In the wake of the End, as humanity struggled to make sense of a world transformed by grit, it was perhaps inevitable that some would turn to worship what they could not understand. Across the wastelands, I have encountered numerous cults devoted to the red dust that reshaped our world.

Some see the grit as a divine punishment, a scourge sent to cleanse the earth of the Old Ones' sins. Others view it as a gift, a transformative power that will elevate the worthy to a higher state of being. Still others believe the grit itself is alive, a vast, unknowable intelligence that now rules our world.

These cults are as varied as they are dangerous. I have seen devotees willingly expose themselves to grit-storms, believing themselves protected by faith alone. I have witnessed rituals where the faithful consume grit-tainted food and water, hoping to gain some mystical insight or power. And I have heard whispered tales of those who claim to command the grit itself, bending it to their will through arcane practices.

Most troubling are the charismatic leaders who arise within these cults. They style themselves as prophets, saints, or even living gods. Whether they truly believe in their own divinity or are merely skilled charlatans matters little to their followers, who hang on their every word and deed.

It is easy to dismiss such beliefs as mere superstition or madness. Yet in a world where the impossible has become commonplace, who can say with certainty where delusion ends and genuine power begins? As always, dear reader, I urge caution and skepticism. For in these times, blind faith can be as deadly as the grit itself.

- From the Writings of Brother Felix St George

The sun rose over the endless red dunes as Win rumbled to life. Scout took the wheel, her eyes constantly scanning the horizon. November busied herself with her rifle, occasionally glancing warily at Saint Gabriel. The self-proclaimed holy man sat cross-legged on one of the folding beds, eyes closed, seemingly oblivious to the world around him.

The Librarian tried to focus on one of his books, but found his concentration slipping. A strange pressure built in his ears - it reminded him of visiting a town so rich in water that they could afford to maintain a small communal pool. He had enjoyed the experience, but been left with water in his ears that took days to fade. He yawned, trying to clear it, but the sensation persisted.

"You alright?" Scout asked, noticing his discomfort.

"Just a bit of ear trouble," he replied with a forced smile. "Nothing to worry about."

As the day wore on, the pressure intensified. The Librarian found himself straining to hear... something. It was as if a conversation was taking place just beyond his ability to perceive it.

When they stopped to make camp, November immediately set about securing the perimeter. "I'll take first watch," she announced, her rifle at the ready.

Scout nodded, already elbow-deep in Win's engine. "I want to check a few things before we hit the road tomorrow," she explained.

Saint Gabriel finally stirred, walking a short distance from the camp. He sat facing their direction of travel, silhouetted against the darkening sky.

The Librarian settled into his bunk, exhaustion overcoming his unease. His sleep was fitful, filled with unsettling dreams.

He stood atop a massive dune, red sand stretching endlessly in every direction. The wind howled, carrying whispers he couldn't quite grasp. In the distance, a colossal figure made of swirling grit raised its arms. The dune beneath the Librarian's feet began to shift and crumble. He tried to run, but with each step, he sank deeper. The grit-figure drew closer, its featureless face inches from his own. It opened a mouth of swirling sand and—

The Librarian jolted awake, his heart racing. He looked around wildly, half-expecting to see the grit-figure looming over him. Instead, he saw November's silhouette, still vigilant, and heard Scout's soft snoring. Saint Gabriel hadn't moved from his spot.

Taking a shaky breath, the Librarian tried to calm himself. It was just a dream, he told himself. But as he lay back down, he couldn't shake the feeling that something was watching him from just beyond Win’s lights.

They set out early again. The Librarian's unease had only grown overnight. The pressure in his ears was now accompanied by a faint, rhythmic sound. It was almost like chanting, but too indistinct to make out any words.

He caught November watching him with concern. "You okay?" she asked quietly, falling into step beside him during a brief stop.

"I'm fine," he lied, not wanting to worry her further. "Just anxious to reach our destination."

November nodded, but he could tell she wasn't convinced. "If you need anything..." she left the offer hanging.

As they continued on their journey, the not-quite-chanting grew louder. The Librarian found himself straining to understand, both desperate to make out the words and terrified of what he might hear if he succeeded.

