Chapter 4 - The Storm
The grit-storms are nature's fury made manifest, yet there is nothing natural about them. They rise without warning, vast walls of crimson dust that devour the horizon. In their wake, they leave only silence and transformation.
I have seen a grit-storm turn a thriving settlement into a ghost town in mere hours, its inhabitants entombed in their own homes. I have watched as another passed harmlessly through a caravan, leaving not a speck of red on their clothes or skin.
Some claim to predict their coming by the taste of copper in the air or the strange behavior of animals. Others swear by complex calculations based on wind patterns and the phases of the moon. Yet for all our attempts to understand them, the grit-storms remain as capricious as they are deadly.
The wise traveler learns to read the signs and seek shelter at the first hint of danger. For in the world of grit, there is no force more terrifying than a storm that can strip flesh from bone, yet leave buildings untouched. No sound more haunting than the keening wail of wind-driven grit as it searches for any crack or crevice to infiltrate.
And yet, even in this terror, there is wonder. For those who survive to see the storm's passing are treated to a world made new. Familiar landscapes reshaped, old dangers buried, and sometimes, secrets of the old world unveiled.
In the end, the grit-storms remind us of our place in this changed world. We are but motes in the crimson wind, clinging to life in a land that no longer belongs to us alone.
- From the Writings of Brother Felix St George
Josiah’s horse was just a speck of black on the horizon as they packed up Win.
“So,” the Librarian said. “We have a choice.” His companions looked at him questioningly.
“According to the maps I traded for, if we continue on the High Way we will pass very close to Four Fields - or at least whatever is left of it. Alternately, we can take one of the High-Way exits and detour out of our way by a day to avoid it.” He watched their faces expectantly.
Scout, predictably, was the first to answer. “Travel past a town full of dead people slaughtered by a flying man and his Duster goons? No, thank you! And it’s not like we’re in a hurry.”
November thought of her family, on her trail. “Josiah did say they were all dead, and an extra day is a lot of wasted time.”
“So what?” said Scout. “Are the Librarian’s books going to spoil if we don’t get to the next town in time? We’re not in any hurry.”
Well, they weren’t, November thought dourly. But she decided not to push the issue. “Fine, but if we’re detouring off the road we’ll need to be extra careful. Dusters sometimes bury themselves in the dunes and Rattler might not see them coming.”
Scout shrugged. “Is there anything we could ever do which you wouldn’t suggest we should be ‘extra careful’ about?”
November considered this. “Probably not.”
****
They all felt it as Win left the great black smoothness of the High Way behind. The ride became jerkier and slower and the windows were smeared red with grit stirred by its tires.
Oddly, November felt more comfortable off the road, despite her misgivings. Travelling in Win remained a strange novelty, but the smooth comfort of the High Way had felt disconcerting. It was too easy, like one of the Old Man’s games, where the easy way was almost inevitably a trap.
Scout was not as pleased. There was a steady stream of muttering from the driver’s seat as she struggled to keep Win headed straight on the churning grit. On more than one occasion, she admitted defeat, and produced folding spades so they could dig the Winnebago free of the grit.
A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.
On one such excursion, the Librarian stopped to mop his brow and asked, ”How on earth do you keep this mechanism running?”
Scout shrugged. “I told you. I tinker. Sometimes I swap parts and trade with towns to keep Win going. And Rattler is high enough above the ground that he doesn’t get the worst of it.”
“Yes,” persisted the Librarian, “but what if the engine should fail on a journey such as ours? You can’t keep enough spare parts on hand to change it out constantly.” He paled at the implication. “Can you?”
“Why all the questions?” said Scout sourly. “Are you trying to get out of digging duty?”
“No, no,” he said hastily, re-doubling his efforts as proof. “I was just curious. I never made much of a study of technical manuals and the Glass Castle, and I must confess this sort of vehicle remains largely a mystery to me.”
“Wait,” said November.
“Oh come on!” said Scout. “If you want me to explain how Win works, I’m happy to draw it out for you when we’re moving again.”
