kind of compass point from which to try to determine their location. But their first task was to see if they could find shelter before the night fell.
Ryan trekked alone, while Jak accompanied Krysty and J.B. marched with Mildred. The plan was simple, but backbreaking. Taking a different position, they were each to fan out from the point of their location to see if they could sight anything other than sand on the horizon.
Simple, and also soul-destroying, for it soon became apparent that they could march for hours and see nothing but sand stretching out before them, rolling in dunes and broken only by the occasional patch of grass or scrub. As they marched outward, so the sand pulled at their calves, each step an effort to drag their boots from the grip of the sand, sapping what little reserves of energy they had.
It was nearing twilight when they converged once more on where Doc lay. The old man had used the time well, taking more water and resting, and was now almost back to normal. It was little consolation, however, when they compared their lack of sightings.
âIt would appear,â Doc said with a glimmer of a smile after listening to them, âthat we are caught between a rock and a hard place, except that there are no rocks and the sand is far too soft.â
âWish I could see the funny side, Doc,â Ryan muttered. âWeâve got little option other than to pick a direction at random and keep marching, or try to find the redoubt and force our way on for another jumpâand thatâs always assuming we could dig our way in, which I doubt.â
âSo itâs just the marching, then,â Mildred said wryly. âPick a directionâany direction.â
âHow about that away,â J.B. said, pointing to his left. âOr mebbe notâ¦âcause I think thatâs where troubleâs coming.â
Before he even finished, they knew he was right. A mistral wind was reaching them, tendrils of sand picked up in the light breeze that was getting stronger with each second. The chem clouds had gathered densely in the twilight, and the air became damp as chem rain started to drizzle. The speed at which it gathered was phenomenal.
âFuck it! Try to get some cover. Itâs coming down too fast!â Ryan yelled as the first fat, heavy drops of rain began to splatter them and the tendrils of sand became sharp bullwhips of grain, lashing against them.
Within minutes, as they tried to dig a trench into the sand, the storm had risen to a pitch where the sand and the rain made it impossible to see in front of them and the gathering clouds turned twilight into darkest night.
They could no longer see one another.
As the sands were whipped up by the storm, it became hard to even tell where the ground began and ended.
Chapter Two
Ryan Cawdor shuddered and groaned as he raised himself slowly, painfully, from the tomb of sand he had made for himself. Every part of his body was in pain, and parts of his skin felt as though they would slither from his flesh at the slightest touch. He was thankful that there had been no open wounds for the rain to run into, which would have been too painful to contemplate.
He looked around, trying to locate the others, there was no sign of them. No sign of any other life at all. And no sign of the storm, which had blown over as quickly as it had arrived. The sky above was clear, the stars illuminating the dark, the crescent moon casting a pale light over the sands, which now seemed as calm as they had before the storm hit, as flat and undulating, and showed no relation to the whirling clouds of flaying grit that had battered him just a short time before.
They were also completely unrecognizable as the sands on which he had stood before the storm. Although there had been no real landmarks by which to judge, the shape of the dunes had become familiar as they had recced the area. Now, the landscape was unrecognizable, the sands whipped into new contours by the currents of the mistrals and gales of the chem storm. Ryan could be in the same place as before, or he could have been swept along in the tide of the sand, landing miles from where he began. He had no way of knowing. He hadnât felt as though he had been moving, and yet the sands had been shifting around him. Where would his movement begin and the sands end? Or vice versa?
âFireblast and fuck it,â he murmured to himself, sinking to his haunches. He was tired beyond belief, every muscle ached, and his head felt as though it had been pounded by a thousand hammers: a legacy of dehydration and salt loss as much as the storm.
He was alone, with no sign of his companions. The quiet of the night was eerie and unearthly. If he could get past the pounding in his skull, the sound of blood hammering in his ears, then there was nothing beyond. He couldnât remember the last time heâd heard the sounds of silenceâ¦if ever.
It meant that the slightest sound would register, however, so Ryanâs body tensed, and he whirled around as quickly as his protesting muscles would allow when he heard the whispering of shifting sands from somewhere over his left shoulder.
WHEN THE STORM HIT, Mildredâs first thought was not for herself, but for Doc Tanner. For all that she would argue with, and insult the older man, she was aware that he was the most vulnerable of them at this moment. And more than that, she shared with Doc something that none of the others could ever truly understand. Neither of them belonged to this time; they had been thrown into the Deathlands by freaks of chance and designs of evil, both taken from their own times in differing ways and made exiles against their wills. It wasnât something they ever spoke of, but Mildred knew that if Doc bought the farm, she would feel just that bit more alone in a way that could never be truly explained.
Doc had been raised on one elbow when the storm hit, and before the first heavy drops of rain hit him, Mildred had thrown herself down to cover him.
âMadam, contain yourself,â Doc yelled in bewildered tones. âI am not that much of an invalid that I need to be treated this way.â
âShut up and dig, you old fool, as deep as you can,â Mildred replied, her eyes flashing at him.
âThatâs more like it,â he countered in a milder tone, as he turned to join her in digging into the sand. âI fail to see that this will be of much practical use to us, but I suppose it is all we can do,â he continued, raising his voice above the rapidly growing winds.
âSave your breath for when you need it,â Mildred snapped back.
J.B. stumbled on them by chance. Blinded by the flying sand, trying to shield his face from the rain as it suddenly roared from the heavens, he turned and stumbled over the backpacks they had earlier set up to act as a sun-break for Doc, falling into the hollow trench that Mildred and Doc were digging for themselves.
âNice of you to drop in, John,â Mildred yelled, unable to prevent herself cracking the gag despite the situation.
âNo time to be funny,â J.B. snapped sourly. âLost the others. Dig and use these to cover us,â he yelled as tersely as possibly, pulling one of his canvas bags over the top of them as they scrabbled in the sand.
It was hard to tell exactly what was happening in the narrow trench, but all three of them used their backs to try to reinforce a sand wall, giving themselves a small, clear area of breathing space in the middle. The bags were dragged over the top of them to form a makeshift roof, not as stable as any of them would like, but nonetheless