Suddenly, Saint Gabriel's eyes snapped open. He fixed the Librarian with an unsettling stare, a knowing smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "You can hear them, can't you?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. "They're calling to you."

The Librarian opened his mouth to deny it, but no words came out. A chill ran down his spine as he realized that, on some level, Saint Gabriel was right. Something was calling to him, and they were almost at its source.

****

Scout jerked in surprise as Saint Gabriel suddenly barked. “Stop! We are close!”

The Saint slid from his seat, leaving a deep red smear behind him, and pushed open one of Win’s doors. “There,” he pointed. “That rocky spur. That is where I shall commune with the grit.”

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Scout eyed it dubiously. “Win can take a lot, but there’s no way I can drive us up that.”

He shrugged. “Then we shall walk.”

“What?” said November. “You want us to stand around in the middle of a grit-storm with no shelter? No. Sorry. Good luck but we’re staying right here.”

Saint Gabriel’s eyes narrowed. “We had a deal.”

Once again, despite his lack of any visible weapons, November felt a chill. Trust your instincts, girl, warned the Old Man.

“Come on,” she protested, a little weakly. “We’ll be flayed alive up there.”

Gabriel smiled. “So long as you walk with my protection, you shall be safe. Have you not seen my hand at work in Dustbowl? Grit shall know its own.”

“There are records of people surviving storms untouched,” the Librarian said slowly. He seemed oddly distracted, though, reciting from memory but without his usual gleam of enthusiasm when imparting knowledge.

Scout and November exchanged glances. “Okay,” November said finally. “But we wrap up tight in the thickest clothes we have, and cover our mouths. No sense in abandoning basic precautions.”

The Saint gave a sigh of infinite patience. “Do as you like.”

****

The ascent was grueling. Each step sent cascades of loose grit sliding beneath their feet, threatening to pull them back down the steep incline. November led the way, her rifle slung across her back, eyes constantly scanning for danger. Scout followed, supporting the still-weakened Librarian. Saint Gabriel brought up the rear, seemingly unbothered by the treacherous terrain.

"This is insane," Scout muttered through her makeshift mask, her voice barely audible over the rising wind. "We're going to get ourselves killed."

November didn't respond, focused on finding the safest path upward. The rocky spur loomed above them, its jagged silhouette a stark contrast against the reddening sky.

The Librarian stumbled, nearly dragging Scout down with him. "I'm sorry," he wheezed. "I'm not... not quite myself yet."

"It's okay," Scout reassured him, though her own breathing was labored. "We're almost there."

Saint Gabriel's voice drifted up from behind them, unnaturally calm. "The grit calls. Can you not hear it?"

November shot a worried glance back at the others. The Saint's eyes were distant, unfocused, as if he were listening to something beyond their perception.

As they neared the summit, the wind picked up dramatically. Stinging particles of grit pelted them from all sides, forcing them to squint against the onslaught. November reached the top first, extending a hand to help Scout and the Librarian up the final stretch.

"We made it," Scout gasped, collapsing onto a relatively flat section of rock.

The Librarian sank down beside her, his face pale beneath his protective wrappings. November remained standing, surveying their surroundings with growing unease. The storm was visible now, a massive wall of swirling red approaching from the east.

Saint Gabriel emerged last, moving with eerie grace. He walked to the edge of the rocky outcropping, spreading his arms wide as if to embrace the coming tempest.

"Now," he intoned, his voice carrying despite the howling wind, "we shall commune with the very essence of change."

****

The Librarian shook himself. The whispers were louder here, still barely audible above the rising winds, and yet he almost thought he could pick out words.

Build. Break. Change. Become.

Saint Gabriel smiled at him. “Do you hear them, Brother?” The ragged man settled into a cross-legged position on the rocks.

“Yes,” he said slowly, ignoring Scout and November’s alarmed expressions. “I think I do.”

Raise. Cleanse. Fall. Restore.

The wind thickened and the storm came on in earnest, and yet, true to Gabriel’s word the grit seemed to split around them, as if they were sheltered in the cupped hands of the Editor himself.

