Grit-fever is perhaps the most insidious of the many curses brought upon us by the red dust that ended the world. It begins innocuously enough - a scratch, a scrape, any wound fouled by the omnipresent grit. At first, there is only a slight warmth, easily dismissed as the body's natural response to injury.

But soon, oh so soon, the true nature of the affliction reveals itself. The warmth becomes a raging fire beneath the skin, and the mind begins to wander. The fevered speak of strange visions - cities of glass rising from red dunes, mechanical birds soaring through skies of ash, or worse, the whispered promises of the grit itself.

Some survive the fever, emerging changed but alive. Others succumb, their bodies joining the ranks of the Dusters they once feared. And a rare few... a rare few find themselves touched by something beyond our understanding, granted abilities that defy explanation.

In my travels, I have seen villages quarantine the infected, heard tales of mercy killings to prevent the rise of new Dusters, and witnessed desperate attempts to cure the incurable. Yet for all our efforts, grit-fever remains a grim reminder of our precarious existence in this changed world.

- From the Writings of Brother Felix St George

The Librarian’s legs felt very wobbly beneath him and he sat down on the floor, quite a bit harder than intended. He hadn’t even felt the scratch, but there it was. Some of the grit had turned black like the strange expanse outside, but the rest of it was a familiar dusty red. Worse than that, was the feeling of it - it felt hot, feverish and inflamed.

“Okay,” said November. “I can’t cut off your arm.”

The Librarian felt like he was going to be sick. “What? Of course you can’t!”

“There’s nothing sharp enough with the heft required to break bone. My knife is going to be useless. We could maybe have blasted it with the shotgun to weaken it, but we’re out of shells.” He realized belatedly that she was explaining the practical reasons why it wasn’t going to happen, as opposed to just responding to his visceral plea that his arm remain attached to his body.

He really felt like he was going to be sick now. He wasn’t sure if it was the grit or the situation.

“Okay,” said Scout, looking to November earnestly. “What can we do?”

“Keep him cool and drive like hell for the nearest town. It’s an infection, not a death sentence. If we can stop the fever from getting too bad, he might make it.”

“And if the fever gets too bad?”

“Remember the Oath of One Bullet?”

Then he really did throw up.

****

Scout and November worked frantically with their shovels to clear Win’s wheels of the strange black grit. Scout paused to look at November. “We don’t really have time to talk about - “ she waved her arm “- all of this, do we?”

“No. We. Don’t.” said November through gritted teeth, shoveling furiously. “Okay, try the engine now. See if you can get us in reverse”.

Scout went to the task with a will. Win coughed and spluttered, but jerkily it reversed out of the mound of storm-borne grit.

“Right,” said November. “Back on to the High Way. We either push past Four Farms and try for the next settlement or we try and get back to Haven.”

Scout consulted the Librarian’s maps. “According to this, past Four Farms, there’s another settlement called Dustbowl. It’d be faster to get there than to head back to Haven.”

The Librarian groaned, lying on his bed. “Editor…let my words not be stricken…”

“He’s already got the fever,” said November. “We can’t waste time. We drive past Four Farms as fast as we can, and keep going for Dust Bowl.”

****

Four Farms was a grit-covered tomb. Scout tried not to look at it as they sped by. Despite Josiah saying that he had accounted for the Dusters there, she couldn’t help but hold her breath, waiting for one of the creatures to break cover.

And despite her best efforts, the Librarian was dying. She wasn’t supposed to intervene, not on that scale, and it had all been for nothing. The angle of the High Way rose sharply and she was struggling to keep Win going. She shifted gears and shoved the accelerator to the floor. And then they crested the ridge, and like November had when she first saw Win, she saw the impossible.

****

“November?” Scout said, an odd note in her voice.

November poured a little more of the Librarian’s alcohol over his leg and he hissed in pain. Assuming he made it through this, she hoped that he wouldn’t begrudge her the loss of his booze. “What?”

“You really need to see this!”

November clambered up to the passenger seat, and froze. “What is that?”

Scout said disbelievingly, ”I think it’s…grass.”

Dustbowl did not live down to its name. The houses were neat and clean, with not the least touch of grit, not even the faint smears that the most determined could not scrub free. And surrounding them was lush, green vegetation. Untainted gardens bloomed behind several houses and everywhere was grass, spread like a green impossible carpet across the valley floor. It cut off abruptly a few meters from the town edge, as if sliced by a gigantic razor. And even more shocking (to November, at least), there were no town walls, no watchtowers, no defenses of any kind.

