Devils Unto Dust(45)

I struggle to my feet while the wind fights to keep me down. I spread my arms out wide, reaching for anyone, anything to hold on to. I move forward, or maybe back, or maybe in no direction at all. I think I hear shrieking and I feel my way toward it, not caring if it’s only the wind or shakes. Halfway through a step my hand hits something soft and warm and I desperately cling to whatever it is. A hand grips my arm and pulls me forward. I don’t know how, because I can’t see him or hear him and there’s no real reason for it, but I know it’s Ben. I grab a fistful of his shirt and twist my fingers in it, as much to keep ahold of him as to make sure he’s real. I’m so grateful I have to stop myself from crying.

He moves his mouth next to my ear and the coarse hairs of his beard itch against my skin.

“Don’t do that again,” he shouts, and I elbow him in the stomach for ruining the moment.

I lift the collar of my shirt to cover my nose and mouth and close my eyes to the sharp grit. I can’t hide the rest of me, and the wind sends wave after wave of dirt and debris to pummel my arms and legs and sting my cheeks. I brace myself, hunching my shoulders and leaning into Ben. We stagger once or twice but he pulls me along, sure of where he’s going. The world boils down to just this: the wind in my ears and sand in my face and Ben’s arm around me.

A whistle pierces the roar of the air, and Ben whistles back, high and sharp. He turns to the right a bit, and Curtis, because it must be Curtis, whistles again. This time it sounds much closer. My foot scrapes against wood, and then we’re being pulled through a door into a dark room, blessedly free of the wind and sand.

“I got her,” Ben says.

“I got Micah,” Curtis answers.

My eyes are crusted with dirt, and I blink to clear them. It takes a moment, but slowly I make out that we’re in someone’s house, the main room by the look of it. Nana stands in one corner, looking out of place and unconcerned. Curtis shoves the wooden bar across the door into place, and then Micah slings an arm around my shoulders in a feeble hug.

“One hit you too?” I ask him, pushing him back so I can check for injuries. My voice comes out strange, muffled by my shirt and caked with dirt. He nods, and a cloud of dust comes out of his hair.

“I’m fine. You all right?”

I nod; my skin is raw and red and chapped by the sand and my ears are ringing, but that’s the least of my worries at this point. I’m just happy to be inside and out of the storm.

“Check the windows, make sure they’ll hold,” Curtis says, his voice thick with sand.

Wooden planks are nailed across both windows; whoever these people were, they must’ve tried to wait out the sickness. One window is completely blocked, but some of the planks have rotted through on the other. I’m exhausted, so I let Sam and Micah flip the table and place it upright against the wall, covering the exposed area.

“This’ll work,” Curtis says, nodding. “Stay away from the door, but we should be safe enough till the storm passes.”

“How are we gonna get out?” Micah asks. “We can’t stay in here forever.”

“The storm should daze the shakes, some,” Curtis answers. “Even they can’t survive that sand. They’ll hole up somewhere, same as us. We might be able to leave without too much notice, if we stay quiet and out of sight. Either that, or we shoot our way out.” He sighs and runs a hand through his hair, dislodging a cloud of dust. “Look, I know it’s not ideal, but we’re making the best of a bad situation. One problem at a time, all right?”

The house is bigger than ours, and well kept, though the furniture is nothing fine. There’s a large threadbare rug covered with sand blown in through small cracks in the walls. Everywhere I see signs of former life: a broken mug, a tarnished and cloudy silver mirror, a bowl turned on its side like an unfinished thought. They left in a hurry; there’s a pot of something now thick and black sitting on the stove. There are three shelves with rusted pots, a pile of shriveled firewood stacked neatly, four sagging chairs pushed back from the missing table. Ratted curtains may have been lace once, and a rotted ladder leads up to what I suppose is the attic bedroom. The house feels lonely, pining for its family; the waste of it sickens me.

“Here,” Curtis says, passing around water. “I’ll check the shelves, see if there’s anything worth taking. Ben, check the lamps, will you?”

The water dislodges the grit from my throat, and Sam finds a quilt that smells of mold to wipe the dust from our faces. He takes his glasses off to clean them, leaving two perfectly round dirt-free spots around his eyes.

There are two kerosene lamps, both painted prettily with flowers. The first is empty, but the second still has a full fount. Ben tries to light it, but the fire won’t catch.

“Give it here,” Micah says, and Ben glances at me.

“Micah knows what he’s doing,” I tell him, and he shrugs and hands the lamp over.

Micah pulls the blade from his belt and digs something oily and black out of the lamp, then cuts off the top of the wick.

“Try it now,” he says.

Ben flicks his lighter again, and this time the wick catches and holds. Once the dust burns off it glows steadily, though he turns it low to save the oil.

“I reckon these might still be good,” Curtis calls, holding up two cans with the labels long since peeled off. “Y’all may as well get comfortable. Nothing left to do but wait.”