UROBOROS

He flings dry gravel from his shovel with a gnarled hiss, reaching for another before the first one hits the ground. He can\'t remember not performing that act, or not hearing that sound. The jagged rocks grind hot and dry against the metal, carving glittering hash marks that reflect the glaring sun like thousands of tiny mirrors through a heavy coat of dust and sand.
A drop of sweat on the tip of his nose falls without a sound.
He looks up at the sun between shovel loads; they should be stopping for a break soon. He’s one of many workers carving this road in a desert that stretches out for miles in every direction, swallowing everything but the sun and sky. A hundred aching backs lay it down, and 200 arms smooth it out.
Several paces behind, another crew slaps hot asphalt over the fresh gravel. Between gaps in their legs, he can see the steamrollers steadily advancing.
Behind the steamers, coolers blow mammoth clouds of water vapor over the surface of the asphalt, dramatically reducing the temperature. They bristle with giant solar panels that shine like polished armor, and provide a generous square of shade to a lucky few.
Beyond the coolers, men slap dotted white lines down the center of the road, and insert speed limit signs along the shoulder with regularity.
If he squints hard enough, he can make out flashing specks in the distance. As they grow progressively larger, tiny shapes form in the boiling waves of the new road; a police motorcade, rolling in perfect formation.
Starched uniforms, flashing lights, a dozen pairs of mirrored sunglasses hide 12 grim expressions staring out from a dozen helmets.
A glossy black limousine flanked by men in close haircuts, identical suits, and matching sunglasses idles along, two small flags of an indeterminate nature flap limply in the breeze. The windows are darkened.
The suits jog beside the limo, craning their heads left and right, scanning the empty horizon for nonexistent threats. Periodically, they place a hand to their ears as if listening to something.
Behind the limo, another phalanx of precision machines, more chrome, more gleaming badges, more polished boots and mirrored shades. Not a bead of sweat can be seen.
Fifty yards passes like 20 years before the next wave appears, heralded by a legion of high-pitched clinks, like the mating call of some strange bat. Pickaxes chip away at the road; hundreds of them, maybe thousands, driving the hard steel point into the freshly baked ribbon. When they have passed, the smooth black lies broken.
Miles ahead of the gravel crew, a final wave of workers with shovels turns the last chunks of warm rock under the sand, sweeping all trace of passing into the sand that swallows it whole.
An hour from now, he will build the road again.