It seemed inconceivable that this verdant paradise could exist only a couple of short hours from the grit-choked horror that was Four Fields.

Down in the town below, people were gathering, smiling and waving.

Careful girl, said the Old Man. There’s always honey in a trap.

****

Scout drove Win down into the valley as fast as she dared. In the back, the Librarian moaned and groaned with every bump. The townies parted around them, but there was none of the wide-eyed astonishment at the sight of Win that she had enjoyed at Haven.

She supposed that made sense. They had grass here, after all. Even a fully-functional Winnebago with a Mark IV Argus auto-turret was pretty plain next to that.

November slid from the passenger seat into the crowd. “Our…friend,” she seemed to hesitate over the word, ”has grit-fever. Do you have a doctor nearby?”

“Even better, my child,” said a woman in the crowd, smiling beatifically. “We have a Saint!”

Scout was nonplused. “What, a gun-saint? That won’t really help…”

“No,” the woman said, laughing. “A true Saint, protector of this valley!”

An older man in priest’s black stepped past her. “Maria, calm yourself. Let’s get these folks back to the church and we can see if they’re up to making the climb.”

****

The town church was a small, shabby affair in November’s opinion. Good sightlines and cover, though. “My name is Father Levy,” the priest said as the two of them hefted the Librarian from the back of Win and carried him inside. “Forgive my friends - they are just excited to share our good fortune with outsiders.” There was something bitter coating his words.

“Okay,” said Scout. “You don’t have a doctor. But you have a ‘Saint’. Also grass. What in the actual hell is going on here?”

November twitched. When gathering intel, never reveal the depths of your ignorance, the Old Man muttered disapprovingly.

Father Levy smiled. “Well put, child. I shall speak swiftly, for the sake of your friend. Three months ago, we were a town like any other, when a traveler arrived. He was filthy and grit-covered, and he announced his intentions to go into the caves above this valley and meditate. He called himself ‘Saint Gabriel’. We assumed he was grit-addled. No one stopped him or interfered though, for what concern was it of ours?

A few days after his arrival, the first grass began to sprout and the grit ceased to blow around our houses. Then vegetables started to sprout untainted. Soon anyone who wanted had a thriving garden of their own.”

The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

Father Levy smiled ruefully, and shook his head. “My meagre sermons could not compete. People began to bring offerings to the mouth of Saint Gabriel’s cave. They even took down our barriers and towers, saying they were no longer needed.”

He sighed. ”Attendance to the church fell away to nothing. And here I am left. I cannot say I am against it, for what kind of priest would begrudge his flock such good fortune? But it sits ill with me. But if anyone can help your friend, Saint Gabriel might be able. Will he? He is a strange man, fey and capricious, but he has helped others in the past.”

“Well,” November said, her voice hard. “He’ll help us. One way or another.”

****

The Librarian dipped in and out of feverish fantasy. He was in a library, but all the books were burning. He had to get them out, but he had to get them in order first. And the books were on fire, and he kept burning his hands. And now the covers were blackening and curling so he couldn't even see the titles…

Suddenly, the scene shifted. He found himself standing in a vast hall, its walls lined with shelves that stretched impossibly high. But instead of books, each shelf held jars filled with swirling red grit. As he watched, horrified, the jars began to shake and crack.

The Librarian tried to run, but his feet were rooted to the spot. The first jar shattered, and grit poured out, forming itself into words in the air. He could almost read them, almost understand...

But then more jars broke, and more, until the air was thick with floating, shifting words made of grit. They swirled around him, whispering secrets he couldn't quite grasp. He reached out, trying to touch them, to read them, but they slipped through his fingers like sand.

Knowledge, a voice boomed from everywhere and nowhere. Power. Change. Will you embrace it?

The Librarian opened his mouth to respond, but his throat was full of grit. He coughed and sputtered, choking on the very knowledge he sought to preserve.

As the world began to fade to red, he heard the voice again, softer now, almost pitying, Oh, little keeper of words. You cannot stop the storm. You can only learn to walk within it.

Then everything went dark, and the Librarian knew no more.

****

The climb to Saint Gabriel's cave was steep and treacherous. November and Scout struggled under the Librarian's weight, his fevered mumblings a constant reminder of their dire situation. The rocky path wound upwards, offering glimpses of the impossibly lush valley below.

