Chapter Seven

Dust on the Wind

Do mountains ever tire of standing still?

On Peter Patterson’s world, they did—and often, choosing to wander. There one day, gone the next. The dust was light—carried on the gentlest breeze, drifting high in the sky for years without ever coming down. The dust was light, but it was also clingy. Wherever one speck lingered, others followed; as they gathered, they grew too heavy for the wind to bear. Where the earth welcomed the dust, it built, mounting into great dunes that blanketed the surface. The dust was clingy, but still, it was light. Lighter than a whisper. Wherever the dust gathered, it would roll—carried onward by the wind, grain by grain—each particle tugging its companions, eager to dance in the skies once more. Through this unending cycle, the landscape of Peter’s world remained ever-changing. The Rolling Dunes, The Waving Wastes, The Wandering Hills—The Never-Ever World Beyond the Walls.

It was through that same process that the coach that had carried Peter from Salt City’s walls and into the periphery was buried. More than two days had passed since the attack, and the giant metallic slug was now half submerged in dust, piled like a cliff face on one side, overhanging and perilously close to collapse. Of the coach’s four compartments, only the boot had been entirely engulfed by the drifting world. The rest peeked out, looking like the slivers of metal in a vein of ore.

Peering down from atop a virgin dune, Peter’s heart sank. The dull sheen of the iron worm was dwarfed by the rolling mountain consuming it several dozen feet below. Beneath those tons of dust lay his one chance at a better life.

Peter thought of his fellow street dwellers back in Salt City—of how many of them thought they had come as close to salvation as he, only to have it snatched away. He thought of the bloating, stinking bodies in the alleys and of the Toffs who passed by, never bothering to acknowledge the tragedy’s existence. He imagined his own corpse abandoned there one day. His flesh turned slick, his meat stinking, his stomach distended, the slow rot of his form ignored by millions—tale’s end for every street-born Grounder.

He refused that fate. It would never come to pass. He wouldn’t let it. He’d have better, or he’d die trying. Peter sprinted down the dune’s face toward the sinking coach.

“Get back here, boy!” The lead ranger unleashed his metallic bark, though giving chase was clearly not part of his repertoire. “That dune is sinking. Kid’s gonna drown if you don’t go after him.”

“Well, we can’t have that now, can we?” Mr Revel made his way to the rear of the crawler—the armoured six-seater buggy that had brought him and Peter back to the coach. He popped open the crawler’s boot and retrieved two shovels. “I take it you fellows won’t be going after my acquaintance?”

“I don’t think we will.” Though his face was covered, the ranger’s annoyance at escort duty was clear.

“Very good then.” If Mr Revel was irritated, he did not show it. The ranger leaned against the buggy’s side, watching Mr Revel follow leisurely in Peter’s footsteps.

There was just so much of it. It was endless—relentless. No matter how much dust Peter clawed away, more always flooded in to replace it, and when he dragged that back too, still more followed. “Come on,” he muttered under his panting breath as he dug toward the coach.

So enraptured by his task, Peter failed to notice Mr Revel’s approach and jumped when two shovels clattered beside him. “These will probably help,” Mr Revel’s tone was as chipper as ever. It seemed to Peter that nothing ever bothered the man. Peter muttered his thanks, took one of the spades, and began digging in earnest.

Mr Revel was right; it did help. Soon, Peter was making a real dent in the side of the dune.

At first, Mr Revel helped Peter dig but soon changed his mind and simply watched the boy work. Peter considered challenging the man’s idleness but held his tongue. He was a Toff, after all—and Toffs never lift a finger when someone else can do it for them. As Peter’s hole grew deeper, and he sank lower into it, Mr Revel nodded in approval. “You know, you might be the most dedicated delivery boy I’ve ever met.”

Peter’s unwavering pace was indeed impressive—at least from the outside looking in. Peter himself would have given anything to stop. The rough metal of the shovel was coarse against his hands, and he could feel his calloused skin hardening further. Since the attack, he’d had only a few swigs of water, donated from one of the ranger’s canteens, and hadn’t eaten in even longer. His body was dry and hot and running on empty. He ached—his shoulders and arms especially—and on more than one occasion, his muscles burned so fiercely he feared he couldn’t lift another shovelful. But he did, time and again. He had no choice. His future lay buried beneath this dust. If he didn’t reach the coach’s boot—and the Miracle Springs package within—he might as well lie down and wait for the dust to consume him, just like it was doing to the coach.

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

“I’m not a delivery boy,” the words were spoken on exhales and inhales. Peter had precious little air to spare for Mr Revel. “I’m a courier.”

“And what’s the difference?” Mr Revel crossed his arms over his spade’s handle and leaned forward over Peter’s dust hole, genuine interest upon his features.

Peter stopped, giving his body a much-needed break as he considered Mr Revel’s question. “Simple,” he answered. “One works only within Salt City’s walls; the other braves the wastes.” Mr Revel nodded theatrically as he mulled the answer, swaying side to side as though he needed his entire body to decide if he agreed.