“No,” November said sharply. “Look.” The horizon was tainted red.
The Librarian gasped. “Grit-storm!”
She nodded. “Dig faster.”
Fueled by adrenaline, they set to work in haste, digging the tires free as fast as their aching arms would allow. November stopped for breath, feeling the breeze of the approaching storm - which now filled the horizon. She hunkered down and scooped up a handful of grit and let it fall from her fingers, judging the speed and angle of its fall. “We’re not going to be able to outrun it,” she said curtly. “Get inside, block every crack and crevice you can.”
Scout ducked into Win and produced a roll of something dark. “Duct tape - the universal tool!”
“Pass your duck tape here then,” snapped November. “We need to move.”
“It’s duct - never mind,” sighed Scout.
“Can Rattler survive in a storm?” November asked. “Can it fire?”
Scout gulped. “I don’t know, we’ve never been caught in one before.” She frowned. “Wait, why would he need to fire?”
“Because the grit isn’t the only danger of a grit-storm,” said the Librarian grimly. “It’s those who travel with it.” He produced a snub-nosed revolver from his jacket. “Do we still have that shotgun from Haven?”
November gave him a nod of surprised respect. “Over there.”
The grit-storm was all they could see now, and they could hear the scratching of grit against Win’s sides, even as Scout raced from crevice to crack, duct tape in hand.
“Not every storm is inhabited,” said the Librarian. “We might be lucky.” Rattler’s ticking accelerated to a high-pitched whine.
Scout shook her head. “That’s not that sound of us being lucky. Rattler!” she yelled. “Short bursts! Conserve ammunition!”
She was answered by a full-throated roar of gunfire.
“That,” said November, “is Rattler’s idea of ‘short bursts’?”
“No,” said Scout, turning pale. “That’s an idea how many Dusters are in the storm around us.”
The whole vehicle shook in the fury of the storm. “Okay,” said November. “There’s no point trying to use a rifle in this. Scout, give me your gun.” She momentarily regretted not trusting Scout with a higher-caliber.
The Librarian started to mutter under his breath, and she strained to hear. “Oh great Editor, I ask you do not strike us from the page…for our story is not yet over and we have knowledge to share - ”
The door to the Winnebago slammed open, and a grit-coated corpse claws at them. November fired from the hip, tagging its throat. Stupid, snarled the Old Man, with a .22 you need a headshot or there’s no point!
The Duster surged forwards and she rose to meet it, jerking her knife around and into its brain. It went limp. Other Dusters scrambled at the door, and she used the body of the first as an improvised shield, holding onto the knife like a lever while she blind-fired the .22 into the crowd.
The results were predictably meager. Rattler rose to a full-throated roar and further back, she could see Dusters being mowed down, but the ones at the door were already too close, tearing her shield to shreds.
So this is how it happens, she thought distantly, all that training and this is how I go…
Then surprisingly strong hands dragged her back from the door and she heard the roar of a shotgun. The Librarian blasted the assembled Dusters again, then broke it open smoothly, snatching up shells from his ammunition store. It snapped closed and he fired again and again, not bothering with aiming. More Dusters tumbled - they weren’t dead, his shots were not precise enough for that, but they had hunks torn out of them and some were blown back into Rattler’s effective range and swiftly minced.
The Librarian reached for more shells and found none, and pulled out his revolver as the Dusters surged forwards, dragging at him. November lashed out with her knife, trying to keep them off him and Scout wasn’t doing anything, and they were all going to die -
And then there was nothing. The Dusters tumbled down like puppets with cut strings and the storm was gone with shocking silence except for their panting breaths.
November leaned out of the Winnebago. The grit around them was pitch black, as were the fallen Dusters. She had never seen anything like it in all her years.
The Librarian gazed over her shoulder at the spread ebony surface below them. “Editor preserve us!”
November could not help but agree - but then she looked sideways at him and saw his gaze was not on the black expanse, but on the fresh grit-stained wound on his arm.