"I still can't believe it," Scout panted, adjusting her grip on the Librarian's legs. "All that grass, just... growing. Like the stories of the Old World."

November grunted, focused on the task at hand. "Stay alert. This 'Saint' could be dangerous."

As they neared the cave entrance, a peculiar sight greeted them. A mound of offerings lay scattered before the dark opening - loaves of bread now hard as stone, fruits shriveled and blackened, clothes faded and tattered. All of it was coated in a thick layer of red grit, as if the valley's protection didn't extend to this sacred space.

"That's... odd," Scout said, frowning at the neglected pile. "You'd think with all that bounty down there, they'd leave fresher offerings."

November's eyes narrowed. "Or maybe their 'Saint' doesn't want what they're giving."

The Librarian stirred, his eyes flickering open for a moment. "The... the grit... it whispers..." he muttered before slipping back into delirium.

They paused at the cave's threshold, the cool darkness a stark contrast to the sunlit path behind them. November took a deep breath, steeling herself for whatever awaited within.

"Ready?" she asked Scout.

Scout nodded, her usual cheer replaced by determination. "Let's go meet a Saint."

Together, they carried the Librarian into the cave, leaving the grit-covered offerings behind like a warning they couldn't quite decipher.

The cave smelled foul and rank, of grit and unwashed sweat. A spark flared in the darkness, and then caught, and a man peered at them as he lit a row of candles, one after the other.

Father Levy’s description had been accurate, generous even. The man’s hair was braided in long dreadlocks, but matted with grit. His skin was caked red with the stuff and his clothes were barely more than rags, but his voice when he spoke was soft and melodic.

“Visitors,” he said. “Supplicants, yes? With one touched by greatness.”

November had no time for his ramblings. “They say you can protect people from the grit. Can you cure a grit-fever?”

Saint Gabriel laughed softly. “So impatient, child of war. The Change is close on your friend, but not yet upon him. We have time to speak.”

“Yes,” Scout said, “but he’s in pain. Surely you can see that.”

The strange man smiled. “And what is that to you, Seventeen?” Scout went abruptly very still.

November glanced at her in puzzlement, but then the Librarian moaned loudly, drawing her attention back.

“Let me know you,” said Saint Gabriel. “And the fastest way to know someone, is to know what they would kill for. Answer me my questions, and do me a service, and I shall save your friend if it is within my power.”

November studied the man. No visible weapons. The cave went deeper, and there was a dirty curtain behind which might be a weapon cache, but she could get to her rifle before he could get there. No threat. And yet something about him chilled her to the bone. “Ask.”

“Child of war, if your family came upon you, this day, would you kill them?”

November didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”

“Seventeen, would you kill to keep your secret?” Scout was silent and still long enough that November turned to stare at her.

“Yes,” she finally muttered.

Saint Gabriel smiled widely. “And now I know you. And now for my service. I seek to commune with the grit, to speak to its hidden heart. To do that, I must find a grit-storm and meditate in its center. You will help me.”

“Oh for the love of - “ November snarled, “we just came from a goddamn grit-storm. We’re only here because of a goddamn grit-storm. And you want us to go to another?”

Saint Gabriel bowed his head prayerfully. “Yes. Or watch the Change come upon your friend. There will be a storm, two days travel in your vehicle east of here. Take me there and watch over me, and I will consider our bargain concluded.”

November and Scout exchanged glanced. “Fine,” she bit out. “Deal.”

Saint Gabriel reached into a small bag at his waist and scooped a handful of something from it. As he gently held it aloft, November struggled to process what she was seeing. Fine white dust. First black grit, now white grit?

Saint Gabriel took hold of the Librarian and rubbed the grit into his wound. “I would step back. The screaming will start shortly.”

****

Darkness gave way to a white-hot pain lanced into his arm and he screamed his throat raw. His head filled with a vast susurration of voices, shouting and yelling, his ears aching from the ceaseless noise. It rose and rose until he though his skull would crack and then…silence.

He blinked and opened sticky eyes, his last scream still echoing around the cave. November and Scout stood over him, and a filthy man he did not recognize. November had her knife out. “I was only going to kill you if you turned,” she said by way of explanation.

The filthy man leaned over him. “I would know you, sir. You are a man of learning, would you kill in the pursuit of knowledge?”