The whispers grew louder.

RISE. SCOUR. DESTROY. CREATE.

****

Scout watched the Librarian with deepening concern. His face was tight with pain and he had retreated into a half-crouched position, his hands cupped over his ears. The wind was loud, for sure, but the storm was barely half the size of the one they had previously encountered.

November scanned the plains below for signs of movement. “Doesn’t look like there are any Dusters in this one.”

Saint Gabriel laughed in the rising wind. “Of course not, child of war! This is a site of communion, not a battleground! Take your hands away from your ears, Brother, let them in!” Suddenly, he crossed the rocks to the Librarian, grabbing for his arms and dragging him to his feet. “We have integration! Celebrate it!”

"That’s enough,” snapped November, stepping closer and raising her rifle. “Leave him alone.”

Nervously, Scout reached for the Button. The circumstances weren’t ideal for its use, but this was starting to feel Button Bad.

Saint Gabriel wheeled on November, letting the Librarian fall back down. “You dare point a weapon at one who is anointed? You must learn respect, child of war!”

He reached out a hand and a stream of grit swirled from the storm around her rifle. Scout heard a click as November fired, and then looked at her weapon in surprise and betrayal.

Saint Gabriel spread his arms and his feet gently lifted off the ground, borne aloft by streams of grit. “You would harm the Beloved of the Storm?” he thundered. Scout felt a sudden sense of sickening realization. The Man Who Walked On Air.

“It was you!” she blurted. “You killed Four Fields!”

Saint Gabriel waved a hand dismissively. “What of it?”

“I don’t understand!” she yelled above the storm. “You helped all those people in Dustbowl and you killed all those people in Four Fields! Why?”

He laughed. “Dustbowl, Four Fields - what difference is one of these petty camps from the other? I brought one down and I raised another up - a grand experiment of my bond with the storm!”

Scout did the only thing she could. She pressed the Button.

****

November’s knife was out, for all the good it might do her. By now, there was a whirling storm of grit around the risen Gabriel, and she wasn’t even sure she could get close enough for a blow. A throw was out of the question in these winds.

The Old Man had no counsel for a situation such as this.

And then, she heard, just audible over the storm, the revving of an engine below. She looked down to see Win, driverless, somehow trying to mount the lower section of rocks. As Scout had predicted, it couldn’t get far. But it could get to within the effective range of the Mark IV Argus auto-turret.

Rattler roared, louder than even the storm, and Saint Gabriel reeled back, red gushing from his wounds. But it was not blood that fell. Instead red grit spewed from the holes punched in his chest. He snarled in rage and pain and fell backwards off the crag, into the depths of the storm. November rushed to the edge, to see only churning red below. Then she turned back to Scout and the Librarian and pulled them close, lifting their coats and blankets high as meager protection against the storm.

****

It seemed to take an eternity for the storm to die down. Shaken and grit-smeared, the three of them looked at one another.

“So,” November said unsteadily. “Win can drive itself.”

Scout smiled sheepishly and produced a small black remote. “I call it the Button. Actually, there are multiple remote functions I can activate, but the real one for big trouble activates Win’s auto-drive and networks it with Rattler. Then it drives to where-ever I am and kills anyone who isn’t me. She looked down, embarrassed. “Or isn’t anyone I’ve designated a friend.”

The Librarian gave her a shaky smile. “We don’t say this enough, but you, my dear, are brilliant.”

Scout’s smile was radiant even under the grit, but it faded as November asked, “So do we think he’s dead?” She peered over the edge of the crag. “Nothing but grit down there, for all that matters.”

“I didn’t see things, did I?” asked Scout. “He really did bleed grit?”

“Yes, he did,” said the Librarian grimly. “And I think it’s only prudent to assume he survived and is not well disposed to us.”

“Right,” said November. “Then we take Win and we go back to Dustbowl. They deserve to know the truth about their ‘Saint’.”

“And if he’s gone back to Dustbowl somehow?” asked the Librarian.

“Then we’ll turn Rattler on him until he’s soup.“