“Okay,” Mr Revel replied. “But if I may say so, Pete, my boy, you don’t strike me as someone who’s done much braving of the wastes.”

Apparently, Peter’s expression was more insulted than he intended—likely the result of fatigue. “Now, now,” Mr Revel added, holding up a hand. “Don’t get me wrong; I mean no offence by that. But I already know you don’t have a scrambler of your own—that’s why you travelled by coach—and you travelled unarmed, and you’re trying to dig up a dust dune—which, I’ve got to tell you, is not the safest thing a man can do.”

Peter looked back at the hole, nearly as tall as he was now. A thought occurred to him, spurred by Mr Revel’s musings. “I don’t need to dig up the dune,” he said. “I just need to reach the boot release.” With that plan of action in mind, Peter began shovelling again, this time with renewed vigour.

“Well, don’t do that,” Mr Revel chuckled, “shift that much dust at once, and the dune might…”

“Got it!” Oblivious to Mr Revel’s warning, Peter struck the boot release, and the compartment popped open. Dust shifted and flowed like furious rapids, seizing both men and dragging them under. The dust was sinking, drowning Mr Revel and Peter.

Peter was rushed into the coach’s boot compartment, Mr Revel and a ton of dust quickly following behind.

He was flipped about and tossed around, unable to tell which way was up. His breath was stolen from him, forcing him to gasp for what little air remained inside the boot. He was pushed past the packages he’d laboured so hard to reach and deeper into the compartment until, finally, he was pressed against the back wall. Mr Revel was forced in beside him.

“Mr Rev…” Shouting was pointless. Within seconds, the limited space of the boot was flooded, and Peter was forced to seal his mouth tight lest he drown in dust. Then, he had to close his eyes and was trapped in a dark world. The weight pinned him so firmly that he couldn’t even struggle in the blackness.

Waves of dust clung to him in their billions, holding him down, burying him alive.

Had he not been so entirely restrained, Peter might have laughed at the thought that occurred to him in his final moments. He’d always figured that if death found him, he’d go out like anyone else—on his knees praying for just a little longer, or fighting in a blaze of glory, confident his heroics would never be forgotten. These had been a child’s thoughts—the fantasies of a young, immature kid who’d stalked Salt City’s seedier districts. The man who was trying to escape the life of his childhood, however, was silent in his final moments. He didn’t pray or fight; there was no point. You can’t fight the dust, and there is no God of the Wastes. One single thought passed through his mind, and it made him laugh. I wish I’d drunk more.

Peter had never liked drinking.

It wasn’t that he disliked the taste, or that he’d suffered a particularly bad hangover one time; it was that he’d grown up around men who were simply just that—drinkers. He’d watch them hurry purposelessly to taverns at first light, sit alone nursing drink after drink from sunrise to sunset, then stumble into the street in search of a corner to piss and sleep in.

Those men—they’d been the most terrifying to him. The street thugs, chem pushers, and corrupt enforcers were all dangerous, and he’d be wary whenever he encountered any of them. But those lonely men in the bars, the ones who had nothing more to live for than cheap ale? They were what kept him up at night. The fear that one day, that would be him.

Peter had never liked drinking, but he suddenly wished he’d drunk more.

There almost hadn’t been a second on board the coach when Mr Revel hadn’t had a glass of vermouth in hand—as if the glass was part of his outfit. It had made the man appear suave, and Peter felt the presence of the drink helped others excuse the probing way he asked questions, extracting tale after tale while sharing none of his own. It had made Mr Revel charming, and Peter wished he’d been more charming in his life.

Mr Revel, the man who even the dust wouldn’t touch, was buried somewhere beyond the obliqueness that separated them, and that was Peter’s fault. Was that to be his final feeling—guilt for having unintentionally led the Toff to his doom? It was bad enough that he’d yet to have the chance to truly live his own life; why did he have to die with the weight of ending a man who seemingly lived every day to the fullest? Was that really fair to put on him? Mr Revel hadn’t needed to follow Peter. Peter didn’t need to be responsible for the man’s fate.

Peter wished he could apologise to Mr Revel. The man had saved him twice, and all Peter had done in return was get him killed. Peter suddenly realised that he liked Mr Revel. He didn’t really know why; he just found the man a comforting presence, like having an older brother around, equal parts wanted and unwanted.

Peter started to choke.

The last of the air in his lungs was spent. He heard his heart struggling, its thudding beat becoming all there was in the darkness. Thump by thump, it started to weaken, the drumming falling silent.

His last thought was whether his body—trapped inside the coach’s boot—would become part of the dust. Would the mountainous dune above him claim him as its own? Would he wander the surface of the world in the aeons to come? Was he to be part of his world’s endless, shifting cycle?

Something gripped him, and he was pulled forward, dust flowing around him, draining away. Peter breathed. Then came the light—strong and bright—stabbing into his eyes.