Something about his face and the faces of Scout and November told him to take this very seriously. He swallowed and winced, and said in a croaky voice. “In pursuit of it, no. In protection of it, yes.”

The man beamed. “An excellent answer.”

****

The descent from Saint Gabriel's cave was tense and silent. November and Scout supported the Librarian between them, his fever broken but his body still weak. The presence of the self-proclaimed Saint stilled any discussion between the two, but the air was thick with unspoken questions and growing suspicion.

November kept glancing at Scout from the corner of her eye. The girl's usual chatter was conspicuously absent, replaced by a guarded expression November had never seen before. What had Saint Gabriel meant by "Seventeen"? And why had Scout hesitated before admitting she'd kill to keep a secret?

Scout, for her part, couldn't shake the memory of November's immediate, unflinching response about killing her own family. She'd known the other girl was dangerous, but this felt different. Colder. What kind of person was she really traveling with?

As they navigated a particularly treacherous part of the path, Scout stumbled slightly. November's hand shot out to steady her, but Scout flinched away from the touch.

"I've got it," Scout muttered, regaining her footing.

November's jaw tightened. "No problem, ‘Seventeen’."

The Librarian stirred between them, mumbling incoherently. Both girls instinctively adjusted their grip to support him, then caught each other's eye and quickly looked away. Saint Gabriel leaned in with professional interest and felt the Librarian’s brow. “All is well. The Change retreats from him.”

When they finally reached the outskirts of Dustbowl, the lush grass felt surreal beneath their feet. The townies emerged from their houses, smiling and waving at their revealed Saint, throwing flowers and vegetables at his filthy feet. The three of them were ignored.

Scout broke the silence, her voice uncharacteristically subdued. "So... I guess we're really doing this? Going to another grit-storm?"

November nodded curtly. "A deal's a deal. And I don’t want to cross this ‘Saint’."

"Right," Scout said, then hesitated. "November, about what Saint Gabriel said—"

"We all have secrets," November cut her off. "Let's focus on getting the Librarian back to Win and preparing for the journey."

Scout opened her mouth as if to say more, then closed it, nodding instead. As they made their way through the impossibly green town, both girls remained hyper-aware of each other's presence, a new wariness coloring their every interaction.

The trust they had begun to build over their journey felt fragile now, like grass growing over treacherous ground. Neither was sure how to bridge the sudden gulf between them, or if they even should.

****

The four of them made camp in Win, despite many offers to stay at the homes of the townies. Offers admittedly directed at Saint Gabriel and including the trio only by association.

Rooming with Saint Gabriel was not a pleasant experience. In the tight confines of Win, that had seemed so spacious to November only days before, his smell had an almost physical presence. The man himself ‘meditated’ on one of the folding beds, unconcerned with his effect on them or with his rejection of his devoted followers.

Unable to bear it any longer, November left the RV for some much-needed fresh air. Rattler ticked quietly to itself as she took a deep breath and let it out. Behind her, she heard the door open and close again.

“So I guess your family are bad people, then,” said Scout quietly.

November stared straight ahead. “It’s complicated. But they want me dead, so if I see them, I’ll damn well shoot first.”

“Wow,” said Scout. “I guess that make sense, but - wow.”

November glanced at her. “And what about you, what does ‘seventeen’ mean?”

Scout seemed to shrink into herself. “It’s my seventeenth birthday today. I don’t know how he could know that.”

November studied her open and guileless face. “And the secret you’d kill for?”

Scout flinched. “Please don’t ask me that.”

The two of them held the silence for a long moment.

“Okay,” said November. “I’m going to put a rag over my nostrils and go back in there and try and sleep.”

Scout snickered. “Good luck. I think I’ll stay out here and keep Rattler company for a while.”

After the RV door closed. Scout sighed to herself and climbed up the ladder to Rattler. A blue light turned red. “This is Scout 17, I have encountered a complication,” she whispered, her voice so soft it was barely more than a breath. “My cover may be compromised.”

There was a moment of stillness and then a woman’s voice spoke coolly. “Have you located Site A?” Scout started in surprise at the response. “No,” she whispered.

“It is paramount you locate and successfully enter Site A.”

Scout nodded, then belatedly realized no one could see her. “I understand. But I have encountered an anomaly. Are there any other projects in this area?”

The voice was silent. Scout frowned. “I say again, are there any other projects in this area?”

The wind was her only response.