Chapter One Hundred Sixty-Seven: John Rearden, Part Three
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What could possibly be out there in this hell? He struggled to recall if he’d locked the door. He always locked the door—especially when storms like this rolled in. Storms brought scavengers, and you only had to learn that lesson once. He was certain he’d locked it. He had to be.
But a moment later, he was proven wrong. The door creaked open, the wind howling louder for a moment before the stranger stepped inside. Sand swirled through the open door, rust-colored river spilling into the gas station, pooling against the battered counter and skittering across cracked tiles. John winced as radioactive grit hissed against the floor, grinding into places he’d spent hours trying to keep clear.
John instinctively recoiled as the air shifted, the fine film of radioactive grit settling over everything. He cursed under his breath, teeth gritted, his brow knotted. The dust wouldn’t kill you fast, but it worked its poison over time. Most folk had adapted in someway or another—hardened skin, an extra eyelid or two. And then there were other, less pleasant mutations. The Evolved, they called them. John had seen things; things he tried not to remember.
“What the hell are you doing?” His voice came out rougher than intended, half anger, half bewilderment. The stranger didn’t flinch. His skin looked too smooth, too untouched by the world: no scars, no burns, no signs of radiation’s slow caress.
“Nice day for a storm,” the man said, his tone casual. His voice was smooth, slippery like oil over water. Adjusting his sunglasses, he caught the dim glow of the light bulb, dark lenses reflecting it back, hiding his eyes and any hints of his intentions.
“Close the damn door,” John growled, irritation laced with a thin thread of unease. “You’re letting half the desert in.”
The man tilted his head slightly, like he hadn’t quite heard or maybe just didn’t care. The door swung shut with a thud, untouched by any hand John could see, sealing the storm outside. A faint murmur of wind against glass was all that remained of the chaos beyond.
John tightened his grip on the rusted pipe beneath the counter, the cold metal grounding him. The stranger stood in the dim glow of the flickering bulb, perfectly composed, like he belonged in some cleaner, brighter place—one where the sky still remembered how to be blue.
John tried not to think of the creatures the storm left in its wake—the ones with too many limbs or joints bending in unnatural directions. This man was different, disturbingly whole, as if the storm had bent around him, leaving him untouched.
John’s gaze swept over the stranger, dissecting every detail. A reasonable number of fingers on each hand, hidden inside dark leather gloves. Skin, tanned and smooth, free of the scales or rough bone patches that had begun pressing through the flesh of others. He didn’t look like one of the Evolved. No extra joints, no twisted bones, none of the mutations that had warped so many. Just a man, by the look of him.
Years spent behind the counter had drilled a kind of automatic calm into John. He settled into the routine, words slipping out as naturally as breathing. “Can I help you with something?”
The man chuckled, low and throaty. “I do hope so,” he said, stepping forward. His boots crunched against the sand-strewn tiles, the leather creaking. Not a trace of sand marred his coat—an unnatural kind of clean that made John’s skin prickle. That smile—too broad, too casual.
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“You new around here?” John asked, voice rough with suspicion, the unease seeping through despite himself. His gaze flicked to the door, to the dust still settling on the floor like a veil of time.
“Something like that,” the stranger replied, his voice smooth as the hum of old-world tech. He slipped off his gloves, tucking them into his coat pocket. His fingers, pale and unblemished, looked untouched by the ravages of this broken world. “You look worried, John.”
The mention of his name sent a shiver through him, but John refused to give the stranger the satisfaction of seeing it. He forced a hard laugh, masking the knot tightening in his chest.
“Have we met?”
“Not yet,” the man replied, a thin smile curling at the edge of his mouth. “But soon, I hope.”
John had heard strange stories about the Evolved—their mutations born from the fallout, twisting them in ways that made old myths look tame. Some said they could slip into your mind, pull your thoughts out like threads, or worse. But talk like that was easy to dismiss, the kind of tale folks swapped to pass the time in a dying world.
The man stepped forward, and John’s instincts pulled him back, a primal sense gnawing at his nerves. There was something feral in this stranger’s presence, an edge that made John’s skin prickle, though he tried to keep his voice steady.
“Listen, friend,” he managed, forcing a calm he didn’t feel. “I’m not looking for trouble. You’re free to stay until the storm passes, but if you’d mind keeping some distance—“
The man halted, his gaze intense, cutting through the dim light. “John,” he murmured, his tone slipping past polite pretense. “You and I both know… this storm isn’t passing anytime soon. Not the real storm. That one is building, growing. You feel it, don’t you? The shift on the horizon?”
John swallowed hard, trying to steady his racing pulse. He gripped the pipe with white knuckles beneath the counter. The stranger’s gaze didn’t falter; it held a patience almost maddening, a grimness that seemed carved from stone.
“Who are you?” was all John could think to say.
“I’m known by many names in my world: the wind, the ripples in the pond, the Infinite Potential. But I prefer to be called Jack. And, I’m sorry. I’d prefer to do this the easy way,” the man continued, his voice dropping to a raw edge, “but unfortunately, I don’t have much time. The connection is faint, and I can only hold it so long.”
“What are you talking about?” John’s voice edged toward a shout, his confusion rising.
The man’s expression softened, almost apologetic. “You’ll forgive me, John.”
“What?”
Before John could blink, the stranger lunged. John swung the pipe hard, the motion reflexive and desperate. But the metal passed straight through the man’s form, colliding with a stack of goods behind him in a deafening crash that sent cans and boxes tumbling.
He stared, stunned, his mind reeling as the man continued forward, unfazed. Cold hands seized John’s head, fingers curling like steel against his temples. The room’s edges blurred, the hum of the gas station fading into a thick silence as everything sharpened to just the two of them, standing amidst the thickening sand.
Then they weren’t there at all.
Reality bent, the walls of the station folding inward, twisting and warping until the dim light bled into a black void. Shadows pulled at the edges, and then John was... somewhere else.
A vast, black sky stretched overhead, jagged streaks of violent light tearing through the darkness like old scars, seething in the gloom. The earth beneath him trembled, cracking open as it lurched and split into chasms that seemed to pull him closer. Floodwaters surged in, swallowing whole cities, monuments, everything, until all was consumed by an endless, roiling sea. The air reeked of thick, acrid ash, coating his lungs, and from the void came a haunting chorus of screams—echoes that clawed at his bones, sinking deep as the darkness pressed in around him.