Well, the review vote and poll result (and emails) were unanimous; everyone wanted the psychological/supernatural/horror story, so you got it ;-) This is my first time writing in this genre (I'm a sci-fi/fantasy specialist) so bear with me :-)

The A-Team are not mine. If they were, Season Five would never have happened, no matter how much I like Robert Vaughn ;-)

Murdock told me a story one time. Actually, he told me about two dozen. My fault for buying him 101 Tales of the World, I guess, but this one stuck in my mind for some reason.

One day, a squirrel lay down for a nap at the edge of the desert, only to be picked up by a vulture and carried off. The squirrel woke up and started chattering indignantly: "How dare you try to eat me? I'm not dead!"

The vulture was so surprised he opened his beak and dropped the squirrel, then flew away. The squirrel sat up and looked around him, but he couldn't see which way to go. There was nothing but sand.

He started to walk, stopped, changed direction and then started again. Eventually he collapsed onto his side and lay there dying of heat and thirst, and the vulture came back, took one look at him and remarked, "I thought you said you weren't dead."

The squirrel tried to reply but couldn't, so the vulture ate him.

Moral of the story: anyone who tries to cross the desert without proper training and planning is dead. They just don't always know it yet.

I was the squirrel. The vulture hadn't showed up yet (did they even have vultures here?) but I got the feeling he wouldn't be far behind me.

How long had I been walking?

I had no idea, only that I desperately wanted to rest and couldn't. If I stopped, I doubted I'd be able to start again. My head was pounding so hard I thought it was about to split open, and my life had turned into a slow nightmare that consisted of dragging one blistered, sunburned foot in front of the other.

I curled my fingers a little tighter around the spark plug in my hand, squeezing until the edges dug into my skin. The pain woke me up a little, just like it had the last who-knew-how-many times I'd done it.

I could make out the lights of a small town in the distance. I'd been making them out for the last two days. Up until a few hours ago, they hadn't seemed to be getting any closer no matter how much I walked, but now...yeah, now I was definitely nearer.

I couldn't stop. No matter what happened, I couldn't stop. I also couldn't think; my mind seemed to be curling in on itself. My thoughts were fragmented, disjointed, and, if I voiced any of them out loud, would probably get me committed in a matter of seconds, but one thing kept beating out over and over again: get to the town.

I reached into my pocket and fingered the small piece of rough cloth there. That was the other thing. I'd gone through hell to bring this to Hannibal. After everything I'd survived so far, I wasn't about to let a little thing like a desert kill me.

Hannibal needed this. I could die of dehydration and/or heatstroke on my own time; right now I had a mission to complete.

So what else did I have? A torn scrap of fabric about one inch by two, and a spark plug. No baseball. Decker had the baseball. No water bottle either. I'd drunk that. The water. Water. Yes, water. Water would be good. I felt my throat move convulsively as I imagined drinking it down. Cold water. No, not cold; cool. Maybe Hannibal would give me a drink if I gave him the costume. If I could find him, of course.

I croaked something that was supposed to be a groan. I really was losing my grip on reality. Too much more of this and I'd end up like Murdock.

I don't remember much more about that nightmare of a journey, to tell you the truth. The pain grew worse – I had a sunburn like you would not believe – and sand had got into my cuts and burns. I got thirstier. My headache tripled.

And yet...somehow, I made it into the town just as the sun was setting. A battered, sand-encrusted sign proclaimed, 'Welcome to Trake, Arizona! Pop. 384'.

Okay, so maybe 'town' was something of an exaggeration. I didn't really care, though, since I caught sight of a certain object a few blocks down.

A call box. Was there ever a more wonderful, awe-inspiring invention?

People eyed me warily, but most of them stayed clear as I made a beeline for that most magnificent of call boxes...a beeline that took me ten minutes. I felt like a zombie as I shuffled my way toward it, and I probably looked like one as well.

Once I got there, habit made me fumble in my pockets for loose change, even though I knew in the back of my mind that I didn't have any. Looked like I'd have to call collect. It took me several seconds to drag the number out of my fevered mind, but I managed at last.

I don't remember making the call, but I must have because the next thing I was really aware of was Hannibal's voice coming down the receiver at me. It was fuzzy and distorted, as though I had my head underwater, but it was Hannibal and I had never been so thankful to hear his voice in my entire life.

"Hannibal! Hannibal, thank god I've got through to you!" If there hadn't been people watching – a barefoot, extremely sunburned and rather battered guy wearing nothing but a torn pair of army fatigues does attract a little attention – I think I might have gone down on my knees and sobbed with relief. Maybe I'd do that anyway.

"Face?" Hannibal sounded just as relieved to hear my voice as I was to hear his. "Where the hell are you, kid? I've been worried sick."

Dimly I heard Murdock's voice in the background. "Ask him if he's been eatin' his greens!"

Hannibal didn't bother to repeat this; instead he said, "What happened? Where are you?"

"I'm in a place called Trake, Arizona."

"Arizona?"

"Arizona?" Murdock repeated in the background.

I tightened my hold on the receiver. "Hannibal, you have to come get me. I can't find any car rentals and I don't have any money anyway."

"C'mon Face. Are you seriously telling me you can't put together a scam?"

I ran a trembling hand through my hair. My nerves were completely shot to hell. I doubted I could put together a two piece jigsaw puzzle, let alone a scam.

"Just come get me?" I didn't much like the pleading sound in my own voice, but I couldn't do anything about it.

Maybe that was what convinced him; there was a small pause, then he said, "Alright, kid. Alright. We'll try and find you. You just hang in there a little longer, okay?"

"Yeah. Yeah, okay." I ran a hand over dry and chapped lips, then glanced over my shoulder. "Just please hurry!"

I fumbled the receiver, dropped it and then managed to pick it up and replace it. I knew it would take them at least five or six hours to get down to me, even at the speed the Team usually drives, but still...every time I saw headlights on the road, I couldn't help feeling a thrill of anticipation that quickly gave way to fear every time I realized it wasn't the van, and relief when it sped on past me.

There was nothing I could do except stand and wait. The shade of the buildings offered a little relief until the sun had set completely, but there was nothing else on offer. The only shop was closed for the day and I couldn't exactly go around knocking on strangers' doors and asking if I could wait inside for a few hours. My one consolation was that at least I was safe from MPs; I doubted anyone would connect the chronically sunburned and battered guy leaning against a wall with that suave, handsome lieutenant on the Wanted poster. And even if they did, Decker and I had an understanding.

I had no idea how late it was, but the people who had been out on the streets had gone inside and I was dozing off when something screeched to a halt underneath a streetlight and sounded the horn several times.

The van! The beautiful, wonderful van! I raced across the road and leaped inside, then darted across and sat down in my usual seat in a dazzling display of balance and agility.

At least, that was the plan. The reality was that my legs finally decided that enough was enough and went on strike halfway through. End result: I stumbled, tripped and fell flat on my face, landing half in and half out. Someone – Murdock – grabbed me under the armpits and pulled me inside. I heard the door slam shut behind us and felt a chill shoot through me, followed by a shiver of relief.

"Face?" Hannibal. I tried to wave reassuringly. My hand flopped about like a dying fish for a few seconds and then gave up.

"Go! Go. Just...go! We have to get out of here right now!"

He didn't argue or insist on explanations, but just said, "BA!"

I felt the van shift into reverse. I didn't have the strength to stand or even crawl to one of the seats; all I could do was lie on the carpeted floor, quivering all over with exhaustion. I was still clutching the spark plug in one hand and I have a dim recollection of pulling away and snarling when a curious Murdock tried to see what I had in there. Even though I was in the van, even though I was safe, I still wasn't going to let go of it. That spark plug was my talisman, my charm, the only thing that had enabled me to survive the desert.

Somewhere in the thunderclouds of my fevered mind was a tiny part of me which protested that this was nuts, that I would have come out anyway, but I dismissed it. It was the spark plug. Having it had saved my life before – that wasn't delirium, it really had happened – and I was sure it had kept me going through the desert.

Nice, Face. Let's see if you still think that once you're fully recovered.

I caught a glimpse of Hannibal's face, eyes dark with concern as he looked at me. Not just for my physical well-being; from his expression, he thought I'd sprung a hole in my bag of marbles.

Fair enough. I was starting to wonder about that myself.

"Hannibal." There was something I had to do. Something important. Something...in my pocket? Yes! That was it! I managed to reach into my pocket with my other hand, pull out the scrap of fabric there and hand it up to him. He took it, although the concerned look on his face deepened.

"Uh...thanks, Face."

"Hey Face, what the heck happened?"

"Leave him alone, BA." Hannibal's voice was slow and seemed to have dropped half a dozen octaves. "He's exhausted. He can tell us when he's had a chance to get some rest."

Rest. If there was a more wonderful word than rest, I didn't know what it was. I just wanted to lie there, to close my eyes and sleep for days. The carpet rasped harshly against my sunburn, but I didn't have the energy to move.

As I lay there, I felt myself start to shake. Delayed reaction to heat exhaustion, my tiny core of sanity informed me.

"Colonel!" Murdock's voice rang in my ears. "Colonel, you better stop! I think Faceman's pitchin' a fit!"

"NO!" Speaking so loudly tore at my throat, but I couldn't let them stop. We had to keep going. I wouldn't feel safe until I was back in LA.

Somehow I managed to summon enough discipline to get the shakes under control, although I could only do it by tensing every muscle in my body. I heard Murdock rooting around in the back of the van and then he came back with a blanket, which he placed over me. I was also dimly aware of his lifting my head up and sliding something soft and creaking underneath; his jacket.

Murdock... I didn't have the strength to thank him, but I didn't think I had to. The guy always seemed to know what I was thinking.

I felt a warmth course through me and as the van accelerated down the road, leaving Trake far behind, I began to hope that my ordeal was finally over.