as it slowly made its way across the barren surface. He missed seeing water, but the stark landscape was hauntingly beautiful to him. The endless sea of boulders and craters reminded him of a zen garden.
A light flashed on the dashboard. He forgot to enable the infrared, and had driven off course. He cursed, brought up the map in hopes of finding a reroute. He had been here for nearly 16 months, but still had difficulty with navigation. The map displayed a new option, not the best route, but he was relieved he wouldn't have to backtrack.
He adjusted his course, exited I405 at Wilshire Blvd, and headed west into Santa Monica.