Chapter One Hundred Sixty-Six: John Rearden, Part Two

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John felt its absence gnawing at him, a hollow ache in his gut, mirrored in the pale ghost of himself reflected in the station’s window. He was paler than he should be, given all his time in the sun. His father used to blame their gaunt frames on bad genes, but John knew the truth. Life stripped you bare, left nothing but bone, hunger, and the relentless grit of survival. The War had taken it all—everything but the Dust. And after a few generations, well, what could you expect?

A familiar rumble broke the quiet as a beat-up old car wheezed into the lot, sputtering out its last breath of fuel. John straightened, wiping his hands on his jeans as he stepped outside. He recognized the car, but it wasn’t until the driver stepped out that the years peeled back.

“Damn, John,” the man said, rubbing the back of his neck. “You look tired.”

“Eli,” John nodded, eyes drifting to the car’s roof, weighed down with a mess of goods strapped under a weathered tarp. “You leaving town for good?”

Eli gave a tired chuckle, but his eyes were heavy, worn down by more than just miles. “Nothing left to stick around for. Everything I own’s in that car,” he said, nodding toward the back seat, piled high with bags and odds and ends. “Town’s dead, man.”

John wiped his hands again, more out of habit than need. “Where you headed?”

“Greener pastures. South, maybe. West. Hell, I don’t even know. Just away. Figure I’ll keep driving till the road runs out.” Eli leaned against the car, staring out at the empty horizon. “There’s nothing left for me here, not since…”

John glanced at the car, the bags crammed wherever they could fit, then over at the empty passenger seat. He hesitated before speaking. “I’m sorry about Sarah.”

Eli’s jaw tightened, eyes fixed straight ahead. He gave a brief nod, but no words came.

“You sure about this?” John asked, his voice softer now. “Ain’t much left out there either. At least here, you’ve still got a few friends.”

Eli let out a weary chuckle, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “This place... it’s as dead as the dreams we used to talk about. I can’t stick around just waiting for it to rot further. It’s going to take us all with it.” He turned, eyes scanning the station, the old pumps standing like forgotten relics of a world that had long since moved on.

John filled up the tank, the clink of gold and silver coins in his hand. After the War, everyone had gone back to what they knew held value—precious metals, ores, the old ways of trade. Paper bills still floated around, but only the desperate or naive tried to use them. The rest of the world had reverted to something older, something primal.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

As John handed back the change, the sky darkened, and a low growl of wind stirred the air. The horizon shimmered with dust—more than usual. A War Storm was coming, the kind that killed crops and left the land bare.

John called out against the sudden wind, motioning for Eli to follow him inside. “Storm’s picking up.”

Eli shook his head. “Doesn’t look like it’ll be a long one. I’ll wait it out in the car.”

John hesitated, glancing at the swirling clouds. “You sure, Eli? This storm looks meaner than most.”

Eli gave the horizon a quick look, then settled back, a tired grin on his face. “Me and old Betsy,” he patted the steering wheel, “we’ve seen our share of bad weather.”

“Suit yourself, but I’m not coming back to save you if you get blown away,” John said, flashing a grin.

“Sure you wouldn’t. With that bleeding heart of yours?”

Eli eased his car up to the eastern wall, one of four massive barriers built from raw steel and stone, each angled like a blunt wedge to split the storm’s force. He parked close, finding what little shelter he could along the wall that bore the worst of the winds tearing in from the east.

John pushed against the wind, struggling his way back into the station. He’d seen worse. The storms always passed, but there was always the hope that maybe, just maybe, one day they’d stop for good, and the world could finally start growing green again. But each time they rolled through, they stripped that hope away—crops shriveled, the land laid bare, leaving nothing but more dust in their wake.

It reminded him of an old tape he’d watched as a kid, some flick about an undead army devouring everything in its path, growing stronger with every soul it claimed. These storms were no different, sweeping through and adding to the endless wasteland, feeding the dead land with more emptiness.

Inside, John locked the door and took his usual spot behind the counter, waiting for the storm to roll over. The jukebox still played, soft now, as if the song itself was hiding from the storm.

A ragged, sepia haze choked the horizon, blurring the line where the sky met the cracked asphalt, as though the earth itself were exhaling centuries of buried anguish into the air. The wind howled with a feral intensity, carrying with it a mixture of ash, grit, and shadows of lost places, scraping against the gas station’s peeling facade like the raking of skeletal fingers. The storm twisted and undulated in chaotic patterns, an animalistic fury clashing against the battered, rust-riddled remnants of what was once a fuel oasis for travelers. Occasional glints caught in the murk—bits of twisted metal, shards of glass—flung into brief orbit before disappearing again in the ceaseless swirl.

John stood behind the counter, eyes fixed on the dust-blurred window. The light outside shifted in strange patterns, distorted by the storm. Inside, the gas station was dimly lit, mostly by a single bare bulb overhead that swung gently, casting jagged shadows that danced across the walls.

A faint rumble reverberated through the walls as the storm pressed harder, dust sifting down from the ceiling in thin streams, ghostly fingers reaching down in the dim, swaying light. John watched them with a distant sort of detachment, eyes unfocused, as if he were looking through the ceiling and beyond it, somewhere far away. He ran his hand along the underside of the counter, feeling the cold metal of the rusted pipe he kept there—his only defense against whatever might come through that door. His fingers tightened around it as he heard the soft jingle of the bell